It was a small caravan with only two donkey-pulled carts, more like a group of villagers transporting goods between settlements than a real trading convoy. The guards didn't look like hired sellswords either. From their poor equipment and worn weapons, they seemed more like local militia.
Kent observed from afar, trying to gather more information. The guard leader, however, was different. Kent could tell with one look — the way he carried himself, his alert gaze, the air of quiet confidence around him. That was the presence of a veteran, a man who had seen and survived many battles before.
Suddenly, the man stopped, as if sensing something. He motioned for the caravan to halt and turned his gaze directly toward the large tree where Kent and his group were hiding.
"Who's there? Come out! We know you're there!" he shouted.
Sharp sense, too, Kent thought with a sigh. He gestured for his men to step out into the middle of the road.
The guard leader's eyes went wide the moment he saw the tattoos on their faces. His hand darted to the sword at his waist.
"Relax, we bear no ill intent—" Kent began.
"Raiders! Defense formation, now!"
Before Kent could finish, the guard leader cut him off, drawing his blade and pointing it straight at them. The other guards quickly followed suit, forming a defensive line to shield the caravan behind them.
"I told you this was a bad idea!" Ruthard complained.
"Well, what's your suggestion then?" Kent snapped. It wasn't like they could change their faces. Did tattoo removal even exist in the medieval era anyway?
"Maybe next time we can use a cloth to hide our faces," Loki offered.
"And you think that will make us look less suspicious?" Kent rolled his eyes.
The guard leader, unable to stand the hesitation any longer, shouted again.
"Stop talking. Leave now or face death, you filthy raiders!"
One guard, terrified, added in a trembling voice, "Y-yeah. If you think we're an easy target, you're wrong. Our captain is a retired knight who once served Lord Silverhart himself."
That explained it. A regular militia captain would never radiate that veteran aura. A retired knight was another matter entirely. Kent cursed his luck. They might not be resisting so much if their captain weren't that strong.
Kent decided to try one last time before resorting to force.
"Listen, we are not raiders—"
"Liars! You think we can't recognize raiders?" the retired knight cut him off again.
"What I mean is: yes, we were raiders. But we aren't anymore. We stopped. We just want to buy some food from you. Honest trade. No stealing, no killing."
The retired knight laughed like Kent had just told the world's funniest joke. The other militiamen looked like they wanted to laugh too, if they weren't frozen with fear. Kent glanced at his men. They all looked back at him with sympathetic expressions, especially Ruthard.
"There's no such thing as an 'honest raider,'" the knight said, his voice suddenly hard. "You know what they call a raider who doesn't steal or kill anymore? A dead raider."
Kent sighed. Talking was over. Negotiations had failed. Now metal would speak. He drew his cleaver and barked orders.
"I'll handle the old knight. Take down anyone with weapons. Ruthard, stay out of this."
Kent locked eyes with the knight. The man looked confident. Coincidentally, Kent was feeling confident too.
"One last time. No killing, understood?"
With that, Kent dashed forward toward his opponent, his cleaver low, boots thudding against the packed dirt.
The retired knight reacted fast for his age. He raised his sword, angling the blade to intercept the upward swing. Metal rang out sharply, the impact jolting through Kent's arm. The knight pressed forward, twisting his wrist and forcing Kent to step back or risk losing balance.
Kent gritted his teeth and sidestepped, narrowly avoiding a counter-slash. The old man was good — too good. His movements were clean, efficient, and without a single wasted motion. Years of training were evident in every swing.
Joltul and Skarn engaged the other militiamen, axes clashing against spears. Unlike their captain, the guards had some training, but not nearly enough to prepare them for real combat against seasoned warriors. Northern raiders were leagues above mere brigands, and Joltul and Skarn weren't ordinary raiders either. They were among the best — huge, powerful, and merciless. If not for Kent's orders, heads would already be flying.
Loki darted around the melee, flanking the long-armed guards from behind. His small frame made him difficult to track, and his quick knife strikes targeted non-fatal spots — arms, legs, shoulders — though he often drew more blood than necessary. Kent couldn't blame him. It was hard to retrain instincts that had never been taught the concept of "non-lethal."
Kent refocused on his own fight. Instinct told him that this knight wasn't truly his match and he could finish the duel within a few more exchanges. But killing wasn't his goal. He needed to disarm the man without injuring him too severely. In this era, wounds often meant death, especially for someone his age.
He feinted left, then lunged right, his cleaver sweeping up from below. The knight parried again, but a fraction too late — the blade scraped across his armor, tearing a shallow line in the mail beneath. A low growl escaped the old man as he stepped back.
"You've got skill," the knight said between breaths, "but no honor."
"Don't be too sure about that," Kent shot back.
Their weapons met again. Sparks flew. The ring of clashing steel filled the air while, around them, the rest of the caravan guards were already on the ground — disarmed, battered, but still breathing.
The knight quickly realized his men had been defeated. His strikes grew tighter, sharper, driven not by strategy but by pride. He refused to fall before a band of raiders, even when his arms trembled and his breath came short. Kent, calm and deliberate, met every blow with ease. It wasn't even a contest anymore.
Kent lowered his cleaver slightly, his voice steady and level.
"Let's end this. You can see we mean no harm. If we did, your men wouldn't still be breathing."
The knight faltered, his chest heaving. His eyes swept the scene, his guards wounded but alive, their weapons scattered. Disbelief flickered across his face, quickly smothered beneath anger.
"We're not here to plunder," Kent said. "We've no food left, but we still have coins. You have supplies. I'm offering a trade, nothing more."
"Trade?" The knight's voice shook with fury. "You think I'd sully my honor dealing with filth like you, raider? Murderers who live by the sword alone!"
Kent studied him quietly, eyes unreadable.
"Funny," he said at last. "That sounds like the job description of a knight."
"That's what you think. We are different. We have honor."
Kent sighed. He did not want to argue with this stubborn old man.
"Fine. Honor, chivalry, whatever. So your honor says we have to kill you all to get what we want? Is that it?"
The downed militiamen and caravan hands went pale. They all looked to their captain with pleading faces. He met their eyes, froze, then turned slowly to face Kent.
"This is my problem alone. Leave them out of this."
"What do you mean?" Kent said. He really was confused.
"My honor as a knight does not allow me to stand down against raiders. But they do not have to die for it."
The words landed like a hammer. Kent understood at once. The knight was offering himself. Trade with the caravan, take what they needed, but only if the knight died first.
"Why are you so stubborn?" Kent frowned. "I told you we are not raiders anymore."
"But you were, weren't you?" the old man said, looking straight into Kent's eyes.
After a long, silent moment, Kent nodded.
"You murdered people and you stole from them, did you not?" the knight demanded.
Kent glanced at his men, then down at his hands — Keldrak's hands. He nodded again.
The knight's voice rose. "So now you say you are not raiders and your past crimes suddenly vanish? What of the people you killed, the houses you burned, the families you destroyed?"
Ruthard opened his mouth, then closed it. Nothing he could say would change the knight's mind. The old man was not arguing with them, he was simply speaking the truth.
Kent felt a storm brewing inside him. He had not thought much about Keldrak's past before he occupied his body. From everyone else's point of view, the knight was right. They were raiders. They would always be raiders in the eyes of this world. Nothing could change that.
"If you want anything," the knight said, "you'll have to get it over my dead body."
"Is there no other way?" Kent asked, though he already knew the answer.
"In a fight between a knight and a raider, only one walks away alive." the old man replied. He lifted his sword for one last stand.
"Not even if I deliberately spared you?" Kent asked, settling into stance.
"A knight spared by a raider is a dishonored knight," the old man said slowly. "A fate worse than death."
Then he charged, shouting as he brought his blade down.
Kent met the attack. He deflected the strike with a horizontal sweep, slammed his elbow into the knight's face, and the man went down, dropping his sword. The effort had taken everything the old man had left.
Kent lowered himself until his cleaver hovered at the knight's throat.
"If only I were ten years younger," the old man laughed, spitting out a little blood. "You beat me, raider, fair and square. Go on, do what you're best at."
Kent's arm trembled. He forced himself not to show it. He was about to kill a man. An honorable man. A man he respected. However mercy would've shamed him more than death ever could. The choice was bitter and inevitable.
"May I know your name, honorable knight?" Kent asked softly.
The old man spat in his face. "Filthy raiders are not worth my name."
"Damn it!" Kent bursted out a short, bitter laugh. This man would be stubborn to the last moment.
Then he slit the knight's throat.