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Chapter 3 - Kill or be killed
🕑 Added 2025-03-15 21:00:05 +0000 UTCAs James followed the guard toward the small squad assembling near the cart, he couldn't help but feel a mounting sense of unease. He had just seen the wreckage and witnessed a deadly force at work, and now he was being thrust into a situation where his every move seemed to carry weight. His thoughts were interrupted when the guard suddenly turned toward him, his expression puzzled.
"Also… where is your Regalite? How did you pull it off !?" the chef asked, eyeing his left wrist carefully, his tone hinting at confusion.
James paused, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of the question. "Regalite?" he repeated, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "What's that?"
The guard looked even more perplexed, pausing in his stride. He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing as if he had misheard or misunderstood something. "You- you never had a Regalite?" he asked, almost incredulous.
James shook his head, not understanding the significance of the term. The guard's face softened in realization, and he let out a small sigh.
With a motion of his hand, the guard pulled up his sleeve a little, revealing a simple but well-crafted bracelet around his wrist. The metal gleamed faintly under the light, and there were faint engravings across its surface. It looked like an ordinary piece of jewelry at first glance, but the guard's next words explained its deeper importance.
"This," the chef said, tapping the bracelet lightly, "is a Regalite. Every person here, on this continent, has one, or is supposed to have one, even slave do. It's an essential part of your identity. It holds all your information—your name, your age, your lineage, your rank, even your job, if you have one. It's like a piece of identification for us. Without it, you're practically invisible to the world. Before leaving, I would have asked you to show your information to me, to be sure you're not with the bandits."
James stared at the bracelet, still confused. "But… I don't have one. I've never seen this before."
The guard's eyes narrowed, his expression serious now. "How strange. You should have been given one at the age of fifteen. It's a tradition on this continent. The church performs a ceremony to give it to every child, marking their transition to adulthood. It's part of the process here." He studied James for a moment, his gaze becoming calculating. "You, you're not from around here, are you?"
James opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out at first. He was still processing the idea of a bracelet containing his entire identity—something that should have been given to him, yet was clearly missing. The guard's question weighed heavily on his mind.
"No," James finally admitted, his voice small. "I—I don't actually remember anything that happen. I woke up in a meadow inside that forest this morning. I don't even know how I got here or where here is." he said pointing in the general direction of the forest.
The guard studied him silently for a moment, a frown creasing his brow. "That's... not something that happens often, if ever. It's concerning. Without the Regalite, we can't trace you back to where you belong. Heck, there isn't even a mark on your arm that would indicate you had one in the past!" He paused, as if considering something. "You're sure you don't know anything about where you come from, or where are your family?"
James shook his head again. "No, I don't."
The guard sighed heavily, as if the situation was getting more complicated by the second. "Alright. Listen, if you really don't have a Regalite, you'll need to see the church. They might be able to help. If there's any chance you've lost your identity or been separated from it, they'll be the best ones to try setting things straight."
James felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He hadn't asked for any of this, and now he was being thrust into a world full of questions, things he didn't understand, and, apparently, an identity he didn't have.
"I… I'll go," James said, his voice quieter than before. "But I need to help with the wreckage first."
The guard gave a nod, though his eyes lingered on James for a moment longer, as if weighing his words carefully. "We'll take care of that first. But afterwards, you need to figure out your Regalite. Trust me, you'll want it. It's more than just a symbol. It's your lifeline here."
With that, the guard turned back toward the cart, motioning for James to follow as they made their way toward the wreckage site. But James couldn't shake the feeling that the answers he needed were slipping further and further out of his reach. And this "Regalite" might hold the key to unlocking everything.
James followed the guard and the small squad of four soldiers toward the wreckage site, the unsettling weight of the conversation about the Regalite lingering in his mind. Each step he took felt heavier, as if the unknowns around him were stacking higher with every passing moment.
The squad moved quickly, their footsteps steady as they pushed through the thick underbrush near the road. James kept pace with them, trying to focus on the task at hand. He had to figure out what had happened to the wagon and the people who had been caught in whatever ambush had taken place. But his mind kept drifting back to the Regalite. A bracelet? His entire identity locked away in a small piece of jewelry...
The forest seemed quiet, almost too quiet, as they continued along the path. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the soft creak of the cart's wheels as it rolled over the uneven ground. James glanced up at the guard who had questioned him, noticing a flicker of concern still in his eyes. The man had made it clear that the absence of a Regalite was highly unusual. He must have seen enough of the world to know that something was off about James.
James had never felt so out of place. Not just in this unfamiliar world, but in his own skin. The memory of waking up in the meadow, the lack of answers, it all felt like a disjointed puzzle he couldn't put together. His past was clearly not with those people, he remembers clearly is past from his parents, friends, studies and apartment where he was sleeping last night. But without that bracelet, there was no way to prove who he was, no way to even get the most basic of answers.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of walking, they arrived at the site of the wreckage.
As James followed the group back toward the wreckage, the scent of blood and decay hit him again. The air was thick with it, the stench clinging to the earth and the remains of the destroyed wagon. The flies buzzing around the bodies only added to the grim atmosphere.
But this time, James didn't gag. The horror of it was still there, gnawing at him, but his body seemed to have adjusted a little to the reality of the situation. He had already seen the bodies up close, and the wave of nausea that had hit him before had faded into a more mechanical sense of unease. It was almost as if his mind had shut off part of the horror, compartmentalizing it so he could keep moving, keep processing what was happening without losing himself to panic.
As the guards arrived at the site of the wrecked wagon, their eyes scanned the area carefully. The air was thick with the stench of blood, decay, and the unmistakable scent of death. The wagon was nothing more than a crumpled heap of wood and metal, the remnants of what had once been a vehicle of transport now shattered and scattered across the forest floor the horses no where to be seen. The guards didn't seem to find anything unusual about what bandit would have left behind at first, but their trained eyes noticed the distinct marks of a hasty, brutal attack. Also the tracks left by the bandits were clear: heavy footsteps, a scuffle, and the obvious sign of quick movement.
Animals had already begun to feast on the remains of the victims, some of their bones picked clean, while others still lay sprawled in grotesque positions, evidence of the savagery of the attack. The guards exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable but tense. There was nothing they could do for the moment about the scene. They couldn't undo the destruction that had already occurred. But there was one thing they could do—track the bandits down, knowing their position so that they could exterminate them later with more people.
Deciding to follow the trail left behind, the guards began to move, their steps calculated and silent. James, despite the lingering fear and horror, fell into step with them, he would not be left alone waiting beside corps for carnivores to attack. The atmosphere in the forest seemed different now, heavier with the knowledge of the danger that lay ahead. The breeze had died down, and the trees seemed to close in around them, as if they were being watched. The path was narrow, the underbrush thick with foliage and low-hanging branches that tugged at their clothes. James' breath was shallow, the crunch of leaves beneath his feet sounding far too loud in the eerie silence.
As they progressed deeper into the forest, the guards moved with quiet precision, their eyes scanning for any signs of danger. The air was thick with tension, and every movement felt calculated, as though they were walking on the edge of a blade. Every so often, James would catch sight of the crude traps the bandits had set—thin tripwires, sharpened sticks hidden beneath layers of leaves, and makeshift snares meant to catch anyone who wandered too far from the path.
The journey was slow, but after forty minutes of cautious movement, the trees began to thin. They were nearing the edge of the bandit camp. James felt the weight of the moment settling in his chest. The tension in the air was palpable, a feeling of foreboding that seemed to come from the very earth beneath his feet. The camp was just ahead, hidden behind a wall of trees, but James could already sense it—the faint glow of a fire, the flickering of shadows, and the murmurs of voices drifting on the breeze.
They had reached the perimeter.
As the group of guards reached the edge of the camp, their eyes immediately fell on the scene before them. The sight was chaotic and unsettling. Nineteen bandits lay scattered across the ground, unconscious, some still groaning in the dirt while others lay completely still, their limbs twisted at odd angles. The smell of alcohol, sweat, and dirt mixed with the faint scent of blood, filling the air.
Four bandits, however, remained on their feet, locked in a brutal fistfight. Their grunts of exertion and the harsh sounds of their blows landing on flesh broke the otherwise eerie silence. It was clear to there word that they were trying to decide who among them would claim the young woman they had kidnapped. She was tied to a nearby post, her face pale with what should be fear and exhaustion, her body trembling slightly, her eyes wide with terror. The bandits had stripped her of her dignity and were debating, with crude jabs and mockery, who would be the first to use her as they saw fit—each comment more barbaric and crude than the last.
James's stomach churned at the sight, his hands instinctively clenching into fists as the scene unfolded before him. His body frozen in place, overwhelmed by the barbarity of it. But the guards remained indifferent. Their focus was razor-sharp, undistracted by the horrors around them.
The captain of the guard, surveyed the camp with cold eyes. His face was set in a grim expression, yet there was a glint of resolve in his gaze. He motioned for his men to gather closer, speaking in a hushed tone. "This is our chance," he murmured, his voice steady but tinged with urgency. "We take them out now, while they're distracted."
The guards nodded, their expressions grim but resolute. The plan was clear. Each of the four remaining bandits was to be taken down swiftly. The captain then turned to James, locking eyes with him.
"You," the captain said in a low, commanding voice, "you'll have the most important role. But it'll be the easiest too—if you want things to go smoothly."
James's heart raced. "What do you need me to do?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, still reeling from what he had just witnessed.
The captain gave him a sharp look. "You're going to create a distraction. Head around the far side of the camp. There are enough unconscious bandits over there that they won't see you in the bush. Pick up a rock, throw it, make some noise. Get the attention of those four idiots. Once we tackle them, I want you to move and put down the one on the floor."
James's stomach twisted as the captain's words sank in. His mind raced, the weight of what was being asked of him settling like a cold stone in his chest. He had been told to help with the distraction, but now, the captain was implying something far darker. His eyes flickered over to the unconscious bandits. The captain's words were clear: he wanted James to make sure they stayed down. To do that, they would have to be silenced permanently.
James's heart hammered in his chest. He felt a surge of panic. No, he thought, I can't do that. I can't kill them.
But the captain's voice broke through his thoughts, firm and unwavering. "If you don't, they'll get up, and they'll fight. And those who could've been saved will be lost."
James's throat went dry. The captain's words echoed the grim reality of the situation: these men were killers. They had already committed unspeakable acts. James could see that now, as he looked back at the wrecked wagon and the lifeless bodies of its passengers. The blood. The carnage. It was all too real, and it was because of men like these.
The captain's voice lowered, a more serious tone slipping in. "Look at her," he said, pointing at the young woman tied to the post, her face pale, eyes wide with terror. "She won't survive if we let them live."
The weight of those words was a punch to the gut. James's eyes locked onto the girl. She was no older than he was, but she looked like a shell of someone who had already lost everything. She was shaking, her eyes darting between the four bandits who fought over her, deciding her fate with each vulgar word and violent shove.
"They've made their choice," the captain added, his voice cold, "and they stopped being human a long time ago. Those men are worse than monsters. Monsters can't choose to be evil. These men have. And they've chosen this life." He motioned to the bandits, some still struggling with each other, their violent behavior spilling over into every action. "They are predators. They do not deserve mercy. You don't have to worry, I shall shoulder the blame, if any."
James's heart ached as he glanced back at the bandits, the faces of the unconscious ones starting to blur in his mind. He was being asked to destroy these men. To take their lives. They were murderers, yes, but what did that make him if he followed through, an executioner?
But then, another thought struck him. His mind once again traveled to the wreckage of the wagon, the bodies he had seen earlier. The faces that had stared blankly into the void, never to open again. And the woman—how long could she hold out, tied up like that, under the threat of being torn apart by these monsters? She was still breathing, still alive, but for how long?
He could hear the captain's voice again, like a distant whisper in his mind. "These men have no place in this world anymore. You don't have to become like them, but you have to make a choice."
James swallowed hard, his gaze locking with the captain's. The captain's eyes were hard, unwavering. This wasn't about justice anymore. This was survival. And sometimes, survival meant choosing the lesser evil.
As he stood there, deep in thought, he realized there were only two ways this situation could end. Either he would become a murderer if he killed those 19 men, or an accomplice if he let them have their way. It was a choice between letting them kill one innocent person so that his own hands stayed clean, or using that dagger to kill 19 bad men in order to save one. Either way, his hands—and his soul—would be stained with blood, directly or indirectly.
James felt his hands shake, his breath coming faster. He closed his eyes briefly, forcing himself to focus. He wasn't a killer. He never had been, never should have been. But the thought of that girl, the helplessness in her eyes, the savagery of what the bandits were planning, pushed him forward.
"Do it," the captain urged, his voice not unkind, but resolute.
James's heart still hammered in his chest. But he nodded slowly, the realization sinking in. He had no other choice.
"Alright," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "I'll do it."
With that, he turned and began to make his way toward the other side of the camp, where the unconscious bandits lay, each step heavier than the last. His stomach churned, but there was no turning back now. The decision had been made, and he would see it through. No one else could take that weight from him. He would end this, for her, for the others, and for his own survival.
James positioned himself carefully, his heart still pounding in his chest. He could feel the tension building, the weight of his decision pressing down on him. He looked around, his eyes briefly meeting the captain's, who gave a subtle nod of acknowledgment. The other guards, in their positions, waited for the signal, each of them preparing for the confrontation that was about to unfold.
He crouched down, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for a large, jagged rock lying near his feet. The stone was rough in his hands, but it felt like the only thing that could give him the chance to make a difference. Taking a deep breath, he turned back toward the campfire, where the bandits were still distracted, fighting amongst themselves.
James moved forward cautiously, his steps quiet, the dirt beneath his boots muffling the sound of his approach. He crept out from behind the cover of the trees and bush, his eyes darting between the four bandits who were still grappling. They didn't notice him at first, but he knew it wouldn't be long before they did.
With a sharp inhale, he hurled the rock with all his strength. The stone flew through the air and struck one of the bandits in the shoulder with a sickening thud. The man grunted in pain and stumbled back, looking up in confusion. It didn't take long for the others to turn their heads toward him, their expressions shifting from enraged to surprise.
James seized the moment. "Surrender!" he shouted, his voice rough but loud enough to carry across the camp. He stood tall, trying to appear more confident than he felt. The bandits paused, the tension in the air thick as they stared at him, unsure of what to make of the sudden interruption.
For a brief moment, it felt like time stopped. The fight between the four bandits faltered as they focused on James, their eyes narrowing with suspicion. James's heart raced, but he kept his posture firm, refusing to show fear.
Then, one of the bandits, the largest of them, snarled. "Who the heck are you?" he barked, his voice full of venom. "How the Hell did you get here, tell us or we'll—"
But before he could finish, the captain's voice rang out from the treeline, a sharp command. "Now!"
Suddenly, the guards sprung into action. From the shadows, they moved with deadly precision. Each guard took on one of the remaining bandits, catching them off-guard and overpowering them with practiced ease. The bandits had barely begun to react before they were being attack by the trained soldiers.
James felt his legs almost give way as the fight erupted in front of him. He stood there for a short moment, the noise of the skirmish filling the air. The chaos, the thuds of their footsteps hitting the ground, the grunts of the bandits—all of it was overwhelming.
His job wasn't over, though. He forced himself to move, despite the dread clawing at his insides. He turned his attention to the unconscious bandits, the ones lying still on the ground, still breathing but unmoving. There was no time to waste. He approached them, his heart hammering in his chest. He was aware of the silence that seemed to settle around him. Every step he took felt heavier.
He couldn't hesitate. He had already made his decision. Moving quickly, he checked each bandit's condition with a glance. None of them showed any signs of regaining consciousness just yet, but he knew that if they did, they would fight—just like the others and might turn the tide.
James drew a deep breath. There was no turning back now. He moved toward the first bandit, drawing the dagger he had taken from a corpse near the destroyed wagon—one of the unfortunate passengers those men had slaughtered. He was about to deliver justice for the fallen. His hands trembled as he prepared to do what had to be done.
The camp was still filled with the sounds of struggle, but in that moment, all that mattered was what came next. James was a long way from the person he had been when he first woke up in the meadow in the morning. He would never forget the events that had led him here, numbing is sense and readying him for this moment, but for now, he had a role to play—a role that would change him forever.
