A tale of heroes and gods

The first light of dawn hadn't yet touched the forest floor when I slipped away from the camp. Aelira was still deep in sleep, her breaths even and slow, unaware of the storm stirring inside me. I didn't hesitate. The gauntlets were cold but familiar in my hands—the weight of them a reminder of what I was capable of, and what I owed to Helios's bloodied sacrifice. They pulsed faintly as I slipped them on, like coals waiting to be stoked.

The tracks were fresh, the earth still soft from the bandits' hurried flight. Mud and broken twigs marked their trail, winding deeper into the trees, away from the safety of our camp. I followed without pause, each step calculated, quiet, careful.

The forest around me was alive with morning sounds—the chirping of birds, the rustle of small animals—but my focus narrowed to the path ahead. I couldn't let anything break my concentration.

After nearly an hour, the trail ended at a small clearing—a crude camp nestled beneath towering pines. Fires burned low, smoke curling lazily into the cold air. The bandits were here.

I crouched low, blending with the shadows, feeling the familiar hum of the gauntlets as they hugged my arms. There was no turning back.

I counted the figures around the campfire—at least a dozen men, rough and hardened, laughing and boasting loudly, oblivious to the danger lurking nearby. Most were careless, drunk or too comfortable in their numbers. Perfect.

My breath slowed, heartbeat steady. This was no reckless charge. This was execution.

I moved like a ghost.

The first was a lone sentry, slouched against a tree, eyes half-closed as he hummed a drunken tune. I slipped behind him, each step muffled by moss and leaves.

My hand shot out, fingers closing around his throat like steel. The gauntlets tightened with crushing pressure.

He struggled once—eyes wide with panic—but I held firm, twisting his neck sharply to the side. The sickening snap echoed faintly in the quiet woods.

His body went limp. I dropped him gently into the underbrush, swallowing the faint urge to recoil.

No mercy.

By the fire, two men drank, one lighting a pipe while the other tossed bones onto the flames. Their laughter grated against the silence I carried.

I circled wide, keeping low, eyes sharp.

The first's guard was down; he never saw me come.

A heavy fist—metal and flesh—struck the back of his skull with a brutal crack. He crumpled forward, face smacking the dirt.

His companion whirled, startled, eyes wild.

No time for words.

I grabbed him by the collar, gauntleted fingers digging in as I twisted his head violently to the side. Another sickening crack.

He dropped silently, eyes rolling back.

The camp erupted into chaos.

Shouts pierced the morning air as others scrambled for weapons.

I didn't hesitate.

I charged, moving through the chaos like a hurricane. The gauntlets hummed, every strike precise, brutal.

One bandit swung an axe—wide and slow. I caught the blow with my forearm, grunted with the impact, then punched straight into his ribs. The crack made him double over in pain.

Another lunged with a dagger, aiming for my side.

I sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, and twisted until he dropped the blade, then slammed my fist into his nose. Bone shattered. Blood sprayed.

A third—a scarred brute with a missing eye—tried to tackle me from behind.

I dropped low, sweeping his legs out, sending him sprawling hard.

But it wasn't enough.

They were coming at me from every direction—thick and fast.

I felt a sharp pain as a blade sliced across my forearm. Another cut bit into my thigh.

My leg nearly gave out beneath me. I staggered, biting back a cry.

Breathing hard, blood mixing with dirt, I forced myself to keep moving, to keep fighting.

Desperation made them reckless.

I used it.

When one bandit rushed me swinging a heavy club, I ducked under the wild blow and caught his arm, twisting sharply until he howled in pain.

With my free hand, I grabbed his collar and headbutted him, hard. Again. Until he collapsed twitching, eyes glazed.

I ducked behind a fallen log, panting, wiping sweat from my brow. My arms burned, muscles screaming, but I couldn't stop.

Not yet.

From the other side of the camp, I spotted the bandit leader—broad-shouldered, scarred, eyes cold and calculating. He barked orders, rallying what remained of his crew.

They weren't finished.

I had to end this.

Steeling myself, I moved low and silent, stalking through the underbrush like a predator.

I caught one lone bandit heading toward the woods, probably to sound an alarm.

I struck fast—hands wrapped around his neck, squeezing hard, twisting just enough.

His struggles stopped abruptly.

I slid the body down a slope, heart pounding.

More footsteps.

Time was running out.

Back in the clearing, the leader was alone now, pacing, frustration and fury twisting his face.

I stepped from the shadows, voice low and cold.

"You lost your men."

He spun, hand on a sword hilt.

I smiled thinly.

"I'm the reckoning."

The bandit chief stood across the clearing, boots planted firm, blood-spattered axe in hand. He wasn't like the others — not rattled, not shaken. Calm. Cold. A veteran of dozens of skirmishes. His coat was reinforced leather, thick and scored with old blade marks. His stance said everything: He knew how to kill.

So did I.

No shield. No armor. Just the gauntlets.

The metal was warm against my skin. Not hot — not yet.

"You're just a boy," he said, voice gravelly. "You killed my men?"

I didn't answer. I crouched slightly, fists raised, breath even.

He spat to the side. "You think you're justice? You're just a shadow with fists."

That did it.

I moved first.

He expected a wild charge, some emotional rush. I gave him something else.

Three quick steps, fainting left. When he moved to meet me, I dropped and swept low — my shin cracked against his knee. He staggered, and I surged up, driving a fist toward his face.

He ducked. Fast.

The haft of his axe slammed into my ribs. Pain exploded across my side.

I rolled with it, twisting out of range, already circling. My heartbeat roared in my ears.

Too slow.

I closed my eyes for half a second and focused.

The metal around my hands pulsed. Heat flowed through the inner lining, not burning — never burning — just alive. Blood surged to my fingers, fast and hot. Reflexes sharpened, the world slowing just enough.

He came at me, a horizontal swing aimed to split my chest.

I stepped inside the arc.

Left gauntlet up — deflected the handle.

Right fist — straight to his jaw. Felt the crunch of tooth and bone.

He didn't fall. Staggered back, blood leaking from a split lip. Then he grinned.

"Good," he said. "You're better than they said."

He dropped into a lower stance, axe held one-handed now. His left hand dipped into his coat and came back with a knife.

I shifted.

Faster.

He lunged — axe first, knife second, a staggered combo meant to trap me.

I caught the axe blade on my forearm, sparks flying as metal kissed metal. My gauntlets screamed with the impact, but I held. The knife came low.

I twisted my hips, let the knife slice just past my ribs, then grabbed his wrist before it could pull away.

"Too slow."

I crushed it.

Bone broke with a sickening snap. The knife fell. He screamed and tried to knee me in the stomach.

I leaned forward into him, grabbing his coat and headbutted him hard — once, twice — a spray of blood burst from his nose.

He fell to one knee.

"Still not done?" I muttered.

He swept his axe up blindly. I jumped back.

Then surged forward — one gauntlet uppercut to his jaw, lifted him clean off the ground.

He landed hard. Groaned. But moved.

I growled and grabbed the back of his coat.

Lifted.

Slammed him into a tree.

The bark cracked. His breath left him in a wheeze. His legs twitched.

Still not enough.

He tried to raise his axe one more time, but my hand caught his wrist.

The heat in my gauntlets surged — like they were drinking in the fire of my will. My gauntlets pulsed again, faster this time. My hands blurred.

I struck once — his temple.

Twice — his throat.

Then grabbed his head and twisted.

The forest went still.

The body slid down the tree, leaving a smear of blood on the bark.

I stood over it, chest heaving, gauntlets steaming faintly in the cold night air. The warmth inside them faded, the fire quieting now that it was done.

Only the forge-lit fire in my fists.

And fewer monsters in the world.

I stood, chest heaving, as the forest grew quiet again.

The bandit camp was nothing but broken bodies and spilled blood.

I wasn't proud of what I'd done. But I was alive.

I wiped my hands on my trousers, glancing toward the distant trees.

It was time to go to camp.