Those men were fast—faster than most soldiers Ludger had ever seen—but not fast enough to lose him. He followed from a distance, keeping about five hundred meters between them. Any closer, and they’d feel the tremors from his steps through the ground. Any farther, and he’d lose the trail completely.

Still, stealth wasn’t exactly his specialty. Tracking people through sand and stone was one thing—doing it without being noticed was another entirely. He knew how to read the land, not how to hide from people trained to read it too.

Half an hour passed like that—quiet, rhythmic, relentless pursuit through the barren slopes. The landscape offered no cover: no trees, no ruins, just open rock and loose sand stretching as far as he could see.

Then something changed.

The air felt heavier. The pace of the group ahead slowed—not panicked, not careless, just deliberate. Their steps spread out slightly, spacing themselves with the precision of men forming a perimeter.

Ludger stopped mid-stride, crouched, and pressed a hand to the ground. He could feel it in the vibrations—the rhythm of their movement had shifted.

They know.

He clicked his tongue quietly. “Tch. Guess I’m not as sneaky as I hoped.”

They must’ve felt the faint ripples from his mana or picked up the inconsistencies in the terrain he moved over. Either way, the game was up.

From the way they were tightening their formation, Ludger guessed they were close to home—their hideout had to be nearby. The path they’d been taking was too straight, too sure, like they were running toward safety instead of away from danger.

And now that they knew they were being followed, they’d raise every alarm and every blade waiting in that place.

Ludger exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as the wind carried dust past his hood.

“All right,” he muttered, voice low. “Let’s see how you handle being hunted back.”

Ludger didn’t plan to wait and see how cautious they could get.

They’d stopped halfway arguing quietly about whether to double back or keep moving. That was all the time he needed.

He exhaled once, then broke into a sprint—silent, steady, and fast enough that his cloak barely fluttered. The ground trembled slightly beneath him as he ran, the faintest hum of stamina reinforcing his steps.

By the time the men realized something was coming, it was already too late.

They turned toward the sound—a small figure walking out of the mist and moonlight, short for a grown man, dust covering his cloak, hood down. He didn’t bother to hide his face.

The group tensed immediately, weapons raised.

One of them hissed, “A kid? Where the hell did you—”

Ludger tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You guys look nervous,” he said, voice calm and dry. “Relax. I’ll go easy tonight.”

That earned a few confused glances.

He lifted his right hand lazily, flexing the fingers once before pointing at them. “One hand should be enough.”

The remark hung in the air for a second, then drew a sharp laugh from one of the men. “You’ve got a death wish, brat?”

Ludger’s smirk widened a fraction. “No. Just short on patience.”

The ground under his feet shifted as if the ground itself held its breath. A ripple of earth energy rolled outward from his stance—subtle, but heavy, like the promise of something violent waiting to happen.

“Come on,” he said, his tone somewhere between a taunt and a challenge. “Show me why you’re worth burying.”

They nodded to one another like a well-drilled unit and closed the ring. Steel whispered from leather sheaths as they spread out, spacing themselves so there was no single blind spot. Their eyes flicked past Ludger to the ground, reading the sand he’d left behind. Each face carried the same calculation: he was a kid, yes, but he’d made the mountain sing like a war-horn. That wasn’t an accident.

“You ain’t from around here,” the tallest one said, voice low. He kept his weight light, ready to lunge or backpedal at a moment’s notice. “Who sent you?”

Ludger shrugged as if the question bored him. He let his right hand hang loose at his side where the bandage showed under his glove, and smiled—small, sharp. “No one. Just you fellas. Thought I’d introduce myself. I am your worst nightmare. Yikes, it makes my skin crawl saying things like that.”

They tightened imperceptibly. One of them—short, with a scar like a white crescent on his cheek—flicked a dagger free and tested its balance between his fingers. Another bore a coil of thin rope and a short spear. Their kit was practical: traps, silencers, things to make trouble disappear.

Ludger watched them all, measuring breath by breath. He could feel their professionalism in the way they shifted, how their boots barely scuffed the sand, how they angled their shoulders to mask their balance. They had every intention of taking him seriously.

“Fine,” Ludger said, the smirk settling into something colder. “Then let’s be serious too.” He raised his right hand—slow, deliberate—palms open like a man who intended nothing more than to clap. “One-handed. As promised.”

The word hit them the same way a thrown stone does: quick, and with a small splash of disbelief at the edges. For a heartbeat the circle hesitated. A professional never underestimates the small opponent; they underestimated the kid’s height, not his intent. The scar-faced man took a step forward, dagger tipped. The others spread their weight, testing angles.

Ludger’s stance was casual, almost bored—shoulders loose, left hand tucked low at his belt where his sand pouch threatened. Underneath that boredom was control: a quiet coil of geomantic pressure that made the packed sand beneath his feet settle into denser grains. Not enough to shout, but enough to give his footing a micro-advantage. He’d made the ground listen; now he made it lean.

The first man moved—a lunge as clean as a practiced line. Ludger didn’t meet it with full force. He let the footwork do the work, sidestepping as if shuffling through a crowd; the man’s momentum carried him past. With a light tap of his right fist—nothing theatrical, just a shove—Ludger met the attacker’s ribs. The contact was controlled, precise; it unbalanced the man rather than broke him. He folded like a rag into the soft sand and the ring wavered.

That hesitation was all Ludger needed. He didn’t chase. He didn’t shout. He took a single, careful stride and used the heel of his hand to kick grit under the second man’s boots. It wasn’t magic; it was timing and the small advantage his mana enhanced sand granted him. The second man staggered, cursed, and drew his spear in a long arc.

Another blade came for Ludger then—fast, intent on cutting the throat. Ludger let it pass the arm he held up for show. The blade hissed past his sleeve. His left hand—until now inert—snapped with a whisper of mana and nudged a pebble from the ground . The pebble caught the assailant’s foot, a trivial slip, but in a ring that counted on no mistakes it was enough. The man twisted, and Ludger used the motion to reel him aside with a wrist-twist that felt like nothing to the kid and everything to a grown killer.

They were professionals and they adapted quickly. The scarred leader recovered first, rolling to his feet, eyes now hard with interest rather than surprise. “You play rough for a boy,” he snarled, wiping blood from his lip where Ludger’s shove had nicked him.

Ludger gave a dry laugh. “Not tonight. I’m tired.” He let his meaning sit in the spaces between their chests. He wasn’t bluffing. One-handed didn’t mean weak; it meant deliberate. If they pushed too hard, he could go all in. He didn’t want to—yet.

The men circled back, testing and probing, slow and careful. Each contact left them grunting, irritated, but not broken. They weren’t bluffing threats; they were recon in steel. Ludger kept his posture relaxed and his right hand ready, his left hand loose at the sand pouch. He could feel the mountain beneath them settling—small, useful vibrations that told him where weight shifted and where traps might lie.

Around them, the night breathed. Neither side wanted the first fatal move. For now it was a game of measurement: a kid who made mountains cough, and a ring of killers who smelled a larger plan in his tremors. Ludger’s challenge had been accepted; now the rules were being written in breath and bone.

The assassins lunged in perfect unison—four shadows converging on one small silhouette. Their boots barely made a sound, but Ludger could feel them. Tremors rippled underfoot; he could tell the rhythm of every step, every drawn breath.

He didn’t move to dodge.

He just smirked, raised his right hand—and clenched it.

Continental Shield.

The world slammed into blackness.

The air thickened instantly, swallowing all light and sound. It was like being buried alive under a twenty meters of dirt—the kind of pressure that crushed lungs and muted screams. The assassins couldn’t see the hand in front of their faces. Their instincts took over.

“Where is he?!” someone hissed.

A blade swung.

Metal hit flesh.

The darkness swallowed the cry that followed.

Another man panicked, thrusting forward at the noise—his sword punching through his own ally’s ribs. They bumped shoulders, slashed wildly, tripped over bodies they couldn’t see. The earth shuddered again as mana-infused weapons bit into it, sending muted vibrations through the confined space.

Ludger had already vanished.

He’d sunk into the floor the instant the shield formed, surfacing above them through a rising spike of earth. Now he crouched calmly on the ceiling of his own dome, gripping a spear of solid stone that anchored him in place. His eyes glowed faintly amber in the dark.

Inside the collapsing dome, chaos reigned.

Two of the assassins staggered into each other, one clutching a bleeding thigh, another coughing blood through his teeth. Their breathing grew ragged as the mana field started to crumble, cracks forming along the earthen sphere like spiderweb fractures.

When it finally burst, a cloud of dust poured out.

The light of stars spilled over the scene—revealing a slaughter of their own making. Two men still stood, trembling. Two were down, one twitching, the other lifeless. Their blades dripped crimson, and the sand drank it greedily.

Above them, Ludger watched, hanging upside down from his perch. His coat swayed faintly as the wind passed through the broken shield.

“Thanks for falling for it,” he said, tone dry as gravel. He tilted his head slightly, that faint grin returning. “Dumbfucks.”

One of the survivors looked up, eyes widening in disbelief—too slow to dodge. Ludger dropped from the ceiling like a hammer, driving his heel into the man’s chest with a dull crack.

The impact echoed across the rocks.

“Now,” Ludger muttered, rolling his shoulder and letting the dust clear, “let’s see who sent you.”

Ludger didn’t waste time with speeches. The three survivors were still trying to scramble upright, dazed and clutching at bleeding limbs. He glanced at them once—cold, quick—and made the choice for them.

The ground answered his palm. It rose like a patient animal and swallowed their legs and torsos, snug and unyielding, until only heads bobbed above the dirt. They choked and spat, fists scraping at packed earth, eyes wide with a mix of panic and calculation. Ludger stepped closer and let the ground keep them pinned.

“No pretty words,” he said, voice flat. “You came here to kill people. Tonight you found one who doesn’t like being killed.”

He worked fast, not out of cruelty but efficiency. With a few sharp commands of mana he snapped tendons, twisted joints — not in gore, but in blunt, disabling force that turned resistance into helplessness. The men gasped; a single, shocked groan rolled out of each throat. They weren’t dead. They were very much alive, and suddenly very small.

Ludger crouched so their eyes met his. The moon painted his face in a pale line; he let the silence sit heavy for a beat before he spoke again.

“If you want to make this quick,” he said, each word measured, “you’ll talk. Tell me who hired you, who gave you the orders, where they’re hiding. Everything.” He smiled without humor. “If you try to dance, I’ll give you a proper burial.”

One of them tried to spit something—words, a lie—then choked and coughed. Another’s shoulders shook as he swallowed fear like bile. Ludger let them stew in it, watching the slow trade happen behind their eyes: pride for survival, secrets for air.

“I won’t ask,” Ludger said, voice low and steady. “I’ll wait.” He dropped his hand to the earth at their backs and tightened the hold in a little, enough that their necks felt the pressure of soil but not enough to stop breathing. “If you take too long, I’ll press a little harder. I don’t like shouting. I prefer the quiet.”

The threat was simple and terrible because it was believable. They began to talk—stuttered at first, then faster as the option of silence grew colder.

“We ambushed Stonefist… and captured him.We were hired to do that, even at the cost of some of our allies. We tired him out for several days here until he ran out of mana and we poisoned him.”

Ludger listened, stone-faced, taking in every slurred sentence. He didn’t relish the work; he accepted it. This was how the world had been handed to him: brutal, efficient, and seldom polite. When the names had stopped and the breaths were ragged with exhaustion, he eased the earth just enough to let them cough and stare at the sky.

“You lived long because you were careful,” he said quietly as he stood. “You died tonight because you weren’t clever enough and you picked a fight with a friend of mine. Now, tell me and I will make this painless. Who are your leader? And who are your client?”

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