The past days in the outlands had been restless, but not for Arden's party. Restless for the bandits.

Every ambush meant for merchants ended up turning against them, and every attack on a supply route was cut short before it could even start. Greyhold's lifeline to the outside world, once frail, was now guarded by nothing more than the shadow of a single party.

The whispers grew louder with each encounter. "The Outbounds."

Rumors said they could appear from nowhere, as if the land itself pointed them toward their prey.

Even the great clans, who watched from their safe halls, grudgingly acknowledged their name. They had strength, but they lacked daring, and daring was what Arden's party thrived on.

It wasn't long before another ambush was staged, one more caravan brought to a halt along the dirt road.

The merchants huddled together, voices rising in protest as the bandits shouted at them to unload.

"Coins, herbs, whatever you've got!" the leader barked, his blade glinting with heat. His men tightened the circle.

The hired escorts raised their weapons, but their resistance was half-hearted.

Their eyes darted to the trees, to the sky, to the air itself. They stalled with their lives on the line, whispering among themselves, he always appears.

The merchants caught on, fear giving way to desperate hope.

But the bandit leader was no fool. He saw the hesitation, the way even his own men twitched at every shifting shadow. He cursed them all, ordering the wagons stripped.

And then one merchant, an old man trembling with sweat, raised a finger to the sky.

It was too late. Arden was already there.

He descended from the air, his figure gliding weightlessly, as if the earth had given him up willingly.

The faint shimmer of his Aetherstride Ascension carried him down, light catching against his form. He landed in silence, but the silence was louder than a thunderclap.

The bandits froze. The leader's eyes went wide.

He shouted for his men to attack, but their fear turned their feet to stone. None moved. And then the dam broke, they scattered in every direction, tripping over one another in blind panic.

But Arden was not alone.

A gust of icy wind howled across the road as Nyra stepped forward, her hands weaving seamlessly.

Shards of frost, sharp as blades, tore through the air and cut down fleeing shapes before they could vanish into the brush.

Rael's laugh thundered as lightning cracked around his gauntlets. He surged through the bandits like a storm given flesh, every strike dropping a man where he stood.

Zephyra was fire in motion, cerulean flame spilling from her coat as she blurred past bodies, leaving only streaks of light and smoldering trails in the dirt. Her growl rolled over the chaos, and men collapsed in the wake of her playful hunt.

Panic became slaughter.

The bandit leader cursed, shoving men aside in his scramble to flee. But Arden's eyes never left him. The moment the man turned, a crimson glow spread through Arden's chest and veins.

"Ignis Core… Ascendant."

The words left his lips like judgment.

Fire roared to life, not loud but absolute.

The leader's feet locked, as if chains of flame wrapped around his ankles. The heat pressed down from every direction, crushing his will to move.

He turned, hands raised, words tumbling from his mouth. "Wait! I surrender, I'll give you everything, just spare—"

Arden's hand lifted, calm and final. The flames answered, wrapping the man in a sphere of searing light. There was no scream, no thrashing. The fire consumed him as though it had chosen mercy in its own way, swift and complete. When the light faded, nothing remained but ash drifting on the road.

The silence afterward was heavy. Merchants and escorts alike stood rooted, their eyes wide. They had heard stories, but seeing him was something else entirely.

"Done already?" Rael's voice cut the silence, his tone almost mocking as he kicked aside a twitching bandit. "You could've let him sweat a little, Arden."

"It's not worth it," Arden replied, brushing ash from his hand.

His voice was even, unshaken, as if he had simply crossed a task off his list. "Besides, I had people to save. Thought I'd try the hero thing."

Nyra stepped up, folding her arms as frost still shimmered at her feet. "Hero? Please. We killed more than you did."

Arden smirked faintly. "Maybe. But none of them mattered. My presence was enough."

Zephyra padded closer, her flames flickering low as she huffed a sound suspiciously close to laughter.

The three of them bantered with Arden, circling him like younger siblings trying to drag him down from a pedestal.

Their voices carried warmth, teasing and sharp, and for a moment the battlefield no longer felt like one.

The escorts stared, their jaws slack. The fearsome "Outbound" were bickering like ordinary companions, arguing over who had done more work.

It didn't fit the legends they'd heard, yet the power they had just witnessed left no room for doubt. The strength was real.

The merchants broke first, stepping forward with bows and hurried thanks. "You've saved us," one said, his voice shaking with relief. "We knew you would come. We trusted the rumors."

Arden inclined his head, nothing more. "Keep your thanks. Focus on surviving your trade routes. Don't wait for rumors next time."

His tone was clipped but not harsh, the words of someone who meant to ground them rather than bask in praise.

He turned to his party with a tilt of his head. "We're moving."

Without argument, the Outbound fell into step.

The caravan watched them go, whispers already running wild.

By the time they returned to Greyhold, the tale would be brighter, sharper, and heavier than the truth. Arden didn't mind.

Every rumor built weight on the Organization's shoulders, and that was exactly what he wanted.

The name spread, louder than before. The Outbound, Arden's party had become more than a thorn in the Organization's side.

They were the fire burning through its roots, and now even the bandits themselves shook at the sound of their approach.

A/N:

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