The last of them, one of lightning, attacked another group of Magi, his element crackling around his outstretched fingers.
Malik was already upon him.
He punched his hand forward, a geyser of flame erupting in the Sahir’s path.
The man barely managed to twist away, but not fast enough.
The edge of his cloak caught fire.
He rolled to extinguish it, only for Malik to land next to him before he could stand.
A blade, dark in fire, drove through his chest.
Last one down.
…That didn’t make things easier, however.
The enemy simply kept coming.
Wind howled. Rocks shattered.
Arrows meant for bandits now turned toward the caravan.
The second wave of bandits had arrived.
Malik’s fire spread in response.
Every step he took left embers in his wake.
He cut through the battlefield like he was a blade himself.
One moment he was helping a group of guards kill a few Magi, and the next he was mowing them down with Ali Baba to his side.
Together, they squashed them like they were nothing, cutting down their numbers.
But the battle was far from over.
Sure, only foot soldiers and Magi remained, but they…
There were many… too many.
Like the rest, Malik had spent nearly all of his Aether.
Now, he had to focus a lot more on melee combat. Pure skill and strength.
The battlefield turned into a quagmire of steel and death.
Everyone was bunched up together, the two sides meeting in the middle.
Alongside Ali Baba, Duban and his guards held the line, a long row versus another.
Someone was missing in that lineup.
Malik.
He was alone.
Deep in the enemy’s midst.
Every direction his blade turned housed another man intent on cutting him down.
Yet he was not cut down.
He was the one doing the cutting.
A bastard, then another, his sword a blur, his body running purely on instinct.
He wasn’t thinking anymore. He couldn’t afford to.
Thought was hesitation, and hesitation was death.
Malik killed.
His people killed.
Again, and again, and again.
Bodies upon bodies upon bodies.
But the tide wasn’t slowing. It wasn’t.
If anything, it was getting worse.
For every man they killed, two more took his place.
Their own people were falling, one by one, their numbers thinning.
‘…Soon.’
Malik leaped back, barely avoiding a spear aimed for his throat.
He caught the shaft, twisted, yanked the man forward, and impaled him on his own weapon. Four more spears took his place, but Malik was already out of there, jumping up, the blades grazing the bottom of his boots.
Midair, he turned just in time to see Duban stagger, a blade sinking into his side.
The boy snarled, grabbed his attacker by the throat, and crushed his windpipe with one hand before falling to a knee.
Malik gritted his teeth.
It was happening…
Their loss had begun.
Sensing their weakness, their desperation, the bandits pushed harder.
The battle had turned from slaughter to survival.
A desperate fight to keep standing, to keep breathing.
And then…
GHOOOOOAAAAN!
A war horn.
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It resounded from behind.
The village.
From the distance, they came.
Dozens of them.
Armed men and women, old and young, all carrying weapons.
They had come to fight, to die for their home if they had to.
Certainly not many, but enough to make the bandits hesitate.
At first, hope surged through the caravan.
A boost of morale, a renewed sense of purpose.
They had reinforcements. They weren’t alone.
But that was short-lived.
The village’s warriors were brave, but they were not enough.
Not even close.
The enemy swallowed them like a wave crashing against a shore.
The battle continued, the brief shift in balance fading as quickly as it had come.
The caravan, the village’s people, everyone was being pushed back, forced to retreat step by step until they were huddled at the village’s edge, backs to the walls, barely holding on.
Except for Malik.
He was still out there.
Still cutting, still burning, still fighting.
Alone.
He didn’t know how long he had been swinging his sword. His arms were lead, his lungs burned, his body screamed. He was slowing. He could feel it. Every movement, every attack—it all took too much effort now.
He was losing.
A blade came at him.
He barely deflected it, stumbling back.
Another slash—he dodged, but it grazed his side, cutting deep.
Blood seeped into his clothes.
Another enemy. Another attack.
His body felt heavy.
His vision swam.
He swung his sword, missed.
Another blade came at him from behind, and he knew—
‘I failed.’
This was it.
But then, suddenly—
“Ugh!”
The man behind him crumbled, lifeless.
Malik exhaled, slow and shaky, turning his head slightly.
His eyes met a familiar man, and he revealed a tired smile.
His gold reflected a pure white instead of purple.
“You know… That hair really doesn’t suit you.”
It was Ali Baba.
“You’ve done enough.”
He stepped behind him, eyes solemn, expression grim.
Malik ignored him and blocked the incoming swords, stopping them from taking his head.
Ali Baba sighed at him and planted his staff firmly into the ground.
His body shuddered, shoulders slumping, skin paling, aging.
His purple eyes, once sharp, grew dim, nearly dead.
White made itself known above his staff.
A collection of souls so large in number it could be seen even by mortals.
Then, softly, a whisper:
“Equivalent Exchange.”
The battlefield froze.
The air itself seemed to still, swords pausing mid-swing, breath caught in throats.
Clank! Clank! Clank!
Black chains burst from the ground.
They coiled, wrapped, slithered like living things, seeking, finding, and latching onto hundreds of bandits at once.
Bastards gasped, choked, and writhed, trying to break free.
They could not.
Ali Baba’s moved.
“Die.”
The moment he whispered his decree, the battlefield became a nightmare.
Every single chain tightened. Black, writhing—like cursed vipers sinking their fangs into flesh.
“AGHHHHHHH!”
“THEY’RE—THEY’RE TAKING ME! GET THEM OFF!”
“I CAN’T MOVE! I CAN’T MOVE!”
“SOMETHING’S INSIDE ME! GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT!”
“M-MY HEART—IT HURTS, IT HURTS!”
“I CAN SEE ‘HIM!’ HE’S COMING FOR—”
“…”
“…”
“…”
Silence.
Hundreds collapsed at once, their souls ripped from their bodies like candle flames snuffed out, taken, consumed.
What remained were husks. Empty. Unmoving.
The living saw. The living heard.
And they ran.
“MONSTERS! THEY’RE MONSTERS!”
“NO—NO—NO, THIS AIN’T RIGHT! THIS AIN’T RIGHT!”
“RETREAT! RETREAT!”
“RUN! RUN! RUN!”
“THEY CALLED THE DEVIL HIMSELF!”
“IT’S A CURSE! A CURSE! HE KILLED THEM ALL WITH A SINGLE WORD!”
“GOD ‘HIMSELF’ FIGHTS AGAINST US!”
“IT’S A DEMON! A DEMON! WE CAN’T WIN!”
“I DON’T WANNA DIE—I DON’T WANNA DIE!”
The bandits scrambled, tripping over one another, fleeing in terror.
Malik barely heard them, barely registered their “retreat.”
His eyes were locked onto Ali Baba.
The man stood there, swaying. A slow, uneasy tilt.
Like a tree that had been standing for centuries… finally giving in.
Then he fell.
Malik moved before he could think.
He dropped to his knees and caught him before he could hit the ground.
Ali Baba’s breath was shallow. His skin, cold.
“…”
Malik said nothing.
What was there to say?
He just held on…
He just held on and watched the enemy run.
{End Of Volume Four: When The Sparrow Falls.}