6 - Bandits

The fog rolled thick across the outpost like a tide swallowing the night. At first, the bandits barely noticed. They laughed, argued, and drank around their fires, thinking little of the haze that clung to the ground.

“Just night air,” one muttered, tossing a bone into the flames.

“Mountain mist,” another agreed, tugging a cloak tighter. “Always comes this thick.”

But as minutes passed, the fog deepened. What began as a faint blur grew into heavy curtains of white, obscuring faces even across the fire. Shapes blurred. Torches flickered uselessly, their light swallowed whole.

“Oi.” A guard at the gate squinted, lifting his torch. The beam stretched only a few feet before dissolving. “Can’t see a damned thing.”

Murmurs rippled through the camp. Laughter faltered. Eyes darted nervously.

Then the first one shouted. “This isn’t natural.”

From a tent near the center of the outpost, a man emerged. His robes were patched and worn, but they set him apart from the rough leathers of the others. His hands glowed faintly with residual mana as he pushed past his companions, his face lined with irritation.

“Idiots,” he snapped. “Fog this thick? At night? Do you think that’s normal?”

The bandits fell quiet. They knew better than to argue with their mage.

He lifted his hand, murmuring under his breath. Sparks flared, coalescing into a faint wave of heat. The fog shivered, thinned—and then thickened again, swallowing the spell like it was nothing.

His brows knit together. He tried again, this time with more force, mana burning hot in his veins. Still the fog resisted, pressing in closer, tighter, denser.

Whispers spread among the bandits.

“What’s happening?”

“Can he clear it?”

“Shut up!”

The mage ignored them, his pulse quickening. He wasn’t weak. Level 4 might not be the peak, but it was power enough to level a building, to set caravans ablaze with ease. He had hunted, stolen, and survived using his fire for years.

But this fog—this spell—laughed at his efforts.

Cold dread licked his spine.

Someone’s here.

And not just anyone. Someone stronger. Far stronger.

His thoughts spiraled.

Could it be the city guard? No—too organized, too cautious to strike like this. Adventurers, then? Mercenaries? Or worse—someone sent for him.

His gut churned. He wasn’t a nobody. He had a bounty, a price on his head for the villages he’d burned, the lives he’d taken. If an authority had decided to cash it in…

His breath quickened.

Level five, he thought, sweat beading his brow. It has to be at least level five to hold this fog against me. They’ve come for me.

Terror gnawed at his resolve. He clenched his fists, forcing mana to his fingertips. If they wanted him, he’d burn everything. He’d incinerate the camp, the forest, the fog itself. Better ashes than chains.

From the shadows beyond the palisade, Luna watched, amused.

Her mist coiled around her ankles like a living thing, spreading effortlessly into the camp. Through its haze, her eyes gleamed faint silver.

“Well, well,” she murmured. “A mage. Didn’t expect that.”

Curiosity sparked within her. This was the first mage she’d seen in this world—though the irony that he was a bandit wasn’t lost on her. She tilted her head, studying him the way a cat studies a mouse.

“Too bad the first one’s trash.” She smirked. “But still… a mage is a mage. Let’s see what you can do.”

Her arms folded loosely across her chest as she leaned against a tree, content to watch him struggle.

The mage’s voice rose, chanting faster now. Fire licked up his arms, coiling into a sphere above his palms. The heat pressed outward, a wave that made even the drunkest bandits sober and stumble back.

“What’s he doing?” one cried.

“Shut up!” another hissed.

The mage’s teeth grit, sweat rolling down his temple. He would burn everything. He would not be dragged away like an animal. If he had to go, he’d take all of them with him.

The sphere of fire swelled, roaring.

And then—

Snap.

A sharp flick echoed through the fog, like fingers snapping.

The fire died instantly, snuffed as though it had never existed. The mage staggered, eyes wide, his hands empty.

“What—?”

Then he saw them.

At the edge of the mist, two eyes glowed faintly silver. They did not blink. They did not flinch. They simply stared at him with cold amusement.

His heart lurched into his throat.

Not city guards.

Not mercenaries.

Something worse.

The eyes moved closer.

Luna stepped lightly through the fog, her grin sharp, her posture relaxed. Every ounce of her radiated smugness, but the mage only saw a predator closing in.

She let the mist curl dramatically around her ankles as she walked, her silver hair catching faint torchlight, her grin widening as she saw his terror.

“Boo,” she whispered playfully.

The mage flinched like she’d struck him.

She raised her hand, mana thrumming, and with a flick, five copies of herself shimmered into existence. They fanned out, surrounding him, each one smirking, each one glowing-eyed and cruel.

The mage’s lips parted in disbelief.

“No…”

He raised his hands, tried to cast again. Sparks sputtered, but before his spell could form—

Snap.

Another flick of Luna’s fingers. The magic froze, ice crackling along his palms until the flames withered away.

Hopelessness crushed him. He tried again, desperate, but each time the sound came—the sharp snap, the hiss of ice—and his spell died stillborn.

He dropped to his knees, trembling. His eyes darted from clone to clone, his mind unraveling.

They watched him, circling, smirking, tilting their heads in mocking unison.

His breath came ragged, his heart hammering. He looked up through the fog, through the blur of stars overhead, searching for an answer, for salvation.

But none came. Only cold. Only the predator standing over him, smiling as though this were all a game.

And perhaps, for her, it was.

The mage’s knees hit the dirt with a hollow thud. His eyes darted, wide and wet, from one smirking illusion to the next. The fog closed tighter around him, suffocating, blinding. His lips parted in a whisper of disbelief.

“No more,” he rasped.

Luna tilted her head. For a moment, she only watched him. Her copies mimicked the motion, five grinning faces peering down at the trembling man. She could almost taste his despair.

But amusement quickly soured into boredom.

“Pathetic,” she sighed. “I was hoping for more from the first mage I meet here. Guess I set the bar too high.”

The clones vanished with a shimmer. The mage slumped forward, relief flooding his eyes—only for that relief to curdle when Luna’s shadow fell across him.

She crouched, her smile bright, her tone almost friendly. “You really thought you could burn the fog away, huh? Cute.”

Her hand flicked, and frost bloomed over his wrists. His last attempt at struggle died as his limbs stiffened, ice crawling up to his elbows. His breath hitched, shallow and ragged.

“Shh,” Luna said softly, almost tender. “You won’t even feel it.”

She stood, turning her gaze from him to the camp beyond. The bandits were shouting now, panic lacing their voices. Shapes stumbled through the mist, bumping into each other, cursing. Some fired arrows wildly into the white. Others clutched weapons and swung at shadows.

One screamed. Then another.

The outpost was unraveling.

“Who’s there?”

“Show yourself!”

“Get this damned fog off me!”

Boots thudded. Steel clanged. A torch dropped, sputtering on the ground before being swallowed in frost.

The mage’s eyes widened as he realized. His voice cracked, desperate. “Run! All of you, run!”

But the others didn’t hear him. Or perhaps they did, but fear bound their feet.

Luna stood still at the center of her mist, arms folding across her chest. She closed her eyes, inhaling the cold air, savoring the tension. For a heartbeat, she considered letting them flail longer—watching them fight phantoms, trip over themselves, curse their blindness.

But that would be cruel.

And messy.

Her smile softened.

“Quick. Clean. That’s better.”

She didn’t care for bandits. She didn’t pity them. But pain… pain was something she hated. It clawed memories in her chest, memories she refused to indulge. She wouldn’t drag their ends out.

No—she would make it beautiful.

Her hands lifted slowly, palms open to the sky. Mana surged from her core, cold and sharp, threading through her veins like liquid frost. The fog stirred in response, thickening, swirling, alive.

She whispered the word like a secret.

“Cocytus.”

The world obeyed.

The air shifted, first with a whisper of wind, then with a howling gale. Snow flurried from nothing, biting sharp against skin. The fog transformed into whirling ice, each particle a blade.

Bandits screamed.

The mage’s breath froze in his lungs.

The outpost shuddered under the storm’s sudden birth. Flames guttered, torches hissed and died. The smokehouse’s roof cracked beneath the weight of rime.

One man tried to run. He stumbled, his legs icing mid-stride. He fell, frozen solid before his cheek touched the ground.

Another raised his sword, roaring defiance. Ice crawled over the steel, then over his hands, his arms, his chest. His roar cut short as frost sealed his throat.

The storm raged, merciless and magnificent.

Luna’s hair whipped wildly, her cloak snapping in the wind. Yet she stood untouched at the center, her eyes glowing bright as stars, her smile serene.

Within moments, the camp fell silent. The only sound was the whisper of snow settling.

The storm abated as suddenly as it had begun. The gale died. The fog thinned.

Silence claimed the night.

The outpost was transformed into a crystalline tomb. Every tent, every barrel, every man was sheathed in glassy ice. Figures stood frozen mid-motion—mouths open in screams, arms raised to shield, feet half-lifted in flight.

It was haunting. And beautiful.

Luna lowered her hands, exhaling softly. Frost curled from her lips, vanishing in the cold air.

She stepped forward. Her boots crunched on snow as she walked through the frozen graveyard she had created.

The mage was still there, frozen kneeling, his face tilted upward in hopeless defiance. She brushed past him without a glance, her attention on the outpost proper.

“Let’s see what you rats have been hoarding.”

She kicked open the nearest tent. Inside, crates glittered with frost. She pried one open, smiling at the gleam of gold coins. Another held jewels, dull beneath the ice.

Her grin widened. “Now this is useful.”

She worked methodically, cracking ice with flicks of her fingers, dragging loot into a neat pile. Coins, gems, jewels—whatever would sell, she took.

“Not bad for a warm-up.”

Then she spotted it.

Near the smoking pit, racks of meat hung frozen stiff. Sausages snapped like glass. A slab of pork gleamed under a thick sheet of ice, frost crusting its edges.

Luna stopped.

Her grin faltered.

“…Oh.”

She walked closer, pressed a finger to the meat, tapped it lightly. It rang like stone.

“…Crap.”

Her palm smacked her forehead. “Of course. I freeze everything.”

She groaned, slumping against a barrel. “I was so busy being dramatic I didn’t even think about the food. Ugh, Luna, you idiot.”

Her stomach growled, mocking her.

She glared at the frozen meat, pouting like a child denied candy. “Gold, I can use. Jewelry, sure. But food? Nooo, let’s just turn dinner into an ice sculpture. Brilliant.”

She crossed her arms, sulking.

After a long moment of grumbling, she pushed herself upright and gathered the loot anyway. Gold was gold. Even frozen, it glittered beautifully.

She stuffed what she could into a sack, slinging it over her shoulder with ease. The weight barely registered against her high stats.

As she stepped back through the frozen camp, she glanced once more at the still bandits, at their final poses immortalized in ice.

A small, wry smile tugged her lips.

“Quick. Clean. Like I promised.”

Yet beneath her smugness, a restlessness stirred. It had been too easy. The mage crumbled in moments. The bandits froze before they even understood what was happening.

Her eyes narrowed faintly.

“If this world wants to challenge me…” She smirked, sharp and eager. “It’ll have to try harder.”

With that, she turned from the outpost, sack of gold coins on her shoulder, frost crackling under her boots.

The night swallowed her, leaving behind only silence and ice.