Chapter 228: The Ambush in the Sand

The attackers closed in, their long swords glinting in the harsh sunlight. Nine of them, moving with a kind of coordination that came from experience.

They spread out in a loose semicircle, cutting off any easy escape routes. Their eyes were fixed on the animals, on the wagons, on the promise of wealth that the caravan represented.

Darion watched them. He could almost feel his undeads in his inventory, waiting to be summoned. He could end this fight in seconds. A thought, a command, and the Yuimons would tear these men apart.

But he hesitated.

Not because he was afraid. Not because he didn’t want to fight either. He hesitated because he was thinking ahead. He was thinking about the wagon men, about the stories they would tell when they returned to their homes.

They traveled across kingdoms, carrying goods and animals for so many different lords. They talked.

If they saw him summon undeads, if they saw the green light and the walking dead, the news would spread. Within weeks, every merchant in the region would know that the Baron of Percvale was a Necromancer.

And that knowledge would spread beyond the merchants. It would reach kingdoms, baronies, tribes. It would reach people who would not understand, who would only see a Necromancer and assume the worst. It would make Percvale a target, a place to be feared or, worse, a place to be destroyed.

So Darion made a choice.

He raised his hands slowly, palms open, a gesture of surrender.

"Hey," he said, his voice carrying across the sand. "You can take the animals. Just spare our lives."

The attackers paused, exchanging glances. They had expected a fight. They had been ready for a fight. This was not what they had anticipated.

One of them stepped forward, a scarred man with a missing ear and cold eyes. He pointed his sword at Garren, who had been reaching for his own weapon.

"You! Stop!" he barked. "Everyone, lay face flat on the ground. Now!"

Darion was the first to obey. He lowered himself to the ground, his hands still raised, his face pressing against the warm sand. He felt the grit against his cheek, the heat radiating from the earth. He kept his breathing slow and controlled.

Seren hesitated. Her eyes met Darion’s for a brief moment, and he could see the confusion in them.

The disbelief!

She had seen him fight. She had seen him revive and summon undeads. She knew what he was capable of. And now he was surrendering?

Garren was equally shocked. He had been ready to fight, his hand already gripping his sword. But he saw the look in Darion’s eyes, a look that said trust me. He lowered himself to the ground.

The three knight escorts followed suit, their faces pale with shock. They had held Darion in high regard. They had seen him lead them through battles, had seen him command armies of undeads. This was not the Baron they knew.

The wagon men were the only ones who seemed to think Darion had made the right decision.

They had been in dangerous situations before, had seen what happened when travelers fought back against overwhelming odds.

They knew that sometimes the smartest choice was to let the goods go and live to see another day. They lay flat on the ground without hesitation.

But Darion only grinned inwardly. He had a plan. He just needed everyone to be on the ground, out of the way, so that the wagon men wouldn’t clearly see what was about to happen.

He didn’t want them to so obviously know that he was a Necromancer. If they saw the undeads, if they saw the green light and the walking dead, the news would spread.

Their job took them across so many kingdoms, carrying animals and heavy goods. They would talk. They would discuss the strange things they had seen. And before long, everyone would know.

So he waited.

The attackers moved among the wagons, their swords still drawn, their eyes scanning the caravan for anything of value.

One of them approached the cows, his hand reaching for the rope. Another headed toward the goats. A third began to untie the chickens’ cages.

They attempted to steal the animals. They thought they had won. They thought they were stealing this all!

But with everyone on the ground, with no one watching the attackers, Darion summoned nine undead Yuimons from his inventory.

The creatures materialized behind the attackers, their massive bodies appearing from thin air.

Their green eyes glowed in the dim light, their circular mouths open, their teeth glistening. They moved with silent purpose (very silent) their huge bodies casting long shadows across the sand.

Through his Distant Command ability, Darion gave them a single order: chop their heads off, throw them very far away from here, and leave their headless bodies to the ground.

He wanted a soundless death. No screaming, no warning either. Only silence.

The Yuimons moved. One of them lunged at the nearest attacker, its massive jaws closing around his head.

There was a sickening crunch, and then the head was gone, severed cleanly from the shoulders. The Yuimon flicked its head, sending the severed head flying across the sand. It landed with a dull thud, rolling to a stop near a rock.

Another Yuimon struck at a second attacker, its massive claws tearing through his neck. The head flew upward, spinning in the air before landing several meters away. The body collapsed, blood pooling in the sand.

The remaining attackers turned, their eyes wide with shock and terror.

They saw the Yuimons, saw the green eyes, saw the bodies of their comrades falling around them. They tried to run, but it was too late. The Yuimons were faster. One by one, they fell, their heads severed, their bodies crumpling to the ground.

In less than twenty seconds, it was over. Nine headless bodies lay scattered across the sand. Nine heads had been thrown far away. There was no sound.

Darion felt the Yuimons return to his inventory through the binding. He stood up slowly, brushing the sand from his clothes.

"Let’s catch the runaway goats and cows and Moatts," he said calmly.

The animals had scattered in the chaos, their instincts driving them to flee from the violence.

The cows were running toward a distant hill, their heavy bodies moving with surprising speed. The goats darted in every direction, their nervous energy making them impossible to predict.

The Moatts were moving slowly, their massive bodies swaying, but they were still heading away from the caravan.

The wagon men refused to stand up. They lay flat on the ground, their faces pressed against the sand, their eyes closed.

They were terrified. They had seen the heads fly. They had seen the bodies fall. They didn’t know what had happened, but they knew they didn’t want to be part of it.

Finally, one of them looked up. He saw the headless bodies scattered across the sand. He jumped to his feet, his eyes wide with shock. "What the...?!"

The others followed, their faces pale. They looked at the bodies, then at Darion, then back at the bodies. They didn’t understand what had happened. They had been on the ground. They had seen nothing. And now, nine men were dead.

Seren, Garren, and the three knight escorts stood up now. They looked at the headless bodies, then back at Darion. And then they laughed.

Seren laughed first, the sound bursting out of her like a release of tension. Garren followed, his deep chuckle carrying across the sand. The knights joined in, their laughter a mix of relief and disbelief. Even Garren was laughing.

They had panicked before, thinking what the fuck had happened with Darion, why wasn’t he summoning his undeads.

The moment he raised his hands in surrender, the moment he told them to lay flat on the ground, a cold dread had settled in their chests.

They had seen him fight before. They had seen him command armies of undeads, had watched him burn villages and capture kings. Surrender was not something they had ever expected from him.

Seren had felt her heart sink. She had trusted him, believed in him, followed him through the forest and into battle. And now he was giving up? Just like that? It didn’t make sense. It felt so wrong and stunning.

Garren had been equally shocked. He had been ready to fight, his hand already gripping his sword. Ready to watch Darion undeads do the work.

He had seen Darion face down worse odds and come out on top. Surrender was not the Baron he knew. For a brief moment, he had wondered if Darion had lost his nerve or gone.. insane!

The knight escorts had been confused and disappointed too.

But seeing him do it in a silent and tactical way, the way he had waited, the way he had timed it perfectly, the way he had used the distraction to summon his undeads without anyone noticing, it made them laugh.

The relief mixed with the surprise, the tension bursting out of them like a release valve. They had been scared, confused, and worried.

And then, in an instant, it was over. Nine headless bodies lay in the sand, and Darion was standing there, calm as ever, brushing the dust from his clothes.

It was absurd. It was brilliant. And it was so utterly Darion that they couldn’t help but laugh.

Darion smiled. "We need to catch the animals."