"Fire!" one of the archers shouted, loosing his bow before anyone else could hesitate.
The first volley cut through the air in a sharp, whistling wave. At the same time, the swordsmen surged forward, boots pounding against the dirt as they closed the distance from all sides.
Kenta didn't wait. His hands moved the instant the arrows entered his range.
Smack.
The first shaft was knocked aside with the flat of his palm, sent spinning uselessly into the ground. Another followed from his blind side. His arm shifted without looking, brushing it away with a flick of his wrist. A third came straight for his chest. He stepped forward into it, striking it clean out of the air.
Each movement was small and perfectly timed. Wood cracked. Shafts split. Arrowheads ricocheted harmlessly away.
By the time the swordsmen were within striking distance, not a single arrow had touched him. Kenta stepped in to meet them.
The first man swung wildly, a downward slash meant to split him clean in two. Kenta slipped to the side, the blade grazing past his shoulder as his palm drove forward into the man's chest.
The impact landed with a dull, heavy thud.
The man's body jerked, breath leaving him in a violent burst as he was launched backward, crashing into another before both hit the ground in a tangled heap.
Kenta didn't stop moving.
Another attacker came from the right. A quick thrust aimed for his ribs. Kenta pivoted just enough for the blade to miss, his hand snapping out to strike the man's arm. A sharp crack followed as the limb bent wrong, the sword clattering free before a second palm strike sent him skidding across the dirt.
A third rushed in, shouting as he swung horizontally. Kenta ducked under it, stepping inside the man's guard, his palm driving upward into the jaw.
The man lifted off his feet. He hit the ground hard and didn't get back up as more attackers closed in on Kenta.
Steel flashed from every direction as they tried to overwhelm him through sheer numbers. Kenta weaved through it all, his movements loose and casual, yet always just enough. Blades passed inches from him, cutting nothing but air as his hands struck again and again.
Palm. Wrist. Elbow. Each hit is precise. Each one is enough. Bodies dropped. Some were thrown back. Others crumpled where they stood.
For a moment, it looked like they might surround him.
Four, then six, then more pressing in from all sides, tightening the circle. Swords raised, timing their strikes together.
Kenta exhaled before moving. His foot pressed into the ground, and in the next instant, he was airborne. He twisted mid-leap, body turning sharply as his leg whipped out in a wide arc.
The kick landed. The impact was explosive.
The first man's face crumpled under the strike, his body spinning violently as he was sent flying. The motion carried through into the next, then the next, Kenta's spinning momentum tearing through the group in a brutal sweep.
Bones cracked. Noses shattered. Teeth scattered across the dirt. By the time he landed, several of them were already collapsing, their bodies hitting the ground in staggered succession.
Kenta straightened as if nothing had happened.
Then another volley. Arrows screamed toward him again, this time from multiple angles, tighter, more desperate.
But now the distance had closed. The remaining swordsmen were almost on top of him.
Kenta's eyes flicked once, tracking everything at once.
Then his hands moved. He didn't just deflect this time. The first arrow came straight for his shoulder. He caught it. Not the shaft. The arrowhead.
His fingers closed around it mid-flight, stopping it dead for the briefest instant before his arm snapped forward.
The arrow reversed direction.
It punched straight through the throat of the man rushing him from the front.
Another arrow came. He slapped it sideways, redirecting its path just enough that it buried itself into the chest of a second attacker mid-stride.
Again and again this process repeated. Each arrowhead met with a precise motion. Redirected. Turned. Sent back.
Men dropped one after another, confusion flashing across their faces before impact. Some didn't even understand what had happened before they hit the ground.
The square became a storm of motion and impact. Arrows flew. Bodies fell.
Kenta moved through it all like it was nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
A man lunged from behind. Kenta stepped aside, guiding an incoming arrow past his shoulder and straight into the attacker's back. Another tried to flank him. Kenta caught an arrow out of the air and drove it forward, embedding it into the man's chest with a sharp thrust of his hand.
The sounds overlapped.
Cracks. Thuds. Wet impacts.
Then, slowly it stopped. The last body hit the ground with a heavy thud, rolling once before going still as silence followed.
Kenta stood in the middle of it, hands lowering slightly as he let out a quiet breath. Around him, nearly two dozen men lay scattered across the dirt.
Not one of them moving. A faint rustle broke the stillness.
"Back up," Drago barked sharply.
The remaining men didn't hesitate this time. They pulled away immediately, retreating several steps, their earlier confidence completely gone. Fear had taken its place, raw and undeniable.
Drago stepped forward slowly. His blade was hanging in hand, held low at his side as he approached. His expression had changed again. There was no amusement or excitement left now.
"These amateurs," he said plainly, glancing briefly at the bodies littering the ground, "aren't ever going to be enough for someone like you."
His gaze lifted, locking onto Kenta with sharp focus.
"I'll give you that much."
He rolled his shoulder once, adjusting his grip.
"You might be the most talented wanderer I've come across."
A brief pause. Then his eyes hardened.
"But this is where it ends for you."
Kenta looked at him for a moment. Then he sighed.
"If you try to fight me," he said calmly, "you'll lose and you'll die."
Drago stared at him. Then he laughed. Not loudly. Not wildly. Just a short, rough sound.
"I'll admit," he said, stepping forward another pace, "this won't be easy."
His grip tightened around his sword.
"But you're a little too confident in yourself."
Kenta scratched lightly at his cheek, looking almost bored.
"It's your funeral," he replied. "I'm just trying to look out for you."
He shifted his stance slightly, shoulders loosening again.
"That's just the kind of guy I am."
Then he paused. A thought crossed his mind. Kenta glanced past Drago, toward the remaining archers still positioned at the edge of the square.
"Actually," he said, almost to himself. "Just so we're safe."
His gaze sharpened just a fraction.
"I wouldn't expect anything honorable from a member of the Hades Alliance."
Before anyone could react, he moved with lightning speed. Kenta vanished from where he stood. One moment he was there. The next, he was already among the archers.
The first didn't even get a shot off. Kenta's hand drove forward, an arrow ripped from the man's grasp, and slammed into his chest with brutal force. He turned instantly, catching another by the collar and driving him headfirst into the ground. A sickening crack followed.
A third tried to run. Kenta was faster. His hand caught the back of the man's neck, twisting sharply. He dropped him and moved again. Another arrow was seized mid-draw and jammed straight into its owner. One man was lifted and thrown into another, both collapsing in a heap. A final archer raised his bow with shaking hands, but Kenta's palm struck his face before he could release.
The man crumpled instantly. Kenta exhaled once more, rolling his shoulders lightly as he turned back. Then he walked back unhurried. Right back to where he'd been standing before. He stopped, facing Drago once more, as if nothing had happened at all.
"Alright," Kenta said.
He settled his stance slightly, eyes steady.
"Now let's do this."
Drago's face twisted with anger, all restraint finally gone.
"You're dead," he said flatly before rushing forward with a furious expression.