CHAPTER 72: EXPERIENCE IS GOOD. KILL THEM.

They left the inn, their cloaks drawn tight against the wind, their footsteps crunching in the snow. The pale light of day still didn’t warm anything; even the air seemed wary. They headed toward the stable, where they’d left the horses. It was a short walk—long enough for Damon to inspect the spear, slide his fingers around the shaft, feel the familiar weight in his hand again—and long enough for Esther to compose herself, her expression unwavering from the morning’s humiliations.

When they reached the stall, the scene stopped them in their tracks.

Around the animals was a lively circle of bodies—men in hoods, faces covered, eyes shining like wet stones. There were eight of them, maybe ten; their numbers changed as the snow and smoke wavered. They had knives strapped to their boots, daggers, and two of them wielded shortbows. A third held a hand crossbow. The tip of a spear caught the light.

The horses’ manes bristled. Damon’s black snorted, growling low. Ester’s chestnut neighed uneasily.

Ester descended from the saddle slowly, imposingly; her hand went to the hilt of her dagger, but didn’t draw it. Her blue eyes scanned each figure.

"Get out." The order was short, as if it had only five letters. Not a request, but a sentence.

The men turned, and their weapons appeared in a quick, dirty choreography. One of them, the one who appeared to be the leader, laughed humorlessly.

"Well, well," he said hoarsely. "What have we here? Two travelers with fat horses..."

Damon felt the bite in the air—danger like a near horizon. He looked at Ester. They both sighed simultaneously, as if they had been keeping time with each other since the beginning. It was a sigh of combat, not of exhaustion.

"I’ll take care of them, or do you want to take care of them faster?" Damon asked, his voice low, the tip of his spear already glistening with a moisture that didn’t come from the cold.

Ester studied him, her eyes hard. "Experience is good. Kill them."

There was no mockery in her voice. It was direct. It was calculation. Damon gave a smile so brief it was almost a cut.

He mastered the saddle in one movement, then leaped to the ground. The black horse’s hooves scraped the ground; the animal backed away, restless—someone to watch out for. Damon walked between the two animals, touched his own horse’s neck, a warning wave to the beast not to move—and the animal understood, went still.

Then he advanced.

The first attack was irrational on the part of the bandits; a man stepped out from behind a support and ran with a knife. Damon didn’t run—he moved with the economy of predators. The spear spun in his hand like an extension of his own arm; One step, a beam of metal, and the knife didn’t even reach half a meter. The spear grazed the man’s chest, opening a hot hole, and he thrashed, falling backward without a dignified sound. The snow rose in a crimson halo.

The others hesitated. That was enough.

Damon didn’t hesitate.

The things he did weren’t pretty; they were precise, cold as steel that knows no chill. He used the spear as a trench and a razor—he pushed, pulled, twisted. A bandit tried to circle him from the left with a club; the spearhead met his collarbone, the wood cracked, the man clutched his mouth, trying to scream, and then fell like a puppet with cut strings. Another came with a knife from below; Damon took a step back and jabbed, point-first into his neck, a red stream over the false collar of his cloak. The movement was almost effortless—an animal that had already known fury.

The crossbow fired. The bolt whizzed, a metallic bark in the air. Damon turned, his weapon a shield, and felt the vibration of the projectile on the blade, which scraped the metal and deflected. The tip slammed into the trunk of a tree behind them, a whip of barbs. The archer gritted his teeth, let out a scream, and Damon advanced again.

It wasn’t just brute force. There was reading—where the opponent’s weight gave, where the arm mistimed, where the fangs opened. He struck at the points that broke resistance: joints, exposed veins, the fragile human resistance. Each blow was intended to silence forever—not just wound, but annihilate. The bandits learned this within minutes.

One tried to flee. The spear pierced his calf while he was still running, and he fell whimpering like a child. The sound was short; life drained away, exposing the red that stained the snow.

There was something almost primal in Damon’s actions, an adaptation that brooked no error. But beneath the savagery lay method: the aura he exuded was a blade, and the surroundings trembled as if responding. The energy surrounding him—that golden light that occasionally burst—was no whimsical spectacle. It was a wave of concentrated hunger converted into movement.

One of the men, more robust, tried to attack him with a short, two-handed blade. He struck Damon in the shoulder, a misaligned blow that tore tissue and skin, but not deep. Pain erupted—but Damon only smiled. The wound radiated heat, bright red. He twisted with the spear, a twist, and the tip entered the man’s abdomen with a hollow sound, the flesh giving way. The man fell to his knees, staring down as if in disbelief. Damon yanked the weapon back; his body collapsed forward, burying his face in the snow.

The blood was a dark tapestry staining the perfect white of the ground. There was a macabre beauty in the violence, a choreography Damon mastered better than any conversation. He didn’t scream, didn’t celebrate; he simply did what he had to and remained focused. Breathing around him quickened; the others already knew there would be no mercy.

One of the men with the bow tried to keep his distance. Damon walked toward him with short, quick steps, like someone walking between lit lanterns. He hid behind some trunks, jumped under the cover of an oak tree, and suddenly distance became irrelevant: Damon threw the spear instinctively—a quick, sharp movement—and the shaft pierced the archer’s throat, who didn’t even have time to reach for his neck.

Two down. Three. The number dwindled; those remaining began to retreat, choosing to flee where there was little safe ground.

That was when the sharp realization hit Damon: the anger, the despair, the hatred—none of it drove him more than a nagging appetite. He quickly realized he couldn’t lose himself in that thirst. Not medicinal, not precious: it was the hunger for dominance that made him a machine.

A younger man, with desperate eyes, gripped a kitchen knife in his trembling hand and lunged. Damon dodged just enough; the blade grazed the side of the thrust’s neck, and he struck back—a short, precise blow to the ribs, enough to shatter and knock him down. The boy fell, crying out, gasping from the rattling of bones. It was quick, and brutal. Damon didn’t look back.

There were finally two of them. The leader, the one who had laughed at first, had retreated behind his shadow. He tried one last theatrical gesture—brandished the weapon, spat on the ground—but his voice trembled.

"Stop!" he bellowed. "Stop! We have gold! Take it!" He lifted a bag of coins with a shiver.

Damon heard the sound of the coins, the muffled clink that always managed to soothe the weak of spirit. He paused for a second. The bloody mud formed patterns on his shoes. The cold bit his fingers—but there was that heat in the center, always there, ready to devour. He looked at the bag, looked at the men already dead and the ones crawling. There was a foolish choice for the weak: life for coins.

Esther, standing at the edge of the scene, watched. Nothing but a cold, sharp point. She didn’t smile. There was no need. There were lessons to be learned.

Damon walked slowly toward the leader. The man backed away so quickly he stumbled. He still tried to persuade, to offer, to plead. Damon didn’t listen.

The spear pierced the space between them like an unfettered thought. There was no prolonged scream—only the dull thud of impact and the fall of the body, the bag of coins slipping from his grip and spilling silver onto the snow. The coins rolled, reflecting the pale sky and the man’s empty eyes.

Silence fell. The wind blew again, sweeping away the fresh marks. Blood dripped, sludgy, forming small rivulets that mingled with the dirty snow. The smell was strong: of death and metal.

Damon stood still. His breathing was rapid but controlled. There was no ecstasy now, only a self-congratulation: he had done what he had to. The world regained its texture, as if the fabric had been sewn back together.

Ester approached, her cold steps leaving no mark. She looked at Damon with calculated coldness. He spat a little blood on his clothes; the blade, still covered, reflected the light.

"Fast enough," she murmured simply.

Damon smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Fast. Precise."

She looked around. Two bodies still moved in short jerks. She reached out and, with the delicacy of someone handling a fragile artifact, let out a cold breath. The snow around the men stopped flowing, the few spatters of blood freezing instantly, as if the scene had been sealed. The tremors ceased in a stillness very much like death.

"Bury them off the road," Ester said. "I don’t want to see any more merchants tripping over corpses when they pass by."

Damon wiped the blade on a damp rag, his eyes sweeping over the bag of coins that now lay discarded. He didn’t touch the coins. He picked up three coins and placed them next to the first body—an almost ritualistic gesture, perhaps a payment for something human fists couldn’t understand.

"Let’s go," he said, his voice low. "We don’t have time to waste."

They mounted. The horses, restless, were soothed with deep, professional touches. As they departed, the trail they left was silent except for the creaking of their hooves. No one followed; no one challenged them.

As they walked away, Damon took one last look at the village beyond, at the snow with patches that the sun wouldn’t immediately erase.

Ester pressed her heels into her knees and gave an almost imperceptible nod. "Survival," she murmured, not to him, but to herself.

Damon responded with a punch on the shaft of his spear, his breath forming brief clouds. "Yes. Survival. And learning."