Lady Saint…could it be? The one from Arcadius?
Hearing the attendant's plea, the bandit laughed.
"Who needs some 'Lady Saint'?! Who needs God's miracles?! Just so y'know…we don't need the likes of saints. It'd be even better if they were gone! That's why I'm gonna kill her. I'm really gonna kill her…! For real—"
Suddenly, the campfire went out. No—someone put it out.
It seemed to still only be the five bandits and two women. Besides Zero and myself, I couldn't sense anyone else. But there was someone else here, somewhere.
"What?! Why'd the fire go out?! Who—"
The bearded bandit using the saint as a shield let out a scared yell. In the next instant, he buckled at the knees and fell to the ground.
I had good night vision—but I saw nothing.
It was probably because the sudden extinguishing of the blazing red campfire meant my vision was still adjusting to the darkness. Maybe that's what they were going for.
But, someone—
"W…atch out!"
Something flashed past my eyes with blinding speed, and I threw my head back.
The tip of one of my whiskers had been sliced off into the wind—it was a blade.
We were under attack.
From where? By who? The hell—when'd they get so close?
Silently, leaves fluttered down.
—Above.
There was something there.
I felt the nape of my neck tingle in fear, and I grabbed Zero and jumped from the branch. A moment later, the branch we had been on was felled with a single slash, and it fell to the ground.
Dodging the falling branch, I threw Zero behind a tree and drew my sword.
"Hide! This one's on a completely different level!" I yelled at Zero.
"—You have good perception," a soft voice spoke in my ear.
Even before I registered that it was a man's voice, I heard the sound of something slashing through the air. Relying on the sound, I swung my sword, and I felt the clash of metal against metal.
In that moment, I had a sense of incongruity. When I swung, I felt a strange pull—but before I realized why I felt it, my attacker had clicked his tongue and leapt far backward.
Then, he landed near-silently between me and the saint.
The man was carrying—a giant sickle.
It was like a joke weapon. No, was it even appropriate to call it a weapon?
Sickles were farming tools, not weapons. The sickle in the man's hand, which looked like it could harvest a lot of wheat, would only be suited as a weapon for farmers who were tired of their ruler's tyranny.
But the man between the saint and me was clearly not a farmer.
His simple top and bottom, along with his leather boots, seemed to suggest that he was. But the belt-shaped piece of cloth that replaced his mantle and belt indicated that he was of a special occupation.
—It was the attire of a priest.