Right. So Chad was a one-skeleton, pre-workout-fuelled, human-benching typhoon of DOMS-inducing destruction. Got it.
My spine wishes he wasn't tho. It was sending me little thank-you notes for surviving its brief career as exercise equipment.
Keldric tried to look like he wasn't subtly checking if all his vertebrae were still in alignment. While the remaining bandits looked like their collective brain had just fried.
Then, a fresh yelp of misplaced confidence. One bandit, clearly operating on a single, very confused brain cell, spotted Specs.
The resident academic skeleton still had his skull buried in lecture notes. Occasionally polishing his glasses. As if buffing away the ignorance of the universe one smudge at a time.
"This one! The little bookworm's gonna pay!" the bandit roared. Axe brandished.
He loomed.
Specs, in contrast, barely loomed over a medium-sized mushroom.
Oh, this is going to be gold. If Chad was the 'Path of the Swole Barbarian,' Specs is clearly 'Path of the Deadly Know-It-All.' This poor idiot is about to get a PhD in Pain. And probably a sternly worded critique of his life choices.
Specs, mid-mutter about the declining structural integrity of villainous lairs ("Honestly, the lack of proper load-bearing spellwork these days is simply appalling..."), adjusted his glasses. A minute, almost imperceptible twitch of one knuckle.
"Alright, four-eyes," the bandit sneered. Axe blade glinting. Predatory glint in his eye.
"Let's see what you've GOT! And try not to bore me to death with whatever you're mumbling about before I split you like firewood and use your bow tie for kindling!"
He bounced.
Once.
Twice.
A third time. Just to be sure everyone saw his incredible display of... bouncing?
Wow. Such agility. Much threat!
Specs looked up. His eye sockets held the same detached curiosity one might reserve for a mould sample of mild academic interest. Perhaps a flicker of pity for the bandit's clearly terrible life choices and even worse footwork.
He pushed his glasses up his 'nose'. Adopted a fighting stance so hilariously awful it looped back around to being some kind of weird performance art.
Tiny fists trembled like newborn sparrows.
Left foot, right foot. A shuffle that suggested his legs were only just introduced and still figuring things out.
Is he... trying to be funny? Is this some kind of ultra-advanced, 5D chess battle stance I'm too normie to understand? Or did he just forget how limbs work?
"A physical altercation...?" Specs mused.
"Fascinating. A primitive methodology, yet statistically prevalent in narratives of this genre. Your opening posture, however, exhibits approximately seventeen critical flaws, inviting, among other things, a swift counter-attack to the gluteus minimus. A surprisingly effective, if undignified, neutralisation point."
The bandit's grin stretched. Confidence inflated like a poorly tied balloon animal. He'd clearly mistaken "gluteus minimus" for a compliment. Or possibly a high-value item.
Buddy, you're about to get your academic butt handed to you. Literally. I CAN'T WAIT!
With a guttural roar, the bandit swung his axe. A massive, telegraphed arc of pure 'me hit hard'. Whistling through the air. Aimed directly at Specs's skull.
A blow that would have split the small skeleton in two. Sent bone chips flying. Probably messed up his perfectly knotted bow tie.
The horror.
Then. Specs. Twitched.
Barely.
It wasn't even a dodge. More like he subtly rearranged his personal atoms.
One skeletal shoulder dropped precisely 0.3 centimetres.
His head tilted at an angle so minute it could only be measured with some kind of magically precise, probably terrifyingly pointy, protractor.
The axe WHISTLED past. The wind of its passage created a perfect, momentary part in his hair.
It slammed into the earth with a THWOMP. Creating a divot in the ground.
Whoa! Matrix dodge! Except, you know, by a three-foot skeleton in tweed.
The nerdy, "Help, I've dropped my glasses" posture?
Gone.
Vanished.
Replaced by… well, he was still a three-foot skeleton in tweed. But now he radiated the quiet, lethal focus of a seasoned duellist
A switch flipped.
The mild-mannered academic was out.
The Arch-Chancellor of Ass-Kickings was IN.
The bandit, momentum carrying him into a clumsy pirouette that would have earned a '2' from even the most generous goblin judge, GRUNTED. Eyes wide. "Huh? What the?"
Axe came up again. Wrenched free from the soil with a heaving grunt.
This time, a desperate, enraged flurry.
Side slash! Aimed to separate Specs from his tiny, scholarly ankles.
One problem.
Specs wasn't there.
He'd pivoted on one heel. A move so efficient it probably generated surplus energy he could store for later. Perhaps to power a strongly worded letter to the editor regarding the misuse of adverbs in villainous monologues.
Overhead chop! Designed to turn bone into bonemeal.
Specs took one. Single. Precise. Sidestep. Barely disturbing a dust mote.
The axe cleaved only the unfortunate air.
Each blow, heavy enough to fell an oak, met absolutely nothing.
Zero.
Zilch.
Nada.
Specs, meanwhile, appeared to be observing a particularly flawed student's practical exam. He even made a small 'tsk tsk' sound. Possibly accompanied by a mental note to design a new class: 'Basic Axe-Swinging for Dummies'.
His movements were MINIMAL.
ELEGANT.
PRECISE.
Each dodge a tiny masterpiece of efficiency. A beautiful insult to the bandit's entire existence.
He's not even trying! He's analysing this guy's terrible form while avoiding death by axe! This is INSANE!!
Specs then performed what could only be described as a skeletal micro-yawn. A tiny click of the jaw, quickly disguised as a thoughtful cough.
Definitely a yawn! He's bored! This bandit is so bad he's become tedious! The disrespect is S-Rank. A legendary troll move.
The bandit's swings became wilder.
Each miss echoed like a tiny nail in the coffin of his self-esteem. He was panting. Sweating. Probably questioning the career path that led him to being outmanoeuvred by a tiny academic skeleton.
The final, bellowing, chop.
It SLAMMED into the dirt with a bone-jarring KER-THUNCK!
Right where Specs's skull had been a nanosecond prior.
Force of the impact sent vibrations up the bandit's arms. Teeth rattled. Probably dislodged his last remaining brain cell.
"No. No. No." Specs tutted. His voice was like a disappointed teacher. He stood beside the deeply embedded axe. The top of his skull not even clearing the bandit's belt.
An eyebrow ridge (how did he even have those? Were they an optional extra? Summoned just for dramatic effect?).
A tiny red pen materialised between his bony fingers. He scribbled on an equally tiny, spectral clipboard.
"A terminal deficiency in both elegance and execution."
A CLIPBOARD! AND A PEN! IT'S AN ACTUAL PERFORMANCE REVIEW! This bandit isn't just being defeated; he's being graded on his failure! Is there a rubric?!
"Your stance," Specs announced, voice echoing slightly, as if lecturing in a vast, empty hall of shame, "was, to use the technical term, 'a hot mess.' It generated torque comparable to a damp teabag, approximately forty-seven percent less than the theoretical minimum for a bipedal hominid of your approximate mass attempting to wield a Class II Bladed Implement. Your energy expenditure was… frankly, wasteful. And the follow-through? An F-minus. I'd give you a G, but that would imply a level of flamboyant failure you simply didn't achieve."
He looked down. At the tiny, unscathed bringer of his doom. Specs's expression was one of profound, soul-crushing disappointment. The kind that said, 'You have not only failed this exam, you have failed existence itself. And there will be no makeup test. Ever.'
"WILL YOU JUST SHUT YOUR BONY TRAP ALREADY!!"
The bandit looked back at his axe. Now a feature of the local geology.
He tugged. Grunted.
"WHY! WON'T! THIS! DAMN! THING! BUDGE!" The bandit exclaimed in pain, straining with each word.
Face achieved a lovely shade of red, forgetting he had to breathe.
Specs stepped forward. Reached up.
Gently, almost tenderly, he took the bandit's arm.
His grip, however, was like a tiny, vice made of pure, condescending knowledge.
He adjusted the bandit's fingers on the axe handle with minute, almost invisible nudges. Shifted the bandit's feet. One skeletal toe tapped the bandit's ankle. Causing his entire leg to realign with an audible pop and a surprised yelp from its owner.
"Allow me to provide a practical demonstration of optimal biomechanical force projection."
Oh, sweet mercy. He's not just lecturing. He's giving a hands-on tutorial. With live demonstrations of catastrophic failure. This is next-level psychological warfare disguised as a physics lesson. And I think the bandit is about to be the star pupil in 'How to Accidentally Disassemble Yourself 101'.
"Observe." Specs's voice was calm. Instructive. Almost soothing. If you ignored the fact he was about to teach someone how to properly swing to kill, using advanced body mechanics and possibly a flowchart.
"Shoulders aligned. Hips engaged. Weight distributed thusly. See section four, paragraph two of 'Ergonomics for the Aspiring Ruffian', a seminal text you've clearly neglected."
"Now, the swing originates from the core, not the arms. Feel the flow of power. A transfer of kinetic energy from the ground up. Like so."
He guided the bandit. Tiny hands, surprisingly strong. Orchestrated the bandit's limbs like a puppet master pulling the strings of a puppet.
The result?
A perfect, powerful, almost elegant swing. With the bandit's OWN axe.
Which, thanks to Specs's subtle re-engineering of the bandit's entire body via a few light pokes, dislodged from the earth as if it were merely napping.
The axe then connected.
With sickening, beautiful, slow-motion precision. An arc of tragic inevitability.
Straight into the bandit's OWN Skull.
A dull, resonant, deeply satisfying THWONK-BONK!
Eyes didn't just roll back. They performed a full Olympic gymnastics floor routine, complete with a perfect landing, before disappearing into his skull.
The bandit crumpled. A deflated sack of bad decisions and newly acquired, very specific, kinetic knowledge.
Specs nodded. A tiny, crisp nod of academic approval. Adjusted his bow tie. Which somehow looked even more impeccably knotted, as if starched with pure intellectual superiority.
"A significant improvement. From F-minus to a solid D. Perhaps even a D+ for the audible resonance of the cranium-implement interface."
He manifested a small notepad. Jotted.
"Further study in 'Head Trauma for Beginners: A Practical Approach' is recommended. Note to self: Develop a remedial workshop on 'The Physics of Not Hitting Yourself'. Current bandit cohort displays a... lamentable aptitude."
Did he just... TEACH that guy how to properly swing an axe into his own face?! AND THEN GRADE HIM?!?! WITH NOTES FOR IMPROVEMENT AND SUGGESTED READING?!?!
Keldric felt a headache forming. A throbbing behind his eyes. Had nothing to do with being bench-pressed. Mostly.
This isn't a gang. It's a mobile performance art troupe. With a side of extreme, overly-educated, and frankly terrifying violence. A very SHORT, EXTREMELY VIOLENT, art troupe. That apparently offers continuing education credits. And has a very strict, very painful curriculum... I wonder if they have brochures.