Michael felt nothing but happiness at that moment.
After arriving at their destination, he had expected it would take considerable effort to catch the bandits. There was also the chance that he'd find nothing—that they had already relocated.
But to think they'd come to him themselves.
As for whether this was an entirely different bandit group, the thought did cross Michael's mind, but if that were the case, it only meant this kingdom was more rotten than he had assumed.
Still fully aware of the situation, Michael immediately sent a mental command to his four undead.
First, they were to protect the driver, Ace, and Lia.
Second, they should try to leave a few bandits alive—if they could afford to hold back.
The bandits had attacked with clear intent to kill, so Michael wasn't exactly against returning the favor. But then, a thought came to mind.
The receptionist had hinted at extra rewards for dealing with the bandits—something Michael took as permission to loot them. If he wiped out the entire group now, and this truly was all of them, wouldn't that mean he'd have to search for their treasures himself?
It was better to leave a few alive—for both loot and evidence.
However, before his four armored undead—whose identities remained concealed—could move, one of the bandits spoke.
"Drop your valuables if you want to live," the bandit sneered, his voice rough and confident. He raised his bow slightly, the string still vibrating from the warning shot. "Resist, and the second arrow won't miss."
The other bandits chuckled, some gripping their weapons tighter, others shifting impatiently. They had done this countless times before.
For them, this was a routine.
Most travelers resisted at first—either out of pride, desperation, or sheer stupidity. But when faced with overwhelming odds, most broke. The stronger ones held out longer, putting up a fight or trying to negotiate, but in the end, even they had limits.
A few would eventually surrender some of their valuables. Either because they were too weak to resist or simply outnumbered. And the bandits, despite their brutality, weren't entirely foolish. If a victim was strong, it wasn't worth losing too many men over. They would take what they could and leave, ensuring they lived to rob another day.
However, that was only for the strong.
The weak had no choice.
For them, the bandits took everything—money, weapons, supplies. Sometimes even their lives.
And this time, the bandits weren't playing around.
Michael's eyes flickered across the scene, taking in their numbers. There were more of them than he had expected—far too many for a random scouting party.
So this was their full group?
It made sense why he had assumed this was their entire camp earlier. Their numbers weren't small.
But Michael didn't feel fear.
Instead, his lips curled into a smirk.
Michael didn't bother exchanging words with them and directed orders for his undead to move.
Four armored figures stepped forward, their imposing frames casting long shadows under the morning light.
The bandits hesitated. Though they had confidence in their numbers, the sheer presence of these so-called "guards" made them uneasy. Something about them felt… off.
Still, they had raided dozens of wealthy merchants before. These were probably just expensive mercenaries—nothing they couldn't handle with overwhelming force.
"Kill them," one of the bandits barked, raising his sword.
That was the last order he ever gave.
The nearest undead orc moved in a blur, far faster than his heavy armor should have allowed. Before the bandit could react, a massive, armored fist slammed into his chest.
His ribs shattered instantly. The impact sent him flying back several meters, where he crumpled like a broken doll.
The other bandits barely had time to process the brutality before the second undead made its move.
The second undead orc swung its hammer in a wide arc, and the moment the weapon connected—
A bandit's head caved in, his body crumpling lifelessly to the ground.
Panic spread among the remaining bandits.
"What the hell?!" one of them shouted, taking a step back.
"They're not mercenaries!" another shouted.
Immediately they knew these weren't ordinary warriors.
The armored undead moved with relentless efficiency, their hammers crashing down with inhuman force. Bones snapped, bodies flew, and the ground was soon painted crimson.
Michael barely lifted a finger.
A bandit, clearly more experienced than the others, tried to retreat. He spun around, hoping to escape into the woods—
Only for an undead to grab him by the throat.
The bandit struggled, kicking wildly, but the iron grip was unbreakable.
It was at this time Michael stepped out of the carriage.
The surviving bandits were either dead, unconscious, or cowering.
His gaze landed on the one struggling in his undead's grasp.
"Where's your camp?" Michael asked. His voice was calm, but the bandit felt a cold chill run down his spine.
"I—" The bandit's eyes darted around, searching for an escape.
The grip around his throat tightened.
The bandit gasped. "W-We're based near the cliffs! A cave! I swear!"
Michael nodded. "Good."
The bandit's neck snapped, his body going limp.
Michael turned to the last few survivors—wounded, kneeling, too terrified to move.
"Take me there," he ordered.
If the bandits were smart, they'd listen. If not—well, they'd find out why defying him was a mistake.
Ace and Lia exchanged glances. They had suspected Michael was strong—the way he carried himself, his composure even in the face of an ambush—but this… this was something else entirely.
The driver, a seasoned traveler who had seen his fair share of horrors, paled. His hands trembled on the reins. He had assumed the young noble was just another adventurer with money to spare. Someone who had guards for protection.
But those weren't guards.
And Michael wasn't just another adventurer.
He was something else entirely.
Michael, unaware or perhaps simply uninterested in their thoughts, turned his gaze to the remaining bandits. His expression was unreadable, his tone firm.