Ambush

The noble who purchased Finn at the colosseum turns out to be a mid-tier Syndicate merchant affiliated with the East Aldenard Trading Company, overseeing regional trade routes. To test Finn’s combat value beyond the ring, the noble assigns him alongside two others to escort a textile caravan from Ul’dah to Eastern Thanalan. The route is lightly guarded — not expected to be dangerous — but there have been murmurs of Amalj’aa raids and bandit interference near the trade roads.

The caravan is moving premium silks and cottons woven in Ul’dah, scheduled for sale at a border-town market. This cargo, while mundane, is high-value due to seasonal demand from Gridanian clients.

Eastern Thanalan was a harsh stretch of sun-blasted stone and shifting sand, but the caravan pushed on. Finn rode near the front, one hand resting on the leather-wrapped haft of his axe, eyes trained on the dunes. He wasn’t sure why a few bolts of fabric warranted an escort, but judging from the merchant’s nervous glances and the way he kept checking the locks on the crates, the cargo meant more than it looked.

Finn didn’t ask. He wasn’t paid to ask.

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And indeed, an ambush did come without warning.

The lead chocobo shrieked, rearing up as its front wheel buckled unnaturally. Then came the smoke—plumes of it bursting from both sides of the canyon trail, blinding and acrid. Shouts followed. Shadows moving fast. Raiders.

They came for the entire convoy with practiced coordination. Blades drawn, masks tight, they swept toward the wagons with speed and purpose. This wasn’t a random attack. It was a message.

Finn didn’t need a command. He launched himself into the haze.

His axe whistled through the smoke, striking with brute force. He swung wide and low, carving through sand and shin alike. One bandit lunged with a curved blade, but Finn ducked under it and drove his axe’s butt into the attacker’s gut, then reversed the grip mid-spin for a crushing overhead finish.

The air was a mess of sand, yells, chocobo cries, and splintering wood—but Finn fought with sharp efficiency. He moved like someone who’d spent years picking apart larger foes one piece at a time. And the chain-wrapped hilt of his axe added a cruel rhythm—each swing dragging, snapping, yanking, never letting the weapon settle too long.

As the other guards rallied, the tide began to turn. A few raiders went down screaming; others saw the resolve and scattered. Within minutes, the smoke thinned and silence fell. The caravan stood—battered, but intact.

The merchant staggered out from under an overturned crate. “That could’ve ruined us…” he muttered, eyes wide, looking at Finn like he wasn’t sure if he was more thankful or afraid.

Finn offered no reply. He just wiped sand and blood from his cheek and rolled his shoulders with a grunt.

And that caught the attention of those watching.