Desmond leapt from the top of a tree to ambush a group of soldiers passing below.

Feeling fast, powerful and agile as a panther.

They didn't see him coming. He had hit himself with his sword enough times to get rid of the circles the first chance he got, which were the only thing that could have given him away.

The branch he jumped from creaked, but hey, it was a forest. A peaceful place... that should be peaceful, but where silence was never truly silence.

It pierced the throat of the most lagging soldier. But even then they didn't notice, the man died instantly, unable to scream, or even gasp in pain, his head flew off, rolled, lost in the bushes.

And Desmond continued, stepping in the blood of the enemy he had just killed. Blood splattered on his boots, on his calves.

He didn't notice the difference. His socks were soaked in blood, sticking to his skin. That sickening sensation would normally have made his hair stand on end, but he had no time to waste on such unnecessary feelings, and he felt like a stranger in his own body anyway.

No, that was not the best way to put it.

He was in control, and his body moved in familiar ways. He had been training for this for most of his life - in what other situation could he feel closer to himself?

But it wasn't quite right, either. He felt... He felt...

Like he wasn't in his body at all. Like he was watching from above, or like he was dreaming all this. An acute premonition, a dream of preparation.

They became aware of his presence when he killed the second soldier, cutting him in half.

Of course. He hadn't expected to be able to kill the whole group unnoticed. The dead man's companion saw him out of the corner of his eye, his gasp of surprise was not what drew the attention of the others, but the sound of the armour in which the soldier was covered shattering as his sword passed. And the soft body beneath it too, of course.

The dance of death began again.

There were more than a dozen soldiers in front of him. This fact didn't worry him. Otherwise he would have passed them by, he had had plenty of time to do so.

Better that there were so many, even. They would fall more easily into the clutches of fear, chaos and confusion, watching their comrades die in front of their eyes brutally. Watching the situation slip through their fingers even though they were supposed to have the absolute advantage.

It was a logical, practical tactic. But also, he had to admit, something he would like to see.

Something he had already enjoyed watching.

This would be neither the last nor the first group he would kill in this way.

Would he die if it went on like this? Well, if they are capable of killing me, so be it. But...

I don't think so.

He could still consider himself human, but he was closer to a monster than anyone else. At least as far as physical capabilities were concerned. The strength of the true monsters of this world, after all, was based on the spiritual, and he couldn't reach them.

Still, he could be considered a monster.

He swung his sword again and again, concentrating the full force of his body into each strike. Holding nothing back. As if this was the last battle of his life.

His eyes could catch the movement of the bullets cutting through the air. And his sword, wielded with inhuman power, reached the speed needed to cut many of them in mid-air. He dodged the others, or met them with his steel body.

Some penetrated his skin, but they hit nothing vital. Just because they penetrated his skin didn't mean they would follow the natural path of a bullet.

Piercing him through and through, from side to side, inflicting a mortal wound, forcing him to fall to his knees, to crawl.

The bullets penetrated the skin, but stopped. The pain of that was the equivalent of one of his own punches, more or less.

In other words, he could still kill without a problem.

He was far from invincible.

He was walking the fine line between life and death all the time. But-

"He's a monster! "

-it didn't seem that way, so the soldiers died cursing him as a monster. The soldiers succumbed to the oldest and most important natural instinct, the one that had allowed mankind to progress. In other words, they quickly fell prey to fear.

Just as he had wished.

But this alone was not enough. They had to understand that, despite the fear on their faces and the words they used to curse him, they were the real monsters. Slaves of the worst Empire in the history of humanity.

No, no, no.

If they were slaves, mere tools of a greater power, then I could respect them minimally for having no choice in the matter.

But they were not. They had come here, ready to kill them all, believing that this was the right thing to do.

When this was over, and if it went their way, they wouldn't go back with their heads down, lost in thoughts thick with guilt, regret. No, fuck no, they would celebrate.

So they were nothing but monsters who deserved to die. He was doing the right thing.

By opening a hole in a soldier's body, big enough to push his gun through, to shoot through, using him as a human shield, he was simply returning the pain and fear of their countless victims.

But they will die without understanding, he thought. They will see us as monsters to the end, without changing their minds, without doubting their purpose.

It was true. Very true.

The thought didn't make him feel sorry for them. It merely fed his erupting anger.

He would say he had lost control if he thought he ever had it. He had simply released the animal he had kept caged all these years, until the time was right. And he wasn't sure he could put it back in its cage.

To be honest, he didn't really care either. This could be his swan song.

He didn't have a death wish.

But, strangely, he didn't dislike the idea. It had a certain romanticism to it, like a circle closing. Yes. Desmond grinned from ear to ear.

Although he ended up full of bullet holes and bleeding all over, the soldiers paid for the progress they had made with their lives. In less than a minute, because real fights were short and violent, they were all dead.

Except for one.

Who took aim at him and pulled the trigger, and that's how he discovered he had run out of bullets. He tried to reload with trembling hands. Keeping an eye on him.

Desmond put his sword and pistol away.

He advanced towards the soldier as if in no hurry. He tried to insert a new magazine, but it slipped through his fingers and fell to the ground.

Before he could try again, with another magazine or by lunging for the fallen one, Desmond pounced on him. This life he would snuff out personally, up close, with his bare hands. He moved his hands towards his neck.

However, they didn't reach their destination.

The soldier put his rifle aside and drew a knife, as a last resort. It didn't matter. Maybe what shone in those eyes was hope, but he knew he didn't really have any hope. And his enemy should know it too.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

He had seen him tear his comrades to shreds with his sword, after all. And he had seen him take the impact of dozens of bullets with his body.

He should know, therefore, that he possessed superhuman strength and that he was no match for him. When he wanted to, he could simply tear off his fingers or rip off his wrist.

But-

It was the soldier who had the last laugh.

Desmond's bruised body suddenly failed him and he fell, driving one knee into the ground. He hadn't lost his grip on the knife, but he was at a disadvantage now.

If he were in good condition, it would be easy to kill him. He would kill him like all the others.

However, it seemed that the continuous battles had taken a greater toll on him than he had anticipated. One soldier was no match for so many. So this, his defeat, was the natural conclusion despite his powers.

Yet this was supposed to be his swan song. Not some miserable, ridiculous death that could have befallen any of the soldiers he had cut down or shot, fighting his way through.

Was it really going to be like that?

Being overwhelmed by an ordinary soldier who would plunge the knife into his forehead, or his heart?

Not long ago - seconds, literally - he would have said that such a thing was not worth worrying about. That, even if he lost this little contest of strength, the knife would have no more luck in actually hurting him than bullets.

However, a few seconds ago he would also not have imagined that his body would fail him in this way, so soon.

He imagined very vividly the knife piercing one of his eyes and sliding into his brain, killing him.

He imagined the brief pain... and the darkness that would be the only thing he would have for eternity.

So much so that it came to life in front of his eyes.

It was the darkness of death, but it began as a shadow. That of the soldier who was fighting with him for his life.

And that shadow snapped his neck, ending the fight.

The bastard who didn't even know he was going to die fell on top of him. He shook it off, genuinely disgusted by such a small thing, even though he reeked of blood because he was bathed in it from head to toe.

Desmond stood up, looked around.

He was not worried. Such a thing, evidently, could only be done by a mage. And someone from Albion would never stoop to working for the Empire.

He found...

At first, he didn't recognize the person standing there. Because he couldn't look at himself in the mirror, but the person must have looked at least as horrible as he did, with the stains of blood and other even more unpleasant bodily fluids, like stomach acid.

It was natural. She looked as 'monstrous' as he did, even though she was looking, no doubt, at the shy girl he had saved from some bullies who were wasting their time instead of preparing for the test.

Yes, Christina. Part of him couldn't believe it no matter how much he turned the image around in his eyes.

But it was the undeniable reality in front of his eyes. It couldn't be helped.

It couldn't be helped, but...

“Christina?” he said quietly.

She crouched down beside one of the corpses and snatched the rifle from him. He thought his voice had been so low that she hadn't heard him, but she answered him after that.

"Desmond... You look awful. As if you could fall at any moment. "

A very straightforward girl.

That didn't sound like the kind of person who would be intimidated by a bunch of two-bit thugs, either.

Well, he didn't really know her. He shouldn't be so surprised because a few minutes hadn't turned out to be a good representation of her personality.

"I don't think I'm that bad as to give up. But I'm not well either. You, though..." He lost his balance. He regained it quickly, planting his feet firmly on the ground, but for a moment he worried that Christina had been right about him. "Looks like they haven't touched you. And no wonder. I never imagined that one of the people capable of using shadow magic would be a girl my age. "

Christina twirled the rifle in her hands, as if searching for something. He guessed she wasn't familiar with firearms. That, at least, was not surprising.

"Because I'm your age or because I'm a girl? "

Desmond frowned.

"I know I haven't made the best impression on you. I'm sorry I behaved like an idiot, believe it or not. But I don't think I've given you any reason to think I'm that kind of person. "

Christina just shrugged her shoulders. She didn't even glance at him.

"That's fine." That's when she looked at him. Her gaze didn't betray her inner thoughts. "And what exactly can you do? To have ended up like this..."

He decided not to give her a scathing reply, because he deserved to be treated this way. She could be grateful for his concern, as she had said. But that didn't mean she had to like the way he'd approached things, or treat him kindly.

"Physical reinforcement. "

"That's it? "

"That's what I said. "

"But... how...? How did you get here...? "

He enjoyed her reaction. Because, instead of mocking him for being an inferior being, she seemed to be impressed.

He continually told himself that others should be, for his effort and dedication despite the lack of talent he had no problem admitting, but it was a little hard to really believe it when he only faced mockery when someone discovered the truth.

Christina approached him.

Without the slightest bit of embarrassment or hesitation, she moved so close to him that their faces were almost touching, she could feel her warm breath on his skin. He stopped holding the book with both hands, that hand, suddenly free, was placed on his chest as if searching for something.

That a girl was groping him for the first time in his life was less embarrassing that it could have been.

They were both smeared with blood, so he couldn't notice the feel of her presumably soft, warm hand very well. Besides, it wasn't the right time to stick his head in the clouds.

Christina removed her hand and stepped back.

"I see," she said coldly. "Such a quantity of blood disguises it, but.... You must be crazy to take physical reinforcement to this level. Or a prodigy among prodigies. "

"Many times, I've ended up on the verge of death because of this useless talent. Pushing it too far, testing my limits. "

Christina nodded.

"Though I wouldn't say it's useless by any stretch of the imagination. You're riddled with bullets and yet you're still standing. What's more, you could stick a finger in and pull them all out just like that, the ones that didn't fall out on their own, that is, because they've only penetrated the skin. They didn't go through you. Every corpse in this forest would have liked to have an affinity like yours. Either that or to have been far away from here today."

This girl doesn't mince words, huh? Quite a change.

Yes. Before she hadn't been able to look at him, she'd found it hard to speak. Now she seemed like a completely different person. He had said he shouldn't be surprised that a person he didn't really know wasn't the way they seemed to be. But still...

This was strange. He couldn't help but think so.

Affinity, she had said. She thought that physical reinforcement taken to extraordinary levels was his affinity. He decided to keep his mouth shut, for it would do him no good to clear up the misunderstanding. On the contrary.

"You seem like a completely different person," he decided to be frank, though it wasn't always the best strategy, no matter how much people talked about sincerity. "I can't understand how you let yourself be walked over by guys like that, when you have that kind of power. When you're one of the... How many? Seven, eight people who can use that magic? And the only one so young. "

"They caught me by surprise and took my spellbook," she replied. But she looked away as she did so. "Without it, I'm just a girl without the slightest trace of muscle in her entire body. I mean, I'm helpless. "

Desmond shook his head.

"Don't talk nonsense, please. I'm not just talking about the power of shadow magic, or your skill with it. I'm also talking about your mental strength."

Christina grimaced, which she hid quickly, deftly.

Yes, there was something else here, no doubt. Something more. Not just his imagination.

"We've already wasted too much time talking in a war zone. I'll tell you about it when this is over. Assuming we get out of this alive. "

"We can talk while we walk. Normally that would be a problem, but you and I aren't exactly normal. Something tells me you don't have the slightest interest in doing this quietly, cautiously and sensibly."

"What about you? You could have been there by now if you'd wanted to. "

"This is not a competition, Christina. I've already admitted that I'm not a normal person. You're right. I have no interest in running for cover. All I want to do is kill as many of these sons of bitches as I can. "

He took a step forward.

Literally and metaphorically.

"I'm normal," she protested. It sounded like even she didn't believe it.

"I know you're like me. Just people... " Disturbed, he was going to say. Even he knew that wasn't a good idea, though. "Just people like me would be so calm, bathed in blood and gore. You don't have to hide it. It's only natural. It's only natural for someone who's hurting to want to spread their pain. "

"Enough. All right, come with me. "

They continued on their way through the forest, passing among the corpses or over them. Their boots sloshed in the pools of blood. She wore black, shiny shoes and black socks.

They had been before and now, turning red like most of her.

And, when the blood dried, they would go back to black.

"You're right," she began without him having to press her further, to his surprise, even though she had agreed to accompany him. If I'd been serious, I'd probably have been able to retrieve the book and tear them apart.

"But? "

Because there had to be a but.

Maybe he should have let her continue talking at her own pace, without pressuring her. It was too late for that, of course. Well, he did pause for a long moment before he spoke, but that didn't count. Maybe she wouldn't have stopped if he'd kept his mouth shut in the first place.

"But what would that have accomplished? "

"Well, for one thing, they would have stopped bothering you. "

Christina shook her head in frustration. Brushing a few drops of blood from her short brown hair.

"You don't understand. "

"No, of course I don't understand. You were running around in circles, crying, begging. With that kind of power? If I had it, I wouldn't kneel before anyone. "

He had a gift for making a bad first impression... and making it even worse the second time around.

With Amy things had gone more or less well, but only because she had wanted them to. With this girl it looked like things wouldn't be so easy. Especially if he continued along the same line like an idiot.

Still, he couldn't shut up. Because that was what he believed from the bottom of his heart.

"I kneel to no one! No one! "

"It didn’t mean it like that," he mumbled back, cowed by the intensity of her gaze, the power hidden in her words.

To which the shadows in the forest seemed to react, moving as if they were alive.

It was not so easy to tell himself he was imagining things, the product of mental stress, standing next to such a person as this. For, while it seemed crazy that she would attack him for something like this, it was within the realm of possibility, no matter how improbable.

"I can't reconcile the person I saw then with the person standing in front of me now. Not even with your explanation. "

"I implicitly promised you an explanation. But not that I would keep talking until you finally understood me. So you'll have to settle for that. "

"All right."

"And you? Have you ever knelt before anyone?"

"Yes. Several times. There was a time when I was weak, so I had to do anything to survive. I consoled myself by saying that being willing to humble yourself is also a kind of strength. And maybe it is. But it's both. I don't want to kneel before anyone or feel humiliated. I would kill to have the power you possess. "

"You're not the only one," she murmured softly.

Desmond decided to leave her alone about that. She had said it so softly that she might not have thought he would hear her, and he had only done so because of his heightened senses.

Silence fell between them long before they encountered the next battle.