Killing intent.

Nic searched his soul for the meaning of those words.

It seemed impossible he would actually lack the ability to kill; after all, he had done nothing else since arriving. Every step on his path, every obstacle he met along the way, he had solved with violence. Time and time again he had hardened his heart and killed…

His eyes closed as he meditated on those moments…

And found what he was looking for.

It was a cold, raw exhilaration. His killing intent wasn’t anger or malice, but joy, pure elation that he would survive and triumph that he could win; every killing blow was born in the razor’s edge tension of fighting for his life, and was a statement of one simple fact.

He would survive.

When Nic fought, he played games with his life. He gambled his entire existence on the simple promise that he was good enough, strong enough, to come out on the other side, and grow stronger still.

Killing wasn’t an act of hatred for him - it was simply keeping that promise to himself, no matter the cost.

His footing shifted. His grip on his weapon tightened.

Yes…

This was the moment, the feeling, he needed to chase.

Nic fought like a titan. He threw his full force behind every blow, leaving nothing for defense- relying totally on the fear of his attacks to keep his enemy from countering. The result was brutal. His sparring opponents were worn down, one by one, unable to keep match with the brutal pace his strikes set. They had no chance to escape the trap of momentum- each time they dodged, they gave up the chance to respond, to seize the initiative. They were caught within the rhythm of his attack, being blown left and right by the wind.

By the end of the day, Nic had sparred with every one of the warriors. In every duel he kept his strength and aura restrained to their level. His body ached with bruises, the punishment for slipping up. This new style sacrificed safety and left him open to counters, if the enemy was brave enough to trade blow for blow…

But his resilient body made that a winning trade for him. He would heal, and they would not.

It was more than that, though…

It was something else.

When Nic went all out, he felt a beast roar in his chest. The well of demonic energy surged up in his veins, flooding his body, filling his mind with a darkness that almost seemed to swallow thought and leave only instinct behind. It became almost hard to pull back and retreat when an enemy fell before him.

His aura expanded from his skin. The air around him blackened and turned tense, as if he was at the core of a living storm. This was killing intent.

His training staff whipped the weapon from another challenger’s hand. Nic barely noticed as the girl shuffled away, shaking her injured fingers. His whole mind was blank until the next challenger took her place in front of him.

It wasn’t that he was blind.

In fact, he was more focused than he’d ever been. Every motion, every twitch of muscle that warned of an upcoming strike, the delicate positioning of his enemy’s feet and the distribution of their weight…

His eyes saw everything with cold rage.

And whatever he didn’t need, anything beyond the fighting circle, he ignored with that same cold intensity.

“Terrifying.” Sarhelia said. “I can see why my warriors thought you were one of the demons. You do have a certain… similarity.”

She paused, looking at him carefully.

“You are out of opponents for today. Tomorrow, you can try dueling two at a time.”

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Nic nodded, slowly, suppressing first his aura and then the waves of adrenaline coursing through his heart. He breathed out, mist exploding from his mouth in a drastic sigh, as if he was a dragon. He struck his practice spear down into the earth.

He clasped his hands together and bowed to the crowd. “Thank you for instructing me.”

---

Nic ate his supper alone, perched on the edge of the island. A stringy thread of ash drifted through the air, curling into a ball, and then defining itself further into the face of Li Blackleaf. “Boy.”

“Old ghost.” He greeted the specter.

“I’ve been nosing around the secrets of this island. Oh, they have some good stuff. Hidden away beneath that temple, oh yes, and they’re quite keen on keeping it hidden…” The ghost chuckled. “I found a four sided pillar written with the most interesting techniques….”

“Anything useful?”

“Hard to say. It’s in a language I can’t speak, more’s the pity. I’ve had to guess what each one is based on those silly little picture drawings. The first technique, I’d imagine is their savage equivalent of a cultivation method. Useless to you and me. The second is a flight technique, again, useless useless useless.”

“But…” The old ghost smiled. “The third one is something clever. A weapon-bonding technique…”

Nic’s eyes perked up. “Interesting…”

“The fourth one, I couldn’t make heads or tails of… But still, you’re sitting on a treasure trove here. Coming to this village was a spot of fortune for you…”

“Not if I can’t read the techniques.” Nic pointed out. “And there’s no telling whether they’ll share them with me.”

“Are you still worried about that? Just take what you want. This village is on it’s last legs to begin with…”

“I’m not going to go on the slaughtering path for a big chunk of stone I can’t even read.” Nic said irritably. “And I need them to help me fight the Legionnaires.”

“Peh.” The ghost spat. “If that’s your use for them, I’ll tell you this. It would be kinder to kill them with your own hand than throw them to those ghouls.”

“Maybe…” Nic admitted. “But they have a right to spend their lives as they wish. If they want to die for this… Then I hope it’s worth it…”

“Too kind. Too kind.” Li bemoaned. “But I’ll sniff around some more, see what else these winged slatterns are hiding. Make sure they’re not plotting to take advantage of your kindness…”

With a gust of sour wind, the ghost departed.

---

The next day, as Nic trained, Inkspur trained alongside him. Up in the sky, the four-winged drake underwent dizzying chases- every moment spent straining against the wind for speed, diving and darting and wheeling about to escape the chasing harpies.

Inkspur had always flown, but for the first time, he was being challenged in the air. Forced to push himself further and further.

Nic could hear him yelling in outrage as the harpies darted past him, gracefully outpacing his clumsy rushes and deep dives; the poor old coat was getting hung out to dry.

On the ground below, Nic focused on drawing forth his killing intent. Two against one, with his power suppressed, he had to lean more and more on that state of deadly focus to prevail. Whenever he fell back on old habits and slipped into fighting defensively, Sarhelia would call out-

“Kill!”

And he’d be forced to pivot, lunging into the fire and trying desperately to come out unscathed. It was only when he took command of the flow of combat, only when he could capture both opponents in the force and ferocity of his assault, that Sarhelia was satisfied.

It was punishing to maintain. His body accumulated bruises and breaks at a terrible rate, and his harpy opponents pushed harder when they realized how resilient he was. They made sure he paid the cost for any carelessness in his advance…

And that was fine.

In real combat, the price he’d pay was even higher.

So Nic grit his teeth and fought on, the shadow of Inkspur soaring and dashing overhead, pursuing his own freedom- his own strength.

---

As the day ended, the harpies donned armor and helmets, lifted real weapons. Training so hard for the last day had been to hype them up, to fill their hearts with bloodlust and push back the fear inside their minds. Now they drank from a communal bowl full of red, rustic liquors, fuming red smoke into the air. The effects were instant and narcotic.

Their hearts pounded and pulsed, their pupils shrank. They lifted their red-stained lips to the sky and howled as they passed the bowl.

It was a sign of his acceptance here that Nic, too, was offered the ceremonial bowl. He lifted it to his lips. The taste was spiced and earthy and rough, like the harshest liquor combined with unsweet tea, clawing its way down his throat.

He felt it expand to a flame inside him, his muscles beginning to tense and shift. He felt the roar building in his throat, demanding to escape. The world didn’t sway and slow as if he’d drunk alcohol- instead, a terrible focus filled his mind.

Inkspur dipped his muzzle into the bowl, lapping up his own measure of the drug.

“Alright.” Sarhelia said, her voice a low and powerful growl. “There’s no point in waiting any longer. No reason to leave our princess in their hands another night. So we take to the skies- we take back what’s ours. We take our pride talon by bloody talon.”

The crowd roared. One by one, they kicked into the sky, wings flapping to gather momentum as they soared upwards. Nic swung himself onto Inkspur’s back and together, soaked in the narcotic anger of the drink, they followed the flock of winged warriors into the open sky and the hanging shadow of the moon.