The scouting group was predicting an attack from above, but by their confused faces, John was not the person they were expecting to see there.

That slight hesitation took its toll and a blonde Aerilian who was trying to attack Galanil with his spear got struck by lightning and a moment later left tumbling the stairs with a javelin sticking from his left side.

His stiletto launched off the wall like a piece of metal pulled by a powerful magnet and buried itself to the hilt between a grey-robed scout's shoulder blades. The yellow light coming from her outstretched hand winked out, and the wounded woman released a pained wheeze.

The fourth, a man with a jagged scar across his right cheek locked his green eyes with him and vanished into a puff of brown smoke.

Wha…

Before John even realized what had just happened, he was hit by one of the most urgent pangs of danger he had ever felt. It screamed at him to move, but where? He had no idea what was going on, and only a small hiss coming from behind made him jerk to the left.

A wooden knife followed his movement, sliding over his right shoulder and leaving a stinging trail on the side of his neck.

Oh crap, Attack!

The hand retracted back like a snake after a first bite and before John turned to face his foe, another lightning-fast stab slid into his unprotected side and pierced through the protective chainmail like a hot knife through butter.

Pulling on the connection with his bag, John tried to grab his shield, but to his horror, the slot it previously occupied lay empty. Only a jet of molten glass saved him from another nasty wound, giving him a small moment of respite. His attacker jerked back, let his thin dagger vanish, and grasped a one-handed blade covered in brown runes.

Easily avoiding another glob of molten sand, the man swept his weapon in a horizontal line, and even though John leaned back, he felt a hot pain erupt across his chest.

Fuck! He is faster than me, and much better trained.

Pressed into a proverbial corner and unable to mount any viable defense, John commanded his Wraith to fly into his opponent and desperately charged forward.

The scarred man reacted to his movement, expecting an ability or a swing with a weapon. Instead, he got a stinging onslaught of overheated sand that made him momentarily lose sight. Using that to his advantage, John ducked a blind sweep and hit the taller opponent dead center with his right shoulder.

It turned out, that the man weighed less than John expected, and they both went tumbling through the richly decorated hallway and hitting the polished wooden floor with a loud thud.

The man's right arm was wide from the sweeping strike, and as they fell, John hooked his arm over the elbow and pulled it to his uninjured side, locking it into a position where the blade's edge couldn't be used.

"Help!" He cried out, doing his best to hold the struggling man in place. Luckily, in the Strength department, John had him on the ropes and was remaining on top. Another factor that helped was the unlucky position the Aerilian scout ended up in. The man fell with his left side next to the wall, effectively trapping his arm between it and his side.

The struggles grew more and more frantic, but despite his injuries, John held firm. Only when the thrashing began to slowly subside, he slightly relaxed his tensed muscles as well, yet remained to hold firm.

I am not getting baited into letting go.

This stalemate continued for a couple more seconds until finally, he heard Galan'il's voice somewhere behind him.

"John! Are you… alive?" The worried voice was followed by the sounds of rushing feet.

"I think?"

"Don't you dare, Sakhul'la," The Knight-Protector barked, pressing the sharp end of his glaive above John's head—likely at the base of the scout's neck.

A clattering of steel made John glance left and see a boot sliding the dropped sword out of their reach.

"Ugh, I yield. Get him off me, I…" he gasped for breath. "What did he do to me?"

Pushing himself up on his knees, John was surprised he felt barely any pain. The horizontal slice over his chest felt itchy, and only the stab wound was sending pinpricks of sharp pain through his right side.

"What about my men?" The disarmed scout asked as he pulled himself into a sitting position and began untying the string holding his robe closed.

"Dead, all three of them."

As John watched those fingers deftly untying knot after knot, he noticed the shudder after the Knight-Protector's reply. The man snapped one of the strings, ruining the complicated system of intertwined cords holding it in place.

"Fuck! This wasn't supposed to go like this," his shaking fingers gave up, grasped the two sides of his robe, and ripped the whole front apart. "Damned thing getting…" his words died on his lips as he stared at the wrinkled chest. The skin was dry, lacking the vibrant olive color, and was like a patch someone would find on a preserved corpse.

It looks like something aged a piece of his flesh… Or, drained the very life out of it, John suddenly realized, unbuttoning his cut shirt in wondrous anticipation.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"Woah," John unconsciously exclaimed, exploring the grey smudge covering the thin cut across his breasts with the tips of his fingers.

The substance was thick like mud and from previous experience, John could guess that it was the healing property of his new blood.

Now that I think about it, there was a mention of a draining effect when someone comes into contact with my open wounds. Could this be the reason why I feel this well only a few minutes after getting stabbed?

"Wha-at is th-this?" The man asked after thoroughly wiping John's blood off his withered patch of skin with a torn piece of his robe.

He wasn't the only one throwing worried glances at John's bare chest. Galan'il also seemed put off by the horrifying effect John's blood had when in contact with living things.

"It's one of my body modification cards," John answered their unasked question. "Says it has life-bane properties," he further revealed to explain the cause of Sakhul'la's injury.

At that, both of them took a step back—well the downed scout crawled a couple of feet further away—creating a safer distance between them and John.

"Ehm… Is it really that dangerous?" He asked, feeling more than a little confused.

"It is. Cards and substances with bane in their name are very narrow in scope, but are one of the most powerful types of toxins available to the populace," Galanil replied with a grave nod. "Life-bane in particular. All cards, recipes, enchantments, and substances with those properties are strictly regulated or straight up banned across the wider universe due to their reactions with most healing abilities."

"Huh, I had no idea," John frowned, thinking about the future implications of his new card. "What happens if you use healing ability on it?"

"Well, if the ability was life-based, your patient is fucked," Sakhul'la answered with a bitter laugh. "I've seen it happen. Once. The poor bastard began drying up before our eyes and the screams…" he shook his head, lost in the distant memory. "We had to put him out of his misery and then burn the whole tent. Couldn't risk it spreading out."

What?!

"So if I am understanding it correctly, when someone pours an ice-bane, if something like that exists, onto an iceberg, it would spread through and melt everything?"

"Banes don't spread like plagues, so fortunately not. However, if the iceberg was conjured by an ability… then yes." Galan'il clarified. "The problem is, most living organisms are considered the natural icebergs of your ice-bane example, so if something feeds it enough to contaminate the land… All I wanted to say was, be careful with whatever card you have."

"To change the topic," the Aerilian scout interrupted. "No hard feelings, eh? I got you some… You got me good… At the end of the day, it was just business."

"Huh?" John blinked, caught off-guard by the casual dismissal of the previous violence by the man in front of him. "You don't blame us for the deaths of your man?"

"It's a damned shame, is what it is. Was supposed to be a simple job, work for his bratty highness as an advance scouting party, enjoy the benefits of an invading force, and earn enough to live lavishly for a few decades."

As he spoke, John felt the man's dejected melancholy. Another thing he noticed was the dozens of barely visible scars crisscrossing all over the bare chest.

"We all knew the risks," Sakhul'la continued. "But, we are mercenaries and to die in the heat of battle is a fine death. Living through it is better, though," he chuckled and put on a fresh robe. "Besides, it seems like we were not the only ones who got fucked up."

"Hm?"

A message from Melis'ar came through Dilah'ec to Galan'il a moment later, describing the triumphant defense, despite a nasty surprise from Ulian'al's second scouting party when they attempted to scale the western walls.

"Looks like His Highness doesn't want to run back to his father a few hours after his glorious invasion after all," the mercenary joked.

"What does that mean?" Asked John, unable to understand the latest development.

"It means he is about to surrender himself and his entire retinue to the royal bastard."

Galanil hissed, clearly annoyed by the label used to describe Melis'ar, but turned to John instead. "It may not be my place to say, but from what I got to know about you, what is about to follow is not something you want to be part of."

"Hm?" John frowned, already thinking of possible betrayals, but his spiraling thoughts were interrupted by the simplest explanation.

"Hours of negotiations and politics."

"Oh."

In hindsight it was obvious and he felt a pang of shame, expecting the worst from his new allies, but politics were actually the worst, so he wasn't that far off.

"Well, in that case, I am out. You are absolutely correct that I want nothing to do with that," John smiled. "What about the promotion to Bastion?"

"That part has to wait," Galanil sighed, "We were not expecting Ulian'al's surrender, so dealing with that is a priority."

"And what about him?" John nodded toward the scout, now dressed in a pristine dark green robe, "Is he still a threat?"

"Hey! I gave my word, and I take that kind of thing very seriously."

Shrugging, John trusted that Galanil had the situation under control and promised to return in six hours.

Now's the time to try a new challenge.

Sure, his side still ached and the horizontal cut slightly tugged when he stretched his arms, but otherwise he was in perfect health and the only threat would be the Alphas and the Rotfiend, but before that, he had a couple more hours for his body to recover.

Leaving the manor through the main entrance, John was hit by the signs of the failed assault. It wasn't corpses of thousands with arrows sticking out from their chests under fifty-feet-tall walls like in those epics from ancient Rome, but the abilities added new layers into the mix.

Walking into the main street, the asphalt was torn apart from devastating impacts and the environment around him bore the scars of fires flying wide, chunks of ice embedded into the dirt, and a couple of other markings that would come as odd before the apocalypse.

This whole situation is so damn odd, John mused, looking at the two groups returning to the other shelter, leaving behind only four people. One of which was a man in conversation with Melis'ar. His long golden hair flowed down over his shoulder blades and he was wearing intricately embroidered golden robes.

That must be the other prince.

As if feeling John's gaze, the man turned and locked his pale-brown eyes with him.

Yep, they both have similar features, John noted and waved Melis'ar goodbye.

That likely wasn't the reaction the other prince expected, because his imperial facade crumbled into confusion. His social training kicked in and the man schooled his expression into a neutral disinterest.

Gods, I can smell the politics from here, John scrunched up his nose and looped around their whole group, heading to the western bridge and then up north to his favorite hunting spot.

Let's see how strong I got since the last time I've been there.