Ch 16: Crouching Tiger
The air was heavy with the crackle of distant flames, the shouts and chaos of the collapsing camp only dim echoes in the distance. Soren stepped into the clearing, his katana gleaming faintly in the firelight. Across from him stood two figures, as still as statues, their presence radiating an unnatural calm amidst the chaos.
The taller one moved first. Clad in sleek, raven-black armor that shimmered faintly in the firelight, he carried himself with an air of command. His pale, angular face was framed by shoulder-length silver hair tied neatly back, a few stray strands catching the light and accentuating the sharpness of his cheekbones. Steel-gray eyes, cold and calculating, scanned Soren with a predatory calm, as if assessing not just his stance but his very essence. A thin scar trailed from the corner of his left eye to his jaw, adding a subtle layer of menace to his otherwise regal demeanor. A crimson half-cape fluttered lightly at his back, its edges singed by the encroaching heat.
Beside him, the smaller figure was a stark contrast—lean, wiry, and brimming with frenetic energy. His gaunt face bore a sharp, wolfish grin that revealed unnaturally white teeth, their gleam catching the firelight. His electric-blue eyes were wide with manic intensity, darting from Soren to the flames as if savoring the chaos. Silver shaggy hair wild against the smoke-choked sky, the ends crackling faintly as though charged with static. His pale gray skin, mottled with faint scorch marks and scars, seemed to ripple with energy, matching the sparks flickering along the edges of his jagged gauntlets. Every twitch of his wiry frame radiated barely-contained aggression, like a predator ready to pounce.
The taller man spoke first, his voice as smooth as silk but laced with steel. “So, you’re the one that's been causing all this chaos,” he said, his steel gaze locking onto Soren. “The wanderer with a blade and no purpose.”
Soren tilted his head, his grip on his katana unwavering. “And you must be the ones compensating for something, gathering bandits like stray dogs.”
The smaller one snarled, his lips pulling back into a feral grimace. “Watch your mouth, boy. You won’t have it much longer.”
The shadow-cloaked man raised a hand, stopping his companion in his tracks. “Patience,” he said, his voice calm but cutting. His keen eyes never left Soren. “Let the man have his moment. After all, it might be his last.” His lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes betrayed no warmth.
For a moment, the three stood in tense silence, the flickering flames casting chaotic shadows across the clearing.
Then, the taller man inclined his head slightly, his voice smooth and deliberate. “Allow me to introduce us, since we’re being civil.” He gestured lazily toward himself. “I am Raekor. And this,” his hand swept toward the wiry man beside him, “is Krenja. My loyal… enforcer.”
Soren’s gaze flicked to the smaller man, taking in the jagged gauntlets and the faint crackle of electricity that danced along his frame. “Loyal dog, you mean,” Soren quipped, his tone dry.
Krenja’s hand twitched, his entire body vibrating with fury. “Say that again, and I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Soren interrupted. “Bite me?”
Raekor chuckled softly, though his gaze never lost its edge. “Witty,” he remarked, his tone tinged with condescension. “But wit doesn’t win battles, boy. Skill does. And Krenja has plenty of it. Shall we see if you do, too?”
As the wiry enforcer took another step forward, his lightning-blue eyes locked onto the silver-haired swordsman, the air between them crackling faintly. The shadow-cloaked leader, standing just behind him, shifted his expression—calm confidence giving way to a colder, more calculated edge. His voice cut through the rising roar of the flames like a blade.
“Before we begin,” the tactician said, his tone low and commanding, “let me make something clear. You’ve caused quite the disruption here. The bandits. The hostages. All of it.”
The swordsman didn’t flinch. His grip tightened on the hilt of his katana, the faint gleam of its blade catching the flickering firelight. “And you think I’m just going to let you walk out of here?”
The raven-eyed leader tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk creeping across his face. This time, it was edged with open disdain. “You misunderstand.” His words were slow, deliberate, as though savoring his own superiority. He turned slightly, gesturing toward the distant treeline where shadows moved between the smoke. “I’m not here to fight you. I have… other priorities.”
The swordsman stepped forward, his stance shifting subtly, exuding quiet resolve. His voice was steady, cutting through the heat-thickened air. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Raekor’s gaze flicked back to him, unreadable. For a moment, silence hung between them. Then, with a faint sigh, he dismissed the swordsman with a wave of his hand. “Krenja,” he said, his voice now sharp with authority, “I trust you can handle this?”
In the distance, bandits clashed with mercenaries amidst the collapsing camp. Their yells were punctuated by the clang of weapons and the crack of flames. Several fighters broke ranks, their faces twisted in pain as they clawed at their skin or fell convulsing on the ground. A strange flow flickered along some of their veins, fading just as quickly as it had appeared. Soren’s focus shifted towards the chaos, catching brief glimpses of bodies strewn across the dirt.
The electric-eyed enforcer’s grin widened into something feral, his fingers flexing as sparks crackled faintly along the jagged edges of his gauntlets. “Consider it done,” he said, his tone buzzing with barely restrained glee.
The raven-eyed tactician didn’t linger. He turned sharply, his crimson-trimmed half-cape sweeping through the smoke as he strode away into the chaos. The flickering firelight swallowed him whole, leaving behind only the faint echo of his footsteps.
The camp sprawled across the clearing in rough circles—storage tents and prisoner cages to the west where Ishar fought, the main gathering area to the north where Soren faced Krenja, and the eastern section where Ayola darted between burning supply crates. Between them, chaos erupted as bandits and mercenaries clashed, their forms silhouetted against the growing inferno.
The swordsman and the chaotic enforcer faced each other, the tension palpable. Krenja’s grin stretched wider, his wiry frame vibrating with unrestrained energy. “I’m going to enjoy ripping you apart.” he hissed with a manic edge. Sparks danced brighter along his gauntlets as he raised them, the jagged claws glinting menacingly.
The swordsman’s eyes narrowed, his katana steady in his hands.
Before Raekor turned to leave, he paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as if remembering something. “Oh, and that boy who ran off. Makori, was it?” He tilted his head, his tone almost mockingly casual. “What was it we did to him last time, Krenja? Ah, yes… the lashes. The isolation. That broke him nicely, didn’t it?”
Krenja barked a laugh, his hands crackling faintly with sparks. “He screamed like a wounded animal. Let’s hope he makes it back here. I’d love to finish what we started.”
Soren’s knuckles turned white around the hilt of his blade, his body tensing at the mention of Makori. His voice was low and dangerous. “You won’t lay a hand on him again.”
Raekor smiled faintly. “Bold words. Let’s see if you can back them up.” Without another glance, the raven-clad antagonist faded into the shadows, leaving the crackling enforcer to step forward.
Krenja rolled his shoulders, the sparks from his gauntlets crackling louder as he stepped forward. “You should’ve stayed quiet,” he said, his voice buzzing with barely-contained energy. “Now, I’ll make sure you can’t speak at all.”
Soren raised his blade, his expression unreadable. “Funny. You bark loud for a mutt that’s about to be put down.”
Krenja grinned wickedly, his form blurring with speed as he lunged forward, his gauntlets sparking with raw power.
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The camp was chaos—flames licking the edges of the clearing, distant screams echoing as bandits and mercenaries scrambled in disarray.
Amidst the flames, Ishar caught glimpses of fighters dropping their weapons to clutch at their heads. One stumbled, his muscles spasming unnaturally as he fell to his knees. Another bandit tore as his own arm, a faint glow spreading across his veins before his eyes rolled back.
From his position near the central gathering area, the tribal warrior could hear the distant sounds of Soren's battle echoing from the western edge. Closer at hand, the chaos of collapsing tents and burning supplies created a maze of destruction between him and his goal.
Ishar’s jaw tightened as he forced his focus forward. Whatever was happening, it wasn't natural.
Ishar stood at the edge of the fray, his spear steady in his hands as he ushered the last group of freed hostages toward the safety of the forest. His sharp amber eyes scanned the battlefield, every sense attuned to the danger that still lurked.
And then he heard it.
A cry—a brief, choked sound—cut through the cacophony of battle. Faint, but unmistakable.
Ishar’s breath caught, his focus narrowing. He turned, his gaze slicing through the smoke and flames until it landed on her. Ayola.
The snow-powdered tactician was struggling against a hulking figure, his iron grip on her arm like a vice. Despite his enormous stature, he moved with an unsettling grace, the runed daggers at his belt catching the firelight. She stumbled, clutching her satchel tightly to her side, her face set with defiance even as exhaustion weighed her down. The man dragged her relentlessly, his movements deliberate and cruel.
Ishar’s jaw tightened. His grip on his spear shifted, muscles coiling as he prepared to charge toward her. But before he could move, a sound stopped him cold—a heavy, deliberate footfall.
The air thickened with a suffocating presence, and then a figure emerged from the smoke like a nightmare given form.
The man was massive, his towering frame seemingly too large for the battlefield around him. Flames danced across his jagged armor, the blackened plates etched with deep scars from countless battles. A monstrous greataxe rested casually on his shoulder, its uneven blade gleaming faintly with the etchings of strange runes. His bronze skin was slick with sweat and soot, crisscrossed with dark scars like grotesque trophies of a violent life.
The ancestral warrior’s sharp amber gaze locked onto the newcomer, instincts screaming at him to be wary. The man’s burning brown eyes swept over him, and his lips curled into a grin that showed far too many teeth—sharp, uneven, and menacing. The cruel humor in his gaze was matched only by the sadistic delight burning beneath it.
“Well, well,” the hulking mercenary rumbled, his voice rough as gravel and just as unforgiving. “The noble protector.” He took a slow step forward, each movement a study in terrifying control. “I was wondering when we’d meet.”
Ishar said nothing, his spear twirling once in his hands as he shifted his stance. His amber eyes flicked over the man’s form, cataloging every detail—every scar, every weak point. He could feel the oppressive weight of the brute’s presence pressing against him, but he stood firm.
The mercenary’s grin widened, and he rolled his shoulders, the jagged plates of his armor clinking softly with the motion. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said, dragging his greataxe from his shoulder and planting it in the dirt with a dull thud. “I’ll make it quick. Well… quick enough.”
Ishar’s grasp held fast. He didn’t know the man’s name, but it didn’t matter. He could see the cruelty in his eyes, the unrelenting strength in his movements. Whoever he was, he was one of them—one of the men who had taken his people. And now he was in Ishar’s way.
“Move,” The ancestral warrior stated coldly, his voice cutting through the inferno’s howl.
The brute tilted his head, his grin widening as though Ishar’s words were amusing. “Oh, I don’t think so.” His gaze flicked toward the clearing where Ayola’s struggles had begun to falter under the relentless grip of her captor. “She’s got her hands full, doesn’t she?”
He turned back to Ishar, his grin twisting into something darker. “But you—you’ve got me.”
The bronze-skinned giant adjusted his grip on his greataxe, swinging it in a slow, deliberate arc that carved a gouge into the dirt. His stance shifted coiled and ready. “And I’m going to enjoy this.”
Ishar’s spear spun once in his hands, the polished weapon gleaming faintly in the firelight but his gaze remained locked on his opponent.
“They broke so beautifully,” The bronze-skinned giant continues, his tone almost conversational. “All that pride, all that fire—it crumbled so quickly. Do you know what they screamed for at the end? Not freedom. Not revenge. Just mercy.”
Ishar takes a sharp step forward, his spear slicing through the air in a warning strike that forces Varek to sidestep. “Careful,” Ishar says, his voice low and controlled. “Your mouth is writing checks your body can’t cash.”
Varek grins wider, his excitement palpable. “There it is! That fire I heard about. Good. I’d hate for you to be boring.”
Without warning, Varek charges, his speed belying his behemoth frame. The greataxe whistles through the air, and Ishar narrowly avoids the strike, the weapon cleaving a deep gouge into the ground where he had stood.
Ishar moves fluidly, his spear singing out in a series of rapid thrusts aimed at Varek’s exposed joints. Each strike is met with a deflection or evasion, Varek’s movements surprisingly precise for someone of his size.
“You’re quick,” Varek admits, swinging his greataxe in a wide arc that forces Ishar to leap back. “But that’s all you’ve got, isn’t it? Speed and precision. No real power behind it.”
Ishar doesn’t respond, instead circling his opponent, his spear weaving intricate patterns in the air as he searches for an opening.
The moment came without warning. Varek charged, his immense frame moving with alarming speed, the ground trembling under his weight. His greataxe, an imposing weapon etched with cruel, jagged runes, cut through the air with a deep, ominous hum. The blade cleaved into the dirt where Ishar had stood only a moment earlier, the force of the strike sending shards of earth flying.
Ishar moved like the rustling canopy above his homeland, his spear spinning in precise arcs. His footing was light, deliberate, his movements honed by the teachings of his ancestors. Every twist of his body, every turn of his spear spoke of balance, a discipline born of nature’s unpredictable rhythm.
He struck quickly, his spear darting forward in a series of sharp thrusts aimed at The bronze-skinned giant’s exposed joints. But the brute was an enigma. Despite his towering size, he twisted his body with unnatural flexibility, deflecting the strikes with a fluidity that was both mesmerizing and monstrous.
Varek’s greataxe came around in a sweeping arc, forcing Ishar to leap back, his sandaled feet barely touching the ground before he pivoted to avoid another devastating swing.
‘My people trusted me to protect them. I won’t let their pain be for nothing.’
The rush of displaced air tugged at the edges of his cloak.
“You’re quick,” Varek admitted, his grin wide and feral. His muscles rippled as he rolled his shoulders, the act accompanied by an unsettling series of cracks. “But that’s all you’ve got, isn’t it? Speed and precision. No real power behind it.”
Ishar didn’t respond. His spear, an extension of his will, wove an intricate dance in the firelit clearing as he circled his opponent. Each step was calculated, the subtle shifts of his weight rooted in the teachings of Tahar’qet, the art of fluid defense and pinpoint strikes.
‘Push him far enough, and even a monster’s bones must break’
His sharp amber eyes scanned the towering brute’s towering form, searching for an opening.
Varek, however, loomed with a menacing confidence, his greataxe dragging through the dirt as though mocking Ishar’s lighter weapon. Sparks flickered where the blade carved into the ground, and his dark eyes glimmered with cruel amusement. “Come on, little tree-hugger,” he taunted, his deep voice a rumble. “Show me what your people are made of.”
Varek charged once more, the earth beneath his massive boots quaked, his gargantuan frame barreling forward with his ferocious momentum. The great axe swung in a deadly arc, carving through the air with a sharp whistle.
Ishar was already moving. He evaded effortlessly, his movements fluid as the streams of his home, the spear in his hand a blur of polished steel. The axe smashed into the ground, sending a spray of dirty and stone skyward. The spear wielder didn’t hesitate, twisting into a low crouch, his spear flashing forward in a thrust towards the behemoth’s exposed side.
Varek’s grin widened as he twisted unnaturally, his massive torso contorting just enough to avoid the spear’s edge. His laughter boomed over the clash of metal and the roaring flames around them. “You missed!” He jeered, his tone dripping with condescension.
Ishar didn’t reply. Instead, he pulled his spear back in a defensive flourish, as he looked for an opening as he encircled the monsterous warrior. Each step was deliberate, a master of Tahar’qet, the ancestral art of balance and precision. His movements never wasted an ounce of energy.
Varek lunged again, his greataxe cleaving through the air in a flurry of savage arcs. He swung with the unrelenting force of a man who believed brute strength alone would overpower his opponent. But Ishar flowed like the winds, weaving through the onslaught with uncanny easy.
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The jagged blade of Varek’s axe missed Ishar’s head by inches, slicing the the air with a deafening whoosh. Ishar ducked low, pivoting gracefully as the next swing came down like a hammer. Another miss. Varek snarled in frustration, his attacks gaining speed but losing precision.
“Hold still you bug.”
“You’re slow,” Ishar said evenly, his voice calm and measured.
Varek’s grin faltered for a second before twisting into something darker. He stepped forward once more, his muscles coiling with tension. This time, his strikes came faster, and heavier. Ishar parried one blow with the shaft of his spear, his hand steady despite the jarring impact. He stepped back to evade another, spinning to the side as he overextended.
This was his moment. He struck with surgical precision, driving the serrated edge of his spear towards the tendons in the colossal mercenary’s arms. The towering mercenary barely managed to twist out of the way, the blade grazing his skin. He bellowed in frustration, his massive arm swinging the greataxe in a wild horizontal arc.
Ishar didn’t flinch. He bent his body backward, the axe slicing just above his chest. His feet shifted smoothly, and he planted his weight firmly as the man stumbled forward from the momentum of his swing.
Ishar’s sharp eyes caught it—a faint tension in the mercenary’s shoulders. Varek was already winding up for another strike, the muscles in his back coiling like a predator ready to pounce. The spear warrior’s grip tighten on his weapon as he anticipated the movement, his mind calculating the exact moment of impact.
Vare roared as he swung downward, the greataxe whistling toward Ishar like an Executioner's blade but Ishar didn't move to dodge. Instead, he shifted his weight forward, the spear in his hands rising with perfect timing.
The serrated tip of the spear caught the edge of the greataxe, halting it’s descent mid-swing. The collision was precise—so exact that the blade wobbled slightly against the spear’s head but didn't push through.
Varek’s eyes widened in disbelief, his monstrous grin replaced by a flicker of shock.
Ishar’s voice pierced the moment cold and sharp as a blade. “You attack like a beast, but you leave yourself wide open.”
Without waiting for a response, he pivoted his spear twisting expertly to redirect the axe’s weight. Varek stumbled, caught off guard by the sudden maneuver. Ishar struck swiftly, delivering a crushing kick to his chest. The strike sent the giant reeling, his towering frame almost losing balance.
Varek recovered quickly, his hand gripping his greataxe tightly as he steadied himself. His expression was different now—gone was the smug confidence, replaced by a simmering rage.
“Not bad, tree-hugger,” he mocked. “But I’ve fought stronger.”
Ishar didnt react to the taunt. His spear sprung in his hands, the polished steel catching the fight light as he resumed his stance. His amber eyes were cold, unreadable, but there was a quiet intensity in his posture—a reaction of the strength that had earned him the respect of his people.
Varek lunged again, this time Ishar was ready. He shifted his body fluidly, his spear moving like an extension of himself. He struck Varek’s shoulder with the blunt end of the weapon, a precise blow that forced the mercenary to twist awkwardly. As the colossal mercenary retaliatiated, Ishar ducked low, his movements so seamless that it was as though he was dancing.
Each exchange showcased their stark difference. Varek’s brute force was chaotic, wild, and unrelenting. Ishar’s precision, by contrast, was almost supernatural, each strike designed to exploit even the smallest opening.
It was then that Ishar noticed something unsettling. As Varek twisted to avoid another thrust, his movements became…wrong. His torso bent at an angle that no human should achieve, his spine contorting in a way that sent a ripple of unease though Ishar. The jungle guardian’s brown furrowed as he stepped back, his spear poised.
“What are you…?” Ishar questioned, his voice low.
Varek’s grin returned, wider and more unsettling than before. “Oh, you’ll find out soon enough.”
He lunged again, his body twisting unnaturally mid-strike, the axe’s trajectory curving as if it had a mind of its own. Ishar narrowly avoided the attack, his feet sliding against the dirt as he pushed back. For the first time in the fight, he felt a flicker of unease.
The firelight flickered around them, casting long shadows as the tension grew. Ishar’s spear was steady in his hands, his breath measured despite the strain of the battle. But his sharp eyes remained fixed on Varek, analyzing every unnatural movement, every contortion of his body.
This wasn’t a simple fight anymore. Something was wrong—something Ishar couldn’t quite define. He tightened his grip on his spear, his mind racing as he prepared for whatever came next.
For his people, the memory of their strength, he would not falter.
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The air was thick with smoke, the roaring flames casting erratic shadows across the battlefield. Ayola’s heart raced as she struggled against the iron holding her by the hair. The scarred pursuer’s laughter rumbled in her ears, low and cutting through the din of the camp’s destruction.
"You've got spirit," he thundered, yanking her closer. His scarred face split into a cruel grin.
"Aedor's going to enjoy breaking that spirit."
Aedor's pursuit had driven her deeper into the maze of burning supplies and collapsed structures that filled the camp's central area. The sounds of Ishar's battle with Varek carried through the smoke somewhere to her left, while Soren's conflict with Krenja seemed distant now, barely audible over the roaring flames.
She twisted sharply, driving her elbow into his side.
Ayola twisted sharply, driving her elbow into his side. The sudden impact loosened his hold just enough for her to slip free, stumbling a few steps before regaining her footing.
The air was thick with smoke and heat, flames devouring what remained of the bandit camp. Ayola’s boots crunched against the scorched ground as she darted behind a stack of charred crates, her dagger gripped tightly in her hand.
Her amber eyes scanned around for an opening—or an escape. The crates and supplies around them had begun to smolder, and the smoke made it harder to keep track
A low, mocking laugh echoed through the chaos. “Run all you like, little mouse,” Aedor called, his deep voice cutting through the the fire’s fury. “I enjoy the chase.”
Ayola peeked around the edge of the crates, her sharp eyes locking onto the massive figure silhouetted against the firelight. Aedor was walking leisurely, his gauntlets sparking faintly as he flexed his fingers. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, like a predator toying with its prey.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Aedor said, tilting his head as he scanned the shadows. “I like to know who I’m breaking. Makes it more personal.”
Her voice came from the darkness, sharp and steady. “You won’t live long enough to remember it.”
Aedor chuckled, a low, guttural sound. “Bold. I like that. But you’ll break, like all the others. And when you do, I’ll make sure it’s slow.”
The nimble strategist’s heart pounded as she moved swiftly through the wreckage, her mind racing. The smoke was thick, stinging her eyes and filling her lungs, but she forced herself to stay focused. Every step she took was calculated, her eyes darting between potential cover and escape routes.
Aedor’s heavy footsteps echoed behind her, deliberate and unhurried. “You can hide all you want,” he called, his tone almost playful. “But I can smell your fear.”
She ignored his taunts, slipping into the shadows of a half-collapsed tent. Her fingers brushed against the hilt of her kama, and she pulled it free, the curved blade glinting faintly in the firelight. If he got too close, she’d make him regret it.
Aedor’s voice grew closer. “You’re clever. I’ll give you that. But cleverness only gets you so far.”
A sudden crash made Ayola whirl around. Aedor had slammed his gauntlet into a nearby stack of barrels, splintering them effortlessly. His eyes gleamed with sadistic glee as he spotted her.
“There you are,” he said, a grin spreading across his face. His pale blue eyes gleamed with predatory intensity through his untamed blond waves, his face carved with the sharp angles of casual cruelty. Despite his large frame, he moved with an unsettling fluidity, his black leather armor creaking softly with each step. Twin daggers hung at his belt, their hilts etched with strange, shimmering runes that caught the firelight.
The strategist bolted, her kama and dagger in hand as she zigzagged through the wreckage.
The chaos around her was escalating–mercenaries and bandits were at each other's throat, their shouts and screams punctuated by clashes of metal. One bandit lunged at her in desperation, his blade glowing faintly from the reflection of the flames. She easily evaded him, his wild swing embedded into a nearby crate as Aedor’s heavy footsteps thundered closer behind her.
The acrid smoke stung her lungs, and the heat bore down her skin like a living thing. Her movements were fluid despite the chaos, her thoughts crystallizing into pure instinct as she searched for an edge.
Aedor blocked her escape, his frame looming as he stepped closer with predatory grace. His pale blue eyes gleamed in the firelight, wild blond hair framing his cruel smile as the flames cast dancing shadows across his sharp features.
Ayola’s back was to a wall of burning wreckage, her options dwindling by the second.
“You're quick, I’ll give you that,” he snarled, rolling his shoulders. His gauntlets sparked faintly, the heat of the fire reflecting in his crazed eyes. “But you’re running out of tricks, little mouse. Let’s see if you can actually fight.”
She excelled sharply, her chest heaving as she shifted her stance, in her hands fun once in a controlled art, her dagger raised defensively in the other. Her amber eyes locked onto his, sharp and unyielding, despite the fatigue setting into her limbs.
“You’ll regret asking that.” With a burst of speed, she close the distance between them, her Kama sweeping low towards his legs. The blade bit into his shin, drawing a sharp grunt from him as he adjusted his footing. Before he could counter, she spun on her heel, using the momentum to lash upward with her dagger. The blade grazed his side, carving a shallow cut into his armor’s exposed joint.
His grin didn't falter. If anything it grew wider.
“Not bad,” he rumbled, mocking as he flexed his fingers. “Keep going. I’m starting to feel something.”
‘This isn’t working. He’s barely feeling it. I have to find another way.’
Ayola darted back her weapons spinning in her hands as she reassessed. He was slow, but massive, and his blows would be devastating if they landed. She needed to keep him off-balance with a faint towards his right;she forced him to pivot, exposing his left side. Her Kama slashed across his thigh and her dagger with a quick jab to his shoulder.
For a moment, Ayola felt a flicker of triumph. The precision of her strikes had opened up shallow wounds along his body, and she pressed forward aiming for his ribs. But then he laughed—a deep, cackle that send chills down her spine.
“Not bad for a mouse,” he scoffed. “But you’re playing with fire.”
He lunged forward, his large frame belying his fluid grace as he struck at her head.. She ducked as she redirected his swing with the handle of her dagger. His arm twisted slightly off course, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. The gauntlet grazed her shoulders as it passed, sending sparking flying.
Capitalizing on the opening, she twisted her Kama downward, slicing into the back of his knee. Cleanly, forcing him to stumble. An oppuntinity—his chest was exposed. She lunged, her blade ready to strike.
But his body twisted unnaturally, his elbow snapping backwards in a motion that defied logic. She caught the movement just in time.She braced herself, raising her forearms as the brutal impact slammed into her guard. The force sent her skidding backward, her boots kicking up soot and ash as she struggled to regain her footing.
“Close,” The scarred pursuer growled. “But not enough.”
Ayola winced, her arm throbbing from the blow. Her breaths came quick and shallow as she steadied herself.
‘I can’t match his strength. But, maybe I don't have to win. Staying alive long enough for the others to get out is enough.’ She could see the raw power radiating off him now. This wasn’t a fight she could win—but she wasn’t done yet
She darted into a patch of tangled wreckage—collapsed tents and shattered crates strewn across the ground. Pausing for a heartbeat, she seized a loose plank and shoved it sharply against the crumbling frame of a nearby tent. The wood groaned loudly, teetering before crashing to the ground with a deafening clatter. Without missing a beat, The tactician slipped deeper into the shadows, her movements silent and deliberate.
Aedor’s heavy footsteps stopped. She crouched low, listening, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. Through the smoke and firelight, she caught his silhouette, paused near the collapsed tent. His head tilted slightly, and for a moment, she dared to hope he’d taken the bait.
The silence stretched taut.
Then, like a thunderclap, his voice boomed through the chaos. “You think I’m that stupid?” His laughter was wild, edged with madness. “You can’t hide from me, little mouse!”
Before she could react, an arm shot through the torn canvas beside her, ripping through the fabric with terrifying force. She stumbled back, barely avoiding the fist as they swiped the air where her shoulder had been. The fabric fluttered in the firelit wind, framing Aedor’s face as it appeared through the gap—a mask of sadistic glee, his hair flailing wildly in the rising heat.
“There you are,” he snarled, his voice a guttural growl. His eyes burned with a twisted delight, the firelight reflecting off his sweat-slicked skin. “Run, little mouse. Run while you still can.”
Ayola scrambled to her feet, her chest heaving. She darted away as The pale-eyed hunter tore through the wreckage, his frame bulldozing through wood and fabric like it was paper. The inferno’s voice rose to a demeaning crescendo and the ground trembled faintly beneath her as she pushed herself harder, refusing to look back.
Ayola pressed herself against a crumbling wall, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. The flames were everywhere now, the air thick with smoke and ash. She could feel the heat seeping into her skin, but she forced herself to stay focused.
Aedor’s voice echoed through the chaos. “You can’t run forever, little mouse. And when I catch you…” His laughter sent a chill down her spine. “I’ll make sure you regret every step.”
She tightened her grip on her kama, her mind racing. The odds weren’t in her favor, but she wasn’t done yet.
Aedor’s laughter echoed through the burning camps as he advanced on her, his gauntlet sparking with a menacing glow “Come on, little mouse. Is that all you’ve got?”
Ayola darted to the side, her dagger flashing as she struck his exposed flank. He caught the blade with his gauntlet, twisting it violently. The weapon flew from her grip, embedding itself into the charred ground.
He closed the distance in an instant, his fist slamming into her stomach. The impact sent her crashing into a pile of the breeze, the air knocked out from her lungs. She gasped, struggling to rise as Aedor loomed over her.
“Look at you,” he mocked, grabbing her by the collar and lifting her effortlessly. “ So small. So fragile. Do you really think you can win?”
The fire roared louder, the heat pressing against her skin as she struggled in Aedor’s grasp. Around them, the camp was collapsing, beam intense, consumed by the inferno. The smoke was suffocating, each breath was a struggle.
Aedor's grip tightened as he leaned in close, pale blue eyes glinting with cruel amusement, his voice a low growl. “You’re nothing, little mouse. Just another weakling pretending to be strong. ”
Ayola’s eyes flashed with determination as she reached for a splintered beam nearby. With a burst of strength, she drove the sharp end into Aedor’s arm. He howled in pain, dropping her as blood seeped from the wound.
She hit the ground hard, her body arching from the impact. But she forced herself to move, scrambling to her feet and grabbing her Kama. The flames were closing in, the heat unbearable, but she refused to back down.
Aedor’s eyes burned with fury as he yanked the beam from his arm, tossing it aside like a twig. His gauntlets crackled with energy as he advanced on Ayola, his movements more aggressive now.
“You’re starting to annoy me,” he snarled, his voice losing its mocking edge.
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Krenja launched forward, his speed a blur as he closed the gap between them in an instant. Soren barely had time to shift his weight before the first strike came—a sweeping clawed gauntlet aimed straight for his throat. Soren ducked low, feeling the air crackle where the blade-like claws passed overhead.
“You’re slow,” Krenja mocked, pivoting sharply to bring his elbow crashing towards Soren’s temple. The strike came faster than The seasoned warrior expected, but his instinct guided him; he twisted away, catching Krenja’s arm and redirecting the momentum. Krenja recovered instantly, his feet shifting in a tight, unorthodox rhythm, his body low and predatory.
The movements were sharp and economical, designed to strike and maim with maximum efficiency. But it wasn’t just the style—it was the way the crazed man wielded it, adding erratic flourishes that made his attacks harder to predict.
He stepped back, letting Krenja close in again. Another lunge—a feint this time—followed by a low sweep aimed at Soren’s legs. Our protagonist leapt over the strike, countering with a sharp knee aimed for the blonde’s jaw. Krenja deflected it with his forearm and retaliated with a rapid series of punches, each one punctuated by the metallic scrape of his gauntlet claws.
“Not bad,” Krenja commented, grinning through clenched teeth as Soren caught one of his strikes and twisted his arm into a lock. “But not good enough.”
Soren’s eyes narrowed as his opponent twisted out of the lock with a burst of flexibility, bringing his knee up into the katana wielder’s ribs. The blow connected, driving the air from his lungs, but Soren didn’t falter. He stepped back, reassessing, his combat awareness flooding his mind.
‘He’s fast, but wild. The claw makes him overextend. I can use that.’
Soren shifted his stance, his movement’s flowing like water as he fainted forward. Krenja lunged to meet him, slashing with his claw, but Soren weaved around the strike. His open palm struck Krenja’s shoulder, spinning him slightly off balance, but Krenja countered with a low kick aimed at Soren’s knee.
The kick narrowly missed Soren and spun away, his hands coming up in a guarded stance. The two circled each other now, both assessing, their footwork mirroring a deadly dance. Krenja struck again, a wild flurry of elbows and Claude jabs but Soren moved with precision deflecting each blow with fluid parries.
“Dancing won’t save you,” Krenja grated, switching tactics. He swept low again, his claws tearing into the dirt before spinning into a leaping strike aimed at his chest. Soren side stepped at the last moment, delivering a sharp counter mid below his knee to Krenja midsection.
Krenja laughed, staggering slightly but recovering quickly. “You’re not bad, little man. But you’ll have to try harder than that.”
Krenja leapt once more, Soren saw the deadly glint of the small blade extending from Krenja’s clawed gauntlet. It sliced his neck with blinding speed. The swordsman eyes narrowed, his hand already moving as instinct took over.
Sparks exploded from the clash, the ringing sound of metal meeting metal echoing sharply. Soren staggered back a few inches, his boots skidding slightly against the earth, his grip didn’t falter.
“Ya done playin’?” Krenja mocked, extending the retractable blade with a metallic click. electricity dancing like angry stars faintly along the edge of the weapon. “Good. Now let’s see how ya bleed.”
Soren didn’t respond, his focus sharpening as he let his style evolve. He darted forward, his katana slicing in precise arcs, each strike aiming to test Krenja’s defenses. Krenja met him head-on, his clawed gauntlets blocking some strikes while others careened off his lightweight armor.
The rhythm of the fight shifted as Soren began incorporating his escrima stick into the flow of his movements. In one hand, his katana delivered slashes and thrusts; in the other, the escrima stick struck with rapid, blunt force. Krenja snarled in frustration as Soren’s dual weapon forced him onto the defensive.
“Getting tired already?” Soren taunted, his voice calm despite the strain in his muscles.
Krenja’s grin widened, his teeth bared.
“Not even close.”
As the fight dragged on, Soren noticed the faint sparks dancing along Krenja’s gauntlets growing brighter. Each strike carried a subtle charge now, enough to make Soren’s hands tingle whenever he deflected a blow.
‘What is this?’
“You feel that?” Krenja buzzed with an edge of mania. “You don’t stand a chance.”
Soren didn’t reply. Instead, he focused on adapting to Krenja’s increasing speed, using the Ravenstorm Dance to keep himself unpredictable. His strikes became more fluid, more seamless, transitioning between hand-to-hand and weapon strikes with a grace that belied the chaos of the battle.
Despite his adaptability, Soren began to feel the strain. Krenja’s strikes were relentless, forcing Soren to expend more energy just to keep up. A particularly brutal exchange left Soren with a shallow cut along his forearm, the searing reminder a stark reminder of how close Krenja’s claws had come to something vital.
‘He’s too fast,’ his breath was coming in short bursts. ‘I have to slow him down’
Soren’s mind raced as he analyzed the battlefield. The flames around them had grown higher, and the smoke was thickening, making visibility harder. He decided to use it to his advantage.
He feinted another direct attack, forcing Krenja to lunge forward. At the last moment, Soren pivoted, sweeping his chain whip from his belt snapping it towards Krenja’s legs. The whip wrapped around his ankles and with a snap, Soren sent him crashing to the ground.
Krenja rolled to his feet quickly, but his expression changed. Gone with the overconfident smirk—in its place was a flicker of genuine rage.
“You’re a slippery one,” he spat, sparking flying from his gauntlets as he slammed them together. “But this ends now.”
Somewhere behind them, another person let out an inhuman scream. Soren didn't need to look to know something was wrong. He could hear the wet snapping of bones and growls that didn't sound like it belonged to man. Whatever was happening in the camp, it was spreading quickly, and it was unnatural.
The ground around them seemed to vibrate faintly before sparks along his gauntlets erupted into arcs of lightning.
Soren’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on his katana.
“Shit can never be easy, can it?”
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