Chapter 47

John's gaze shifted from his bound hand to the snarling goblin secured on the tree, its features contorted in a grotesque display of rage, the death of its companion hardly had an effect on its expressions.

Sarge's voice cut through the tense silence, devoid of any warmth or encouragement. "You ready, kid?" he asked him, his tone flat and indifferent.

John's eyes flickered to Alex, who lay battered and bloody on the ground nearby, before returning to Sarge. "Yes sir, ready as can be," he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of interest.

With a nod from Sarge, the goblin was released from its bindings, its movements frenzied and erratic. Unlike the goblin that Alex had faced, this one seemed consumed by pure, unbridled rage, its eyes blazed with fury as it tensed its unrestricted limbs.

And without hesitation, the goblin charged towards John with blitzing speed, its mouth frothing with white foam like a rabid animal. The air seemed to crackle with tension as it closed in with its sharp claws outstretched and its dark teeth bared in a vicious arc.

In contrast, John stood his ground, his muscles relaxed as his senses sharpened contorting his vision to a point where time seemed to slow down allowing John to observe every minute detail occurring before his very eyes.

From the other’s perspective, the goblin may have moved fast but, in his eyes, he saw nothing but a snail, in fact, the goblin was moving extremely slow. It was as if the creature was moving through molasses, its every movement exaggerated and sluggish.

With his current prowess, John could have dispatched the goblin with ease. A simple flick of his wrist or a well-placed slap would have been enough to end the creature's life in an instant. But that was not the challenge he faced.

Instead, the true test lay in suppressing his inner instincts as a trained assassin. His current mind buzzed with countless strategies and techniques; each one designed to dispatch his opponent with ruthless efficiency.

But John knew that revealing his true strength was not an option. He had to maintain the facade, lest he drew unwanted attention to himself. He had no intention of showing off, that much was clear to him.

Even as he watched the goblin draw nearer, John remained unmoving as his thoughts turned to Alex and his unconventional approach to combat or their lack of. The idea of feigning cowardice crossed his mind briefly, but he quickly dismissed it.

The mere thought of allowing himself to be struck by a lowly creature while cowering on the ground filled him with revulsion. No, he found that disgusting and utterly idiotic.

In fact, he doubted if he could play the part successfully.

"So, how should I kill it?" he mused to himself.

John unsheathed his sword with deliberate care. He inspected the blade for a brief moment, feeling the unfamiliar grip he had on the hilt, appreciating the fact that this very moment was the first time he had actively wielded a sword.

But be that as it may, his movements were fluid and practiced. Afterall, he had observed countless swordsmen among the pawns, studying their techniques with a keen eye and committing them to memory for survival.

Mimicking their basic stances and nuanced movements was naught but a simple task for him.

Now, as he faced the goblin, he drew upon those imagery, channeling it into his own movements.

With both hands gripping the hilt of the sword, John held it steady as the goblin drew nearer, its wild eyes fixed on him with unbridled rage. He could sense the killing intent oozing from the creature, it wanted to kill him, to devour him; John felt it, he was very familiar with that sensation.

It was a resonating feeling, he felt strange, he felt excited.

As soon as the goblin entered his range, John acted with calculated precision. With a swift, controlled motion, he executed a light slash aimed at the creature's chest, the blade slicing through its green skin with a sharp hiss.

The result: A thin red line across the goblin’s chest.

Without missing a beat, John sidestepped to evade the goblin's counterattack, his movements smooth and effortless. He watched with utter boredom, the clawed hand swiping in front of his eyes in slow motion.

Even so, the goblin, now wounded and still fueled by rage, lunged forward with renewed fury, its claws slashing through the air, but John was half a step ahead, sidestepping around the path of attack.

"Very good!" came Sarge's voice from the sidelines, his tone now brimming with approval.

"Now, cut it down! Don't give it any more chance"

John heard Sarge's words and decided to end it swiftly as ordered. "Well, if you say so," he thought to himself. With calculated determination, John stopped dodging the goblin's furious attacks.

He raised his sword high, and in one fluid motion, he brought it down diagonally, aiming for the goblin's neck. The strike was deliberate, visible to everyone watching, but executed with just enough restraint to avoid revealing his true prowess.

The blade bit into the goblin's neck, cutting deep into its cervical spine. Blood spurted from the wound in a gruesome spray, drenching the ground and splattering onto John's arms and armor. The goblin's enraged cries were abruptly silenced, its body freezing in shock. Its eyes bulged in a grotesque mix of pain and disbelief as it teetered on the brink of death.

Sarge's laughter echoed from the sidelines, a harsh, fervent sound that cut through the tension. "Finish it off!" he bellowed, his voice brimming with approval and sadistic satisfaction.

John glanced at Sarge, then back at the goblin, whose life was rapidly ebbing away. He twisted his sword slightly, feeling the blade grind against bone, before yanking it free in a swift, practiced motion.

Gradually, the goblin's head lolled unnaturally to one side, barely attached to its body. And with one final, decisive swing, John severed the remaining flesh and sinew, sending the head tumbling to the ground.

He watched as Blood pooled around the goblin's lifeless body, the once-enraged creature now reduced to a gory, silent heap.

John stepped back, his breathing slightly ajar, his expression slightly exhausted and his stance slightly slouched.

Yet despite that, Sarge nodded, a sinister smile fixed on his lips as he surveyed the scene. "Good work, recruit," he said, his voice a mix of approval and dark amusement.

"At least you've got the guts," Sarge scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain as he cast a sidelong glance at Alex.

The snarky words hung in the air like an ill-placed comment and the implication was clear: John had shown the courage and ruthlessness expected of a soldier, while Alex had failed miserably.

Alex, now standing off to the side, flinched at Sarge's words. He knew they were aimed at him, a verbal dagger meant to twist in the wound of his humiliation. He could feel those eyes as his grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. He kept his head bowed, unable to meet anyone's gaze.

John, having just finished his brutal execution of the goblin, wiped the blood from his sword with a piece of cloth, something he took after Sarge. He then glanced at Alex, his expression unreadable. There was no gloating, no superiority in his gaze—just a cold, detached curiosity.

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He sheathed his sword and turned away, leaving Alex to wrestle with his emotions.

Sarge, meanwhile, didn't let up. He approached Alex, his boots crunching on the blood-soaked ground. "Look at me," he ordered, his voice low and menacing.

Alex hesitated, then slowly lifted his head to meet Sarge's piercing gaze. His eyes were red, his face pale. The fear and shame were still evident in his expression.

"You think you can survive out here with that kind of weakness?" Sarge hissed. "You think the Neros will show you mercy? Or the goblins, or anything else that lurks in these vile lands? You're a coward, Alex. And out here, cowards get people killed."

Alex swallowed hard, the lump in his throat made it difficult to breathe. He wanted to defend himself, to say something—anything—that would restore a shred of his dignity. But the words wouldn't come. All he could do was stand there, feeling the weight of Sarge's gaze and his own crushing sense of failure.

"You're lucky you have comrades who can pick up your slack," Sarge continued, his voice whipped. "But don't think for a second that your luck will hold. Next time, there might not be anyone to save you."

With that, Sarge turned away, leaving Alex standing alone in the clearing. The sun was still high, casting harsh shadows on the ground. The smell of blood and death lingered in the air, a bitter taste for those involved.

..

Bull, Hawk, and Rook returned to the clearing, their expressions flat and uninterested. They had scouted the area, fulfilling Barnes' order, but the mission seemed uneventful. Bull’s heavy footsteps crunched on the dried leaves, Hawk's eyes scanned the surroundings lazily, and Rook walked with a bored slouch, picking his teeth with a small twig.

"All clear, as usual," Hawk grumbled.

"Nothing out there but trees and more trees. No sign of any more goblins." Hawk added rolling his eyes, clearly unimpressed with the routine nature of their task.

Rook, with a smirk, chimed in, "Well, at least we didn't have to deal with any more of those ugly little bastards. Boring as hell, but I'll take it over goblin guts any day."

Barnes nodded, not surprised by their reports. "Good. Stay sharp, though. Just because it’s quiet doesn’t mean we let our guard down."

John watched this interaction from his spot against a tree, a faint smile playing on his lips. He observed the camaraderie, the casualness of their banter. It was so different from what he had known. At the Order, every interaction was laced with suspicion and hidden agendas. The pawns were always scheming, always looking for an opportunity to advance their position by any means necessary.

Here, though, there was a rough kind of camaraderie. Even though they weren't exactly friends, there was a mutual understanding and a lack of the constant paranoia that defined his former life. He found this ordinary interaction strangely fascinating, almost amusing.

"Just keep an eye out," Barnes continued, addressing the three men. "We can’t afford to be caught with our pants down and with thumbs in our assess."

Hawk gave a mock salute. "Aye, aye, boss. I’ll definitely keep my eyes peeled."

Bull just grunted in acknowledgment, while Rook chuckled, twirling the twig in his fingers. "Yeah, yeah, we got it."

As the group settled back into a semblance of routine, John continued to watch, his mind drifting. The simplicity of their interactions, the straightforwardness, was almost alien to him.

"Different world," John muttered to himself, almost wistfully. He leaned back against the tree, closing his eyes for a moment, enjoying the rare sense of peace. Though that feeling was assured by his confidence in being able to kill everyone present in the clearing.

John’s lips curled into a slight, sinister smile as he savored the thought. The same peace he felt, the comfort of observing these ordinary soldiers, was underpinned by a dark, almost predatory assurance. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he could kill everyone here. It wasn’t bravado or idle fantasy; it was a cold, hard fact.

In his mind's eye, he saw the scene unfold with clinical precision. Bull, with his brute strength, would be the first. A quick, precise strike to the neck—down he’d go, his massive frame collapsing like a felled tree.

Hawk would be next; his keen eyes would be a threat if given the chance to react, but John wouldn't give him that chance. A swift thrust, straight to the heart. Rook, despite his agile form, would barely have time to reach for his weapon before John's blade found his throat.

Even Sarge, the grizzled veteran, wouldn’t stand a chance. John had analyzed his every move, every flaw in his stance, and knew exactly how to exploit them. He could almost feel the resistance of Sarge’s muscles against his blade, the momentary struggle before life left his eyes. And Alex, poor Alex—he believed would be the easiest. John felt that he didn’t even need a weapon for him; his bare hands would suffice.

The same scenario would apply to Mouse in his opinion who was still sulking in the corner. In the end, 621 felt little threat in playing the role of a recruit in such a backwater place.

He opened his eyes, the cruel smile still lingering. This was who he was—a trained assassin, a cruel instrument of death. The ordinary lives of these soldiers, their camaraderie and mundane concerns, were so far removed from his reality that it was almost laughable in his worldview.

Alex, who had been observing John from the side, noticed the fleeting smile and couldn't help but feel a mixture of awe and curiosity.

Despite the fear and humiliation he had just endured, Alex found himself drawn to John's confidence and seemingly unshakable composure. To Alex, John seemed almost heroic, someone to look up to in this chaotic world.

"John?" Alex's voice was hesitant, tinged with admiration. "What’s so amusing?"

John shrugged, the smile fading into a neutral mask. "It's just strange, don't you think?" he replied, his tone casual. "Being out here, away from everything we knew."

Alex, sensing something deeper in John's words but not fully understanding it, nodded slowly. "Yeah, it’s different. But you handled that goblin really well. Wish I could be like that."

John’s eyes flickered over to Alex, assessing him for a moment. The boy was trembling slightly, still shaken from his own encounter, but there was a spark of determination in his eyes.

621 couldn’t help but compare Alex to the pawns from the Order. They were ruthless, cunning, and devoid of compassion, each one honed to a deadly edge by the relentless training and brutal indoctrination they endured. Survivors in the truest sense, shaped by an environment where weakness was mercilessly eradicated.

Alex was different, just like the children he had observed from a distance in the past. There was an innocence about them, a naivety that was both pitiable and oddly foreign. They had none of the harshness that defined the pawns, none of the callous indifference to life.

621 found himself wondering if he had ever been like Alex before the Order. Had he once been a trembling boy, unsure of his place in the world, looking up to someone stronger for guidance?

The thought was almost alien to him, a distant echo of a past he could barely recall. The Order had been thorough in their methods, stripping away any remnants of weakness or vulnerability, leaving only a perfect weapon in its place.

He tried to conjure a memory of his former self, but it was like grasping at smoke. All he remembered was the pain, the constant pressure to be better, stronger, faster. Any trace of weakness had been meticulously erased, replaced with the cold efficiency of a killer.

If there had ever been a part of him that was like Alex, it was long gone, buried beneath layers of conditioning and brutality.

"Stick with it," John said, his voice low and measured. "You’ll get there. Just need to find that... confidence."

Alex's eyes widened a bit at the phrase, a mix of fear and fascination crossing his face. He glanced at his bloodied hands, then back at John. "You think so?"

John nodded, the dark smile returning briefly. "I know so. You've got to adapt."

Alex looked down, pondering John's words. He didn’t fully grasp the strangeness behind John’s smile. But he did see a glimpse of his strength and confidence that he desperately wanted for himself.

"T-Thanks…" Alex stammered quietly.

..

John leaned back against the tree; his eyes closed for mere moments as fragments of his past began to surface.

His memories about the orphanage resurfaced, though scattered and hazy, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that didn’t quite fit together.

It was a time before the Order, a time when he was just a boy with a name, not yet the cold, calculating assassin he had become.

He remembered the orphanage as a place filled with the laughter and cries of children, a chaotic symphony that was both comforting and overwhelming.

There was an old matron with a blurry face, whose name he could no longer recall, perhaps they used to read him stories before bed. Maybe he even had friends there, or at least he thought he did, though their faces and names were lost to the fog of time.

The orphanage was a distant echo to him, his only attachment to innocence, a fragment of a life that seemed almost unreal compared to his present.

But one memory stood out more vividly than the rest. It was the same sequence of imagery that haunted him, one that he could never quite shake off.

It was about the deathly field, the blood moon, the mysterious person, the howling shadows and the deathly figure.

He always pondered about the person in his dreams, the one just out of reach. He tried to call out to them, but his voice was always muted by the wind. And then there was the dark presence, a shadow that loomed over everything, its tendrils wrapping around his mind, filling him with a nameless dread.

This was a memory that bled into his nightmares, transforming into a nightmarish landscape where the field was bathed in an eerie, blood-red light.

The out of reach individual would disappear, and the dark presence would emerge from the shadows, an amorphous, malevolent entity that seemed to be a part of him and yet entirely separate. It whispered to him the same vile words he could never forget upon waking.

"You are a mistake, a twisted aberration that should never have been allowed to exist...." he muttered inwardly.

621 always wondered about the significance of that memory and the implication behind that lone sentence. Could it have been a fragment of his past, something that had happened long before the Order took him in? Or was it a suppressed manifestation of his deepest fears and regrets, a representation of the innocence he had lost? He didn’t quite know.

But despite his misgivings, 621 knew deep down that it was very real.

The dark presence felt too authentic, so intertwined with his very being, that he couldn’t dismiss it as mere imagination.