A spitting migraine impaled his mind as Harrow found himself bedridden in a dark room. His little room in the orphanage? A figure sat beside him, just as she had when he was young, whenever he suffered from a fever. Sister Serena? he croaked, yet no words came out of his mouth.
Is this a dream?
Harrow tried harder, rising up, and then his eyes fluttered open.
The first sensation he registered was darkness. Cold, murky darkness--it was all around him. Then he realised he was being transported, slung over someone’s shoulder, jostled with each heavy step. They hadn’t noticed he was awake yet.
The "they" in question was presumably the same round man who had shot him with those poisoned darts.
[Toxin Tolerance (Uncommon): +4]
Harrow was free of the poison now—at least, he felt free—but the real problem was just beginning. He was far from escaping the clutches of the man who had captured him. Although his consciousness returned, his whole body seething through weakness. His core was almost completely depleted, barely any strand of essence left in his body.
His arms were bound together, and he assumed the same for his legs, though he refrained from making even the slightest movement lest it alert his abductor. Coldness clawed at his chest as his heartbeat quickened.
Calm down, don’t panic! he told himself firmly. Panicking would only make things worse. First, he needed to assess the situation.
Thankfully, he could still feel the reassuring presence of Duskripper with him.
With a hesitant prod at his core, Harrow drew what little essence he was left with towards his eyes, activating [Nocturnal Vision]. His sight sharpened instantly in a monochromatic view, revealing tunnel-like pathways extending ahead. The downward incline made him suspect he was underground, likely in a cavern system.
Where is he taking me? The answer came unbidden, chilling his heart: To his friends.
Harrow needed to act fast if he wanted to save himself. Even one more enemy would make escaping near impossible.
The path was eerily quiet, with a faint dampness in the air. The stone walls on either side were smooth enough to suggest they’d been carved rather than naturally formed.
The man had the long-piped blowgun strapped at his waist, along with a small quiver full of darts. A sheathed machete hung at his side. While on the other shoulder, he carried the roasted fox. Harrow wondered how quickly the man could equip a weapon if it came to a fight.
Without making a sound, Harrow played through his plan in his mind. He would only get one chance, so it was vital to visualise every possible outcome. The man was likely more powerful than he was, which eliminated the option of him fighting fairly. Harrow couldn’t rely on brute strength and expect to win.
The plan was to hit hard and fast, taking full advantage of his first move. Speed and suddenness were his advantage.
Harrow shifted his bound arms ever so slightly, moving them out of the man’s direct line of sight. His captor’s large, round frame made it easier to go unnoticed, yet he made sure to cover his arm with his body. Harrow was acutely aware this was his only chance.
Perhaps he’d given the man too much credit. The abductor noticed nothing until Harrow summoned Duskripper between his palms. Harrow had just begun sawing through the cord binding his wrists when the man shouted:
“You little shit!”
Harrow abandoned the cord, flipped the obsidian dagger over, and jerked his body downwards, plunging the blade into the man’s side.
Essence flowed into Harrow at once, washing away some of his lingering weakness. Unfortunately, before he could deal another blow, the man threw him off, leaving the relic still lodged in his body.
Harrow willed Duskripper to withdraw. Blood gushed out from the wound as the blade dissolved into mist and reformed in his hand. He struggled against the cord binding his wrists, attempting to tear it apart through brute strength.
As dark mist coalesced around his palm, the man rammed into him like a wrecking ball.
Harrow tumbled, unable to balance with his legs tied. The man pinned him down, which, ironically, worked in Harrow’s favour. As Duskripper fully manifested in his grasp, Harrow shoved it into the man wherever he could find an opening. Fortunately, the easiest target was his face. He missed the man’s eye by an inch.
The man let out a bloodcurdling scream as the dagger dug into the side of his nose.
“My face! His fucking face!” the man bellowed, clutching at his blistered, bloody face. His eyes bulged and turned bloodshot as he writhed on the ground. “I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you!”
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The two wounds should have weakened him, but somehow he seemed to grow more berserk. How the man was still moving, Harrow couldn’t comprehend.
Harrow’s expression turned grim as he considered fleeing. If the man recovered, Harrow would stand no chance. He was easily stronger. Yet, before Harrow could free himself, the man hurtled towards him again, screaming like a madman.
This asshole won’t leave me alive if he gets his bearings. Harrow realised the best option was to ensure he never did.
Instinct took over. Harrow stepped sideways to avoid the attack. The man drew his weapon—a machete radiating a malevolent greenish light.
Then, an idea struck Harrow. It’s dark all around us. Perhaps…
He visualised the dark cloak enveloping him, shielding him from all sides. The essence in his core stirred, though he felt a stronger resistance preventing the skill from fully materialising.
I don’t need it to fully materialise, Harrow thought grimly.
Murky darkness manifested in Harrow’s arms, bolstering his strength, and for a moment, he felt strong enough to clash with the wounded man. He pulled more essence into the skill, all he could muster, narrowly dodging the ominous machete that swung dangerously close.
“Stay still, little twat!”
Harrow pushed his [Bestial Reflexes] to their limits, channelling the empowering effect of [Cloak of Night] into his limbs. Even so, he could only avoid the attacks, unable to land any of his own. The bastard had too many years of experience and cunning on his side.
In the end, Harrow could only fight back with equal cunning. He exchanged blow for blow, ensuring that any attack he took merely grazed his skin. That, however, proved far more difficult than he anticipated.
He feigned exhaustion, luring the man into overconfidence. The man, already delirious from blood loss, took the bait. Perhaps a straightforward attack would have sufficed, but foolishly, Harrow attempted a sword feint with his dagger. The man’s devious grin made him second-guess his plan, but it was too late to withdraw.
Following through, Harrow altered Duskripper’s trajectory, aiming not for the man’s torso but his knee. Thankfully, the man didn’t see the feint coming. He assumed Harrow was desperate to end things quickly, and would attack a vital spot. So when he braced his arm to intercept the fetal blow, what he got was a devastating strike to his kneecap.
He collapsed onto one knee, a guttural scream escaping his lips. Harrow withdrew from the shallow cut on his shoulder. A sudden chilliness spread from the wound. Almost immediately, [Toxin Tolerance] activated, warding off the chill. Even his blade is poisoned. Bastard!
Gritting his teeth, Harrow delivered a merciless kick to the man’s face. The force knocked him backwards, though Harrow also lost his balance and fell over. Still, he made damn sure the vile man got the worst of it.
“I’ll torture you to death! Just you wait, you little fuck!” the man flailed wildly, rolling on the ground. His movements were clumsy, weakened by pain. "I'll eat you slowly... torment you until you beg for forgiveness."
Both scrambled to their feet at the same time. The man lunged again, but Harrow ducked beneath his swinging arm and weapon, delivering a hard kick to the injured left knee. The man crashed to the ground once more, his strength now a shadow of what it had been. He was slower, his movements predictable with him preferring the right side.
Instead of continuing to fight, the man backed away, frantically fishing a small vial from his clothes.
Recovery potion? Harrow wasn’t sure, but he knew he couldn’t let him drink whatever was inside.
Without hesitation, Harrow struck. The man’s sluggish limbs brought him to Death's door. Though he might still overpower Harrow with brute force, he lacked the speed to deliver any such blow.
The attack sent the man sprawling, the vial flying from his grasp, along with the machete.
“Little shit, you’ll die at my hands!”
Harrow gave him no chance to follow through on his promise. He plunged Duskripper into the man’s neck.
The body jerked violently, knocking Harrow back as the man thrashed, his screams echoing through the tunnels. Harrow ignored his incoherent curses, rolling to his feet as adrenaline surged through him. Duskripper, still solid in his hand, glinted ominously. Harrow lunged again, driving the blade into the man’s chest.
The dagger met resistance but only briefly before slicing through flesh and bone. A dark glow pulsed along its edge. Sacrifice.
Blood gushed from the wound, hot and bubbling. The man was already dying from the pierced neck, but this final blow sealed his fate. His body convulsed once, twice, then melted into a thick, mist-like liquid, and evaporated into the darkness.
[You have slain an Unformed Human Thrall.]
[Unformed Core: 8/100]
Harrow gasped for air as a warm surge of energy washed away some of the bone-deep weariness that had settled over him. The toxin still lingered in his system, but his skill worked tirelessly to keep it at bay.
I just killed a man, he thought. He forced himself to glance at where the body should have been, relieved to find that Sacrifice had erased most of the evidence. The man’s belongings remained: a dirty, blood-soaked kaftan and a pool of blood—colourless under Harrow’s [Nocturnal Vision].
Wiping the blood from his hands, Harrow tore his eyes away from the scene. Unlike all the beasts he had fought, this was different. It was... unsettling.
The man had no good intentions, Harrow reminded himself. Beasts were savage by nature, they did not think like humans, but this man had chosen to hunt him.
He shouldn’t feel a shred of sympathy. In truth, he found it difficult to even pity him. The bastard had brought it upon himself.
If Harrow had to make the decision again, he would. He’d even double down on the violence, knowing how tough of an opponent he was.
[Plundered: Uncommon Skill Matrix.]
[Cloak of Night (Elite): +6]
[Toxin Tolerance (Uncommon): +5]
[Bestial Reflexes (Common): +9]
Among the man’s possessions lay a small amber gem. It stood apart, having a hint of colour in Harrow’s monochrome vision. There was also another dagger, several vials, and the blowgun the man had used. And, of course, the roasted fox which he had thrown away when the fight began. The bastard had eaten an entire leg.
Harrow slumped to his knees and began collecting the items one by one, without bothering to inspect them. His body might be saved from exhaustion with essence, but his mind wasn't so lucky.
On top of that, he couldn’t afford to waste time. Gathering everything, he quickly left, retreating in the opposite direction the man had been taking him.