Prudence help me, but I have to get to that archer! Marek thought as he tore through the wood line. Tregan would have his mace and was likely only now reaching Leyan’s position. That means I have a tiny window to kill the other. Maybe he’s too drunk to have found his bow?

It didn’t take more than twenty seconds for Marek to circumvent the clearing. He burst from the trees nearest to where he imagined the scrawny archer might be. Two dozen strides away, kneeling beside a pack, was the man in question. Riggs had apparently found his bow, for the weapon was drawn and aimed at Marek.

The bow twanged, and an arrow zipped up into Marek’s face. He flinched and awkwardly stumbled to his left, but the shot was too close to avoid. The arrow cracked against the invisible helm protecting his head and face, leaving behind only a thin crack inches from Marek’s eye.

“Blast it, I forgot my armor,” he muttered under his breath.

The archer drew another arrow from the quiver leaning against his thigh. Hand deft and far too fast for Marek’s liking, the next shot would land before he had a chance to continue his charge.

It was time to trust his instincts and the powers he’d gained. Rather than prepare to evade or head back into the trees for cover, Marek sprinted at the man holding one forearm in front of his damaged face shield. That was when he noticed something odd about the archer’s bow—a detail he found quite troubling. Riggs’ weapon was beginning to glow a deep emerald hue. Strands of mana wormed out of the archer’s chest, coiling around the bow’s shaft and gathering in a bright point at the tip of the arrow.

Marek closed half the distance by the time the Skill activated. He saw half the archer’s face contort in a leering grin. The arrow leapt from the bow, and the green mana suffused its entire length. His foot struck the ground, and he used all of his enhanced strength to shove himself forward and left. The green streak flew lower than Marek anticipated. It went past his upraised arm and smashed into his left hip. An explosion split the night air, and then he was spinning, neither foot touching the ground. Marek landed on his shoulder. Something high in his chest popped. His right arm tingled from shoulder to fingertips, and he felt blood on his lips.

“Aye, Tregan! I nailed him with Blast Arrow!” Riggs shouted. “Probably dead, but get over here anyway!”

Marek’s head spun, and he remembered the demon on the bridge, the final battle of his Crucible. He’d had a champion then. Now he was completely alone. He knew his body had been broken, and didn’t have time to consider where or how bad the damage was.

Fear drove him to action.

The burgeoning Remnant Mage flooded his armor with power. Ether restored the shattered hip and thigh. Granting his body strength, Spirit Armor lifted Marek from the ground. And then he was moving again.

Riggs cursed and retrieved another arrow. Marek took the shortsword in his left hand, leaving his right arm dangling. His armored feet pounded closer. The archer lifted his bow and drew. At the last second, Marek fell to his flank and slid feet-first across the ground. He slashed up in a clean arc. The bow cracked as it was cut in half. Something, either the snapping string or a fragment of the bow, struck Riggs in the face. At the same time, Marek’s feet hit the pack beside the archer, and he threw himself up to one knee.

“Rift-born beast!” he screamed, hands clutching an eye. “I’ll kill you! I’ll—”

Marek’s thrust didn’t falter. His sword sank deep, the strike powered by momentum and his enhanced arm. The blade cleaved through fat and flesh, and a jolt ran up Marek’s arm as it severed the spine last of all.

Riggs doubled over, somehow remaining upright. Marek watched steam rise from the end of Mags’ shortsword as it rose from the archer’s back. Then the man’s legs gave out and he pitched forward.

This sudden shift of weight threw Marek back. He twisted and shoved the man away with his shoulder. When he tried to pull the shortsword free, the blade wouldn’t budge. It was lodged in Riggs’ spine.

Boots thumped closer. Tregan cursed, likely seeing what remained of his last ally. And Marek yanked on the hilt again to no avail. His strength was gone. The hollow ache in his chest told him he’d depleted his Ether Core.

“You!” Tregan roared, and Marek looked up to see a sphere of spiked steel reflecting the orange glow of the campfire.

He had only a single course of action. As Riggs’ soul emerged from the corpse it left behind, Marek drank in its power greedily. The bone in his chest clicked into place and reknit. It was his clavicle, he realized, and along with it, a mess of muscle, nerve, and sinew healed as well. The feeling in his right arm restored, Marek ripped the shortsword free at last.

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Tregan’s mace descended like a meteor. Marek kicked off the ground into a roll. The mace thumped beside him, sinking half a foot into wet soil and spraying mud in all directions. Marek rose to a knee, but Tregan hefted and swung the giant mace again with terrifying speed. It pulsed crimson, betraying the use of a Skill. He dove into another roll, narrowly avoiding his end.

“Hold still, maggot! Quit squirmin’!”

Investing a burst of ether, Marek found his feet. He spun around to face the brute glowering at him. Tregan bared his teeth and pointed the mace at Marek’s chest with one arm. The weapon hung in the air, not wavering an inch. It was a staggering feat of strength.

“Look here. You killed my friends. Don’t care what kind of Rift-born slag you are—I’m gonna kill you!” Tregan ended his speech with a roar. Crimson mana the color of pooled blood poured from the bandit’s skin. His scream continued until his entire body glowed a deep red, eyes burning like a demon’s.

Principalities, Marek thought, taking a step back, he’s a blasted Berserker!

The fight resumed at a frantic pace. Marek dodged Tregan’s mace once and then twice. His enhanced movements were barely enough to keep him out of harm’s way. Though fairly common in the distant south, the Berserker Class commanded respect throughout the Coherent Realms. Few who bore it lived to old age, but they felled many in the time they had. Their strength, the brutality of their attacks, and the resilience to pain and injury were only part of what set them aside on a battlefield. As Marek continued to evade, he stared in horror at the deadliest of Tregan’s traits: Each second the big man fought in a Rage state, he became faster and more deadly.

The twenty inches of steel he’d borrowed from Mags felt completely inadequate. If he’d had a spear, the contest might’ve been less one-sided, but as it was, Marek knew he couldn’t hold out much longer.

He waited until his opponent committed to a two-handed swing. The mace careened past Marek’s face, and in the small window that followed, he attacked. His sword slashed low at Tregan’s exposed thigh. The blow landed six inches below the bandit’s hip, the blade cutting through a slab of dense muscle.

Tregan growled, not so much as flinching from the pain. Teeth bared, the brute reversed the direction of his mace and swung backhanded.

Marek’s teeth rattled as the oversized weapon slammed into his shoulder. His Spirit Armor exploded, and the bone of his upper arm and at least one rib cracked audibly. The ferocity and speed of Tregan’s Rage had easily overcome Marek’s defenses, but thankfully the blow hadn’t been enhanced by a Skill. He didn’t fly through the air as he had when the arrow exploded, and his body was far less injured. Despite staggering to keep his footing, though, Marek still found himself staring up at the stars.

“Ha!” Tregan bellowed. “Quick little bastard, but ain’t so tough. How about another taste, boy?”

The bloodied mace rose high.

Marek’s hands were empty, and he didn’t even know where the sword had fallen. He was no longer confident he could effectively evade with a roll and sure he wouldn’t stand again—not without being hit. Simple and effective, he thought, remembering a lesson he’d received long ago. Mirrin had been discussing sigilcraft, but the rule applied to most things in life. Pushing through the pain, Marek shoved the ground with one foot and spun a quarter-turn to align himself. Then he kicked with all the ether-given might in his possession. Tregan’s knee bent backwards, tendons tore, and the Berserker bellowed.

The bandit dropped his mace and flailed sideways. No doubt, Tregan was trying to stay upright. But when he hopped three times on his good leg, it only carried him far enough to crash headlong into the campfire.

A plume of sparks rose high in the air.

Marek grimaced as he forced his agonized body up one last time. The Sigilist turned from the flailing man, nose recoiling at the stench of burning hair and flesh. Bones in Marek’s ribcage ground together sickeningly as he stumbled to the baggage. He tore Leyan’s spear free with his good arm.

When he returned to finish what he’d started, an unholy sight greeted his eyes. Teeth bared, a man half mad and barely alive drew up from the fire, one hand still buried in coals.

Tregan’s flesh was scorched and ruined. His eyes were terrible, bereft of humanity. A guttural moan poured from the bandit’s lips. He’d become a feral thing, no longer fierce but horrified at the onset of its own death.

Don’t stop now, Marek told himself. Finish what you came for. Kill him.

He gripped the spear’s haft and shambled forward. The steel point drove through Tregan’s sternum a heartbeat later. The creature that had been Tregan gaped like a fish. Twice, his angular jaw worked. Not a whisper came out. His good leg spasmed a bit, and then, with a crash, he fell back into the fire.

Marek dug in his heels, and the spear tore free with a squelch. He collapsed to one knee. Head craning back, he stared up at the open sky. His panting breath was shallow from the broken ribs.

He closed his eyes and slowly returned to his senses. Horses nickered and stamped the soil nearby. A chorus of crickets sang to the indifferent moon above. Fat crackled over open flame.

He’d finished his gruesome task.

Now, Marek only had to learn how to live with it. Yet the guilt never came. They deserved it, he thought calmly, and I had no other choice. I’d do it all again.

A tall and ugly spirit drifted up from the raging fire. Marek drank it in with Ether Siphon. His body healed, and no longer needing it to stay upright, he dismissed Spirit Body.

He strode through the bandits’ camp casually. The horses had calmed a little, and Lydia swished her tail when she saw him coming. “I’ll get to you next,” he told the mule. “Something else I need to do first.”

Marek found Leyan where he’d fallen. The moon reflected darkly off a wide pool of blood. Bending down, he unclasped a bronze buckle. In one smooth motion, he pulled a thick studded belt free. Then, with a grim smile, Marek bound it around his own waist. He stared Leyan’s spirit in the eyes as he rested his hand on the pommel of the black sword. “Looks better on me anyway,” he said, drinking a third decrepit soul.

A series of icy tingles rippled outward from his chest. He’d leveled up his Remnant Mage Class, and more than once by the feel of it. Marek pushed aside his advancement for the time being.

Before he could, he had to loot corpses for the very first time.