Darian launched his first attack with such blinding speed that Oliver was forced to activate [Phase] just to avoid being skewered. But the blood drinker wasn’t giving him time to recover. He spun on his heels, the tip of his sword slicing across Oliver’s arm just as the duration for [Phase] timed out. Hissing through the pain, he reached out. All he had to do was touch him once and the fight would be over. With his unique skill [Knowledge Transfer] he could flood Darian’s mind with all of Oliver’s memories, rendering him helpless. But the beast was too quick, leaping away just as Oliver’s fingers were about to brush his shoulder.

“Harper told me about your tricks,” Darian said, twirling his blade.

“Is that so?” Oliver cursed the wench once more. He would have to track her down once this was over. “But she couldn’t tell you about all of them.”

He hated using it, but he had little choice. It would keep him from being able to use his other skills, but no one who’d whiteness its perfection had lived, and the Aspirant would be no exception.

With a final burst of resolve, he activated his secret unique skill, [Limit Break].

The room lit in a torrent of golden light as immeasurable power coursed through Oliver’s veins. Magic energy poured from deep within his soul, coating his body in a shimmering brilliance. The strain on his body would prevent him from using any skills, but he wouldn’t need them. As he was now, even the likes of Victoria the Grave Aspirant wouldn’t be a match for him.

Darian took a back step, his sword raised as he fell into a defensive stance. But it would do him little good. This unique skill was the culmination of the doctor’s work. He wished to create an artificial God, one who could stand against the pretenders and the Aspirants alike. And standing before Darian now was that dream realized, a human born of this world who had his shackles shattered. Out of all the children the doctor experimented on, only Oliver had obtained this skill.

And he would use it to slay a God in the making.

“Remember when I crush your skull between my fingers that I offered to leave of my own accord,” Oliver said, steam rising from his body as wave after wave of arcane energy pumped wild through his veins.

Darian did not reply.

With a bestial cry, Oliver launched himself at the red eyed monster. Stone split beneath his boots, the chamber a blur as he shot like lightning at his target.

But then something smashed into his gut and he rolled back, the air squeezed from his lungs. On one knee, he looked up expecting to see that he’d been struck by a giant, but there was only Darian.

“You had me worried for a moment,” Darian said, sticking his arcane blade into the stone at his feet. “But you really are weak, aren’t you?”

Oliver gritted his teeth and launched forward once more. Air whipped at his ears and he ducked low, planning on smashing the insolent fool to the ground. But when he collided with the man’s waist, he simply slid back a few strides.

A knee came up and blasted Oliver in the jaw, sending the world into a spinning wash of black and gold. The taste of copper filled his mouth as he pushed up from the floor, but then a shin cracked into his ribs, and he rolled.

“I pity you, in a way,” Darian said, his voice barely audible over the ringing in Oliver’s ears. “I know all too well the pain of weakness.”

I will not die here. Not after all I’ve done to survive. His insides felt like they’d been reduced to powder, but still Oliver rose on shaking legs. He gripped his split ribs and spat, Darian’s eyes latching onto the blood as it splattered across the floor.

“You and your kind think you can do whatever you want,” Oliver widened his stance, readying himself for one final push. “But you’re wrong. Sooner or later, you’ll all taste the coldness of the grave.” Victoria, Darian, the demon God and his blasted son—they could all burn. They would all burn. Starting with the man before him.

Never in Oliver’s life had he ever given anything his all. Even when the doctor beat him and the other children for failing their duties, he still always slacked off to some degree. And being a hired assassin and a demon’s plaything had never changed that. But here and now, he would give everything. All that he had, and all that he could be.

He activated [Limit Break] once more, his body nearly bursting from the might gushing from his blazing soul. He would not survive this, but neither would Darian.

With a battle cry, he catapulted his broken body at his enemy. All it would take was a single strike and it would be over. He was power itself now, invincibility made manifest. Burning like the sun, he launched what would be his final attack.

A hand flew out in a blur and snatched Oliver by the throat. His body crashed to a halt against it, and though he twisted and squirmed, the hand did not move.

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The immense power of [Limit Break] slowly leaked from Oliver’s body as the life was choked out of him.

Darian leaned closer, his eyes narrowed to harsh slits, his fangs a finger’s length from Oliver’s neck. “I’m sorry, but there was only ever one way this was going to end.”

Oliver kicked, but his strength had left him. He tried to cry out, to scream for someone, anyone to save him. But then darkness swallowed his vision, and the last thing he saw was the descent of two razor sharp fangs.

***

Zander tumbled back, a searing gash blazing white hot down his chest. He cursed his incompetence, then ducked as a spear of flame hurtled overhead. Azlar was hurling insults from above, but Zander couldn’t hear them over the sound of his men’s retreat.

They’d fought a hard and good battle, but the dwarves and undead had formed a solid defense. And now organized, his outnumbered troops were being forced back into the forest. He wished to cover their retreat, for each loss stung him deeply, but he could not afford even a moment’s distraction.

Azlar launched more flaming spears, their roiling tips missing Zander a little less each time. Damn him! This was not the young demon Zander had crossed all those years ago, but a hardened battlemage. He floated above, his leathery wings keeping him just outside of Zander’s reach. And worse yet, the shuffle of bones from behind told him soon he would have more than just the demon God’s son to deal with.

“Your men are scattered to the wind,” Azlar cried, a ball of flame hurtling down from his open palm. “Whatever you wished to accomplish here, it has failed.”

Zander rolled forward, the fur on his back singed as the fireball exploded behind him. Guess you’re still a fool though. This was obviously a distraction. If I’d come with the intent of taking the fort, it would have already been in the palm of my hand. He looked up and grunted. If he was to remove this nuisance, he would have to be prepared to make a sacrifice.

He’d so far avoided taking too much damage, but at his rate it was only a matter of time until one of Azlar’s spells would do him in. This fight needed to end, and it needed to end soon.

Zander crouched low and focused all his power on his legs. He sucked in a gulp of blood and ash scented air, then lept to the skies. He’d done the same several times already, each time falling just short of reaching the demonic prince. But he’d done so intentionally. He would only get one opportunity to land a decisive blow, and so he had given the demon a false sense of safety.

As he reached his previous zenith, he targeted Azlar with [Dash Strike]. A low-level skill, but one that could close the short distance between them. Azlar’s tattooed face twisted in shock as Zander burst through the air, his fists igniting with blazing energy.

The demon’s curved blade whipped around, but Zander did not slow or stall his attack. He activated as many defensive skills as he had left, then brought his arm up to block. The sword met his hardened flesh in a flash of sparks, but even the toughest armor could not resist such an immaculate weapon. It carved through Zander’s arm, severing the bone in a font of blood. But the slice had been slowed just enough for Zander’s fist to reach its target.

Using [Dragon Soul Strike], [Divine Fist] and [Piercing Lotus], Zander’s knuckles dug into the demon prince’s chest, muscle and bone bursting beneath his fist. Blood spluttered from Azlar’s mouth, and the pair tumbled to the frosty ground below.

He did his best to land on his feet, but Zander smashed into the dirt shoulder first. He grunted from the pain and rolled to his feet, using the healing skill [Verdant Waters] to keep from bleeding to death. Doing his best not to look at the stump where his left arm used to be, he marched toward the crumbled form of the demon prince.

***

Azlar couldn’t breathe.

His hand clutched his chest, but the best his healing magic could do was pump a tiny bit of air into his shattered lungs. It was enough to get him on his feet, but his body throbbed, feeling like he’d been crushed by a mountain. All he wanted to do was collapse where he stood, but death was slogging his way.

Zander’s arm was gone, but the stubborn goat hardly seemed to notice. His eyes were firmly locked on his target, and Azlar was forced on the back foot.

His wings twitched to life, but his lungs quickly dispelled any notion of flying. Desperate, he raised a shaking palm and launched a fireball. It burst against the satyr’s chest, fire swallowing him. But then it fell from his body, blown away by a sudden gust of magical wind.

Some of the Lich Lord’s skeletal forces fell on the wounded monk, but even with one arm they would be but a passing distraction for him. Azlar attempted to run, but his legs were still too weak. With little choice left, he cursed himself and reached out for the soul stone.

Normally teleportation magic was a heavy and cumbersome ordeal. It required precise calculations, magical circles, and loads of magic crystals. But his father had created the soul stones to circumnavigate this limitation. They only worked with Aspirants, Gods, or companions, but they allowed near instant teleportation to their location from anywhere in the world. All it required was a small severing of one’s soul, placed in the stone, to work. But his was not in the best of hands.

The black disk of obsidian was held by that spineless worm, Oliver. The last Azlar saw him, he was running from the battle. That at least meant he was likely somewhere safe. And even if he’d dropped it somewhere, anywhere was better than where he was.

The skeletons around Zander burst apart, the monk’s fist making short work of them. But Azlar was already tugging on the piece of him imbedded within the soul stone. The world flashed, and Azlar grinned as shock engulfed Zander’s face.

“Until next time,” he said.

The monk made one final push forward, but it was too late. Shadows spread across Azlar’s vision, and his body was pulled through the void.

***

Azlar blinked at the darkness, his nose twitching as the smell of fresh blood flooded his senses.

“Where am I?” he asked, doing his best to see in the dim starlight.

Then he saw the body.

It took him a moment to realize it belonged to Oliver. His neck was torn wide open, blood pooling around his head, his face frozen in a mask of horror. And his chest was split in two, the sound of rabid gnashing coming from the beast that crouched over him.

It wiped its mouth, blood stringing down from its chin. In its hands were fleshy chunks, most likely what remained of Oliver’s heart.

Azlar stepped back, and the blood drenched man rose to meet him.