Warren darted back as the Reaver’s sword, its edge notched and gleaming with malevolent intent, hissed through the air, missing his face by a breath. The ancient steel sung a cruel song as it cut through the gloom, a sinister whisper that promised death. Warren retaliated with a swift, decisive strike, but the Reaver’s dark presence moved with unsettling fluidity, parrying his blow with a casual ease that bordered on mockery.
With an almost unnatural speed, the Reaver gripped the sword's hilt with both hands, its knuckles white and resolute, and brought the blade around in a vicious arc. Warren, his mind racing, inverted his own weapon in a desperate gambit, deflecting the attack with a few deft flicks of his wrist. The wooden cane, an unlikely weapon but sturdy enough, remained surprisingly intact despite the fierce barrage. Warren’s eyes flickered to the MetaTEC on his wrist, where a small timer ticked down from ten minutes—his magical fire spell's dwindling life. The old rules seemed suspended in this new, chaotic world, yet even here, he realized, there were constraints to navigate.
The Reaver's next move was abrupt and brutal. With a predatory grace, it drove the hardened ridge of its skull into Warren’s face, unleashing a wave of white-hot agony that clouded his vision and shattered his focus. Warren staggered backward, tripping over debris strewn about, and crashed onto the ground with a bone-jarring thud. The impact stole his breath, leaving him gasping amidst a haze of shimmering motes. Fear and pain warred within him as he struggled to regain his bearings, the specter of death looming large in his mind.
As he lay vulnerable, the Reaver sprang into the air with a disturbing, almost fluid grace. It spun with a predator's precision, bringing its sword down in a deadly arc aimed to cleave him in two. Acting on pure instinct, Warren brought his cane up across his chest, gripping it tightly. The flaming cane, while warm, did not scorch his flesh but felt alive with the arcane energy it bore. The Reaver’s blade crashed down, striking the flaming wood with a deafening clang, the force of the blow reverberating up Warren’s arms and into the cold floor beneath him. Sparks erupted where metal met wood, a fleeting display of fire and shadow.
The Reaver stood over him, the sword’s tip poised menacingly at Warren’s throat. In a desperate, almost primal maneuver, Warren lashed out with a clumsy backward roll. His unexpected movement caught the Reaver off guard, sending it stumbling over his prone form, its balance broken by the sudden shift.
Regaining its sinister composure, the Reaver turned slowly, its hollow eye sockets ablaze with malevolent embers, glowing with an unsettling blend of fury and contempt. To Warren, it was clear that he was woefully outmatched. His opponent was not merely a swordsman but a skeletal embodiment of dark power, a creature from realms beyond mortal comprehension. In contrast, Warren was nothing more than a hobbyist—an enthusiast of Historical European Martial Arts who dabbled in LARPing on weekends. No amount of playful swordplay could have prepared him for a genuine confrontation with a being that defied the very laws of nature.
“Is that all you have, little man?” The Reaver's voice slithered through the air, each word dripping with a venomous derision. “There is no dishonor in recognizing when you are outclassed. Why prolong the suffering of an inevitable end?”
Warren felt the weight of the Reaver’s scorn like a tangible force pressing down on him. His gaze flitted to his MetaTEC, noting with sinking dread that three minutes of his precious spell’s duration had already slipped away.
“Because…” Warren’s voice faltered, strained by sheer exhaustion.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
The evening had already been a grueling ordeal: fighting off shadowy apparitions at home, sprinting to the school through the encroaching night, and now this brutal duel. He felt the crushing realization that he was not a hero, but merely a man-child who indulged in fantasies. His shoulders sagged, his weapon drooping as sobs of sheer fatigue escaped him. Tears traced wet paths down his cheeks as he grappled with a crushing sense of despair, questioning the very purpose of enduring a world so cruel and indifferent.
The Reaver approached with deliberate, almost languid steps, savoring the spectacle of Warren’s anguish. There was no denying the boy’s latent resolve, but it was raw and unrefined, easily extinguished in the Reaver’s oppressive presence. The creature thrived on despair, its essence radiating dread like a malevolent aura. This was the essence of Nyxathalaya’s brood: beings of profound terror and sorrow, setting them apart from their kin. The Carnage Weaver’s followers thrived on frenzy and chaos, while the Shattered Monarch’s progeny were driven by obsession and compulsion. And then there were the Whisperers, whose predilections were darker still, tainted with unspeakable inclinations.
The Reaver, grinning with grim anticipation of his impending victory, hoisted his sword onto his shoulder, its weight a tangible promise of death. He relished the notion of becoming the executioner, the one who would usher the man’s soul into the dread court of the Dreaded Queen. A sinister thrill coursed through him at the thought of the rewards to come—perhaps an elevation to a more exalted form, a new rank among the damned. He moved in closer, his skeletal frame looming over the quaking youth, who was now reduced to sobs of terror that crescendoed into a haunting, piteous wail.
But before the Reaver could fully enjoy his victory, the boy, driven by a primal surge of defiance, thrust his makeshift weapon skyward. Despite the rubber bung at the tip of the wooden cane, the weapon seemed to pierce through the Reaver’s spectral form, empowered by the otherworldly flames that wreathed it. With a desperate grip, the young man clutched the Reaver’s sword arm, his face contorted in a scream of raw, unfiltered fear and determination.
The Reaver attempted to recoil, but the youth’s grip was tenacious. He pressed forward, his scream a relentless, mournful defiance against the encroaching embrace of death. The Reaver’s gaze locked onto the boy’s tear-streaked face, where he glimpsed a flicker of something—a tiny, incandescent spark of spirit that defied the crushing weight of despair.
“Ah, well met, little man,” the Reaver sighed, his voice a chilling whisper as the flames consumed him. The boy’s enraged expletives continued to ring out as the Reaver’s form disintegrated into nothingness, reduced to naught but a wisp of smoke and a fading echo of malice.
Exhausted, Warren collapsed onto his knees, gasping for breath as the weight of the ordeal settled upon him. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the hum of the fluorescent lights above. Then, a victorious chime from his MetaTEC shattered the silence. Warren, shaking and disoriented, lifted his wrist to inspect the device. Despite the frantic pulse of his stamina meter—now glaringly red—his attention was snared by a new notification. His trembling fingers navigated the interface to reveal a screen that congratulated him on reaching level two and informed him that upgrade points would be granted only once he had rested.
A mirthless laugh erupted from Warren, a hollow sound that reverberated weakly against the bare, echoing walls of the sports hall. The absurdity of his situation, juxtaposed with the cold efficiency of the notification, left him laughing in a fit of weary disbelief.
“Is this really my life now? Some player a twisted game?”
He waited, half-expecting the universe to respond, but only the empty echo of his words filled the void. With a resigned sigh, he pushed himself upright, his movements stiff and weary. The relentless fog outside seemed to press in on him even more, the sense of isolation palpable. As he headed for the door, he flipped the switch, plunging the hall into darkness. The finality of the darkness seemed to mock him, as if the shadows themselves were whispering secrets he couldn’t grasp. Determined to find the others, Warren stepped into the murk, the oppressive weight of his new reality hanging heavy in the air.