Seeing his opponent wounded, Marcus's eyes reddened like a wolf sniffing blood. His strikes became faster and more ferocious, but Byron remained composed. With a quick tug at his cloak, Byron bound the fabric tightly around his wound, continuing to exchange blows as he retreated.
Another volley of projectiles was imminent, and Byron seemed to falter. It looked like he was ducking out of range, but Marcus, in a bloodthirsty frenzy, clung on as if bent on mutual destruction.
In the second before the projectiles would have hit, Marcus pulled back his mount. Byron raised his defenses in a flash—fireballs and ice arrows shattered on his blade. But alas, a cold arrow sank into his abdomen.
"Ha! You think you're so tough!” jeered Ralf’s henchman with a burst of laughter.
Marcus breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing two clear injuries on Byron. Being at the forefront was always the most dangerous. Now, he believed that Byron would be an easier target.
Byron, not uttering a word, paid no mind to the arrow sticking out of him. Instead, he tightened his cloak around his shoulder, looking every bit the wild beast ready to fight to the death.
Helen was already conjuring three more fireballs at the tip of her staff, while Ralf’s goons were knocking more arrows. Marcus roared as he charged at Byron, who spurred his own horse toward the fray, parried Marcus's sword, and pivoted swiftly toward Helen, the mage in preparation.
"Fool's move, my friend!" Marcus shouted mockingly, speeding up to unleash a powerful Sword Energy Release behind Byron.
A white arc of sword energy erupted from Marcus's blade, screeching toward Byron who gave no sign of response.
"So you know you're going to die, and you're dragging me with you? Pathetic!” Helen braced her spell, her eyes signaling the henchmen. They unleashed a barrage of arrows at Byron.
Ignoring the arrows, Byron charged single-mindedly toward Helen. Within twenty meters, six fireballs and numerous ice arrows hone in on Byron’s vital points, flanked by arrows and trailed by the sword energy. Byron had entered a death trap.
"Boom!" Every attack struck its mark simultaneously. Each assailant felt certain of a hit.
The combination of ice and fire attacks created a thick white fog that, mingled with the dust kicked up by the sword energy, obscured Byron's position completely.
"You've got some talent, but it's not—” Helen’s taunt was cut off as a cloaked figure on horseback emerged from the mist.
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"Impossible! Absolutely impossible!" Helen screamed.
His speed exceeded all expectations; the black cloak draped over him, his body hunched atop the horse, fused man and beast as one.
"He's dead, right?" queried one of the lackeys in the distance.
"Shh, something's off. Wait and see," the other replied.
The goons watched intensely toward Helen, oblivious to the subtle changes occurring around them.
Helen, nerves wrought tight, could scarcely believe the knight hadn't perished. Could such a formidable being even exist? Most certainly, but she refused to believe he'd be in City of Gath, bodyguarding a nouveau-riche smuggler. It was simply illogical!
Helen’s staff gathered a variety of spells—fireballs, ice arrows, and even rock spikes—as her heightened focus enabled simultaneous casting. A bittersweet thought arose: she was achieving a breakthrough in her direst moment. If she survived, one day, she’d be Gath's strongest. But her fantasy shattered abruptly.
The black-robed knight reached Helen, and only then did she see his face—a lifeless skull, with soul-fires blazing in its eye sockets. Helen's heart skipped a beat as the magic dispersed with her terror, her painstakingly gathered spells dissipating. She realized her end was nigh.
"So, it’s actually—" Helen's unvoiced last words halted midway as the longsword pierced her heart.
From afar, the goons witnessed Helen skewered, and dread crept into their psyche. Though they'd strutted around Gath, they knew their limits and whom not to anger. Now, a far stronger entity was impaled before their eyes, inciting pure terror. They turned to flee but then faced their own nightmare.
"Where might you two be off to?" a humanoid creature blocked their escape—a squirming, blue being with a blurred face except for a mouth from which an icy voice oozed.
The creature held up an iron-tipped arrow, asking, "Did you misplace this, perhaps?”
"You seemed so eager to finish me off, yet upon seeing my actual form, you lose heart. Humans are truly peculiar.”
Away from the smoke, Marcus sensed something amiss and quickly rode through the dust. He witnessed an unforgettable sight: the black-robed man yanking his sword from Helen’s chest as a gust revealed his pale skull. Nearby, the goons were at the mercy of a blue horror.
With a steady gaze, Marcus reaffirmed what he saw: "A monster! You're actually a skeleton!"
"Why the surprise?" Byron replied evenly amidst Marcus's frenzied rants. "You and your employers knew all along Alaric got his hands on something valuable from the demons."
"I've killed skeletons before! Come on! I'll slay you and present your skull to the count!” Marcus seemed to be convincing himself rather than confronting Byron.
But Byron, unflustered, shook his head, "Your Sword Energy is too flippant; it won't do."
"His Majesty taught us manners, so I thought I'd give you a last lesson on Sword Energy as a parting gift."
Disembarking smoothly, Byron drew the finest sword from Little River v3.012, its dance just beginning.
"To death with you, fiend!" Marcus, driven mad, spurred his horse towards Byron with his mightiest sword energy on the blade, "I've won—I'll..."
A white blade of energy effortlessly shattered Marcus's attack, sweeping towards him with lethal intent. Marcus's prideful energy paled before it, like a mongrel encountering a pedigree hound.
"Just like..." were Marcus's last thoughts before consciousness fled, recalling a sparring match years ago with the count's captain of the guard.