The morning mist rolled in thick and cold, clinging to his skin like the whispers of death that had just passed him. Nizara moved with careful steps, his muscles aching with every motion. He kept one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other pressed lightly against his side, where blood still seeped from his earlier battle with the monstrous creature.
His thoughts flickered back to it — the shrine, the cursed runes, the voice.
What the hell was that?
But before he could reflect any deeper, he heard them — hurried whispers. The snapping of branches. He ducked behind a tree, slowing his breath.
Voices.
"…He's supposed to be near here."
"You sure?"
"Yes. I saw the lightning from the cliff. He's alive."
A squad. At least five of them.
Well-coordinated by the sound of it. Their footsteps were spread out, wide arc. They were hunting.
Him.
"Don't attack until we get a visual," one of them said. "Remember, that guy took out a creature with a single slash last round. We surround him, coordinate—then strike."
So they're not fools, Nizara thought. But they're still underestimating me.
A branch snapped behind him.
He didn't turn.
Instead, he closed his eyes, drawing in the atmosphere of the forest. He could feel their presence like static in the air. The wind shifted — he felt the weight of the blade coming toward his back.
Swiftstride.
He vanished, reappearing on a branch above them. The attacker stumbled forward, realizing too late that Nizara was already airborne above them.
"Up!" one shouted.
But Nizara had already drawn his blade midair.
"Stormstep — Variant Three."
He dropped like lightning.
He landed with a boom, shockwaves rippling through the ground as three of the attackers were thrown back. Leaves exploded in all directions. One rolled to the side, another tried to counter with a shield, but Nizara was already on the move.
His blade became a blur, sparks flying with every strike.
He moved differently now. Sharper. Faster. His footwork more fluid than before, as if that near-death experience had sharpened his instincts rather than dulled them.
"Don't let him separate us!" one of them shouted, wielding dual daggers.
The dagger-wielder lunged, but Nizara parried and grabbed his arm in a flash, twisting it and slamming him face-first into the dirt.
"Four left," Nizara said calmly, eyes scanning them like a beast analyzing prey.
But then a sharp pain lit up in his back — an arrow.
He staggered slightly, biting down a hiss of pain.
The last archer stood further down the trail, readying another shot.
They were coordinating now — trying to force him into a disadvantage.
One charged him head-on, sword raised.
Another circled around to his flank.
Nizara stood still, letting the front attacker get closer—
—and then vanished again.
The archer loosed the arrow.
But Nizara was no longer there.
He appeared behind the archer, hands sparking.
"Thunder Palm."
He struck the back of the archer's head with an open palm. The crack of electricity knocked the man out cold instantly, his body dropping limp to the floor.
By now the others had regrouped, standing between the unconscious and Nizara. Blood stained their armor, breath ragged from the speed of the engagement.
"Damn it… how is he this fast?" one muttered.
"He's not human," another spat.
Nizara tilted his head slightly, hair falling over his lightning-grazed eyes. "You people keep saying that."
And then, he remembered something.
Zalthor's voice, echoing in his head like a warning from a time already too late.
"Nizara… you should leave the kingdom before they start suspecting you. You're changing. That power — it's not normal. One day, it'll be used against you."
Zalthor had been right.
But Nizara was too deep in now.
He wouldn't run.
Not when the entire world was watching.
Nizara turned to the three remaining opponents, blood on his mouth, his blade raised. "You can still walk away. I'll let you. But keep coming, and I won't hold back."
One of them stepped forward, defiant. "We've killed dozens in these games. You're just one more."
Nizara sighed. "So be it."
What followed was a masterclass in violence.
Nizara dodged and countered their moves with surgical precision. His footwork was calculated, never wasting motion. When one slashed, Nizara used their own momentum to trip them. When another came from behind, he spun with a full-turning elbow and stunned them long enough to follow with a strike to the throat.
But in between those swift and brutal moments, something else showed.
He wasn't just fighting harder…
He was holding back.
Resisting something.
As if some deeper power inside him wanted to rip out — to end them all.
But he kept it at bay.
He only knocked them out — no fatal blows, no bloodshed beyond necessity.
When the last one hit the ground unconscious, Nizara dropped to one knee, panting, arm shaking slightly.
He looked down at his hand.
The electricity was fainter now. But something still stirred beneath it.
He closed his fist slowly.
"…Still not enough."
The sound of flapping wings drew his attention upward — a magic surveillance hawk, no doubt reporting the fight to the commanders. He didn't bother hiding.
He stared up at it and muttered, "Tell your commanders I'm still alive."
The hawk screeched and flew off.
Nizara collapsed against a rock, catching his breath. He'd taken a serious hit earlier, and he knew more fights were coming.
He reached into his satchel, took out a small herb packet, and began chewing on it to dull the pain.
As he leaned his head back against the stone, he whispered to himself:
"The real monsters… haven't even come out yet."
*To Be Continued*