The severed hand struck the floor with a wet slap as the middle-aged man spoke.
"Who are you people?!"
Blood spread slowly across the stone. V stared at it, fingers twitching. The middle-aged man didn't move just stood there, sword angled downward with blood dripping from its edge.
"Who are you?" he asked again, calm. Almost sounded polite. But even after waiting for a full minute, no one answered.
Nine figures in black with covered faces, not revealing even a inch of their skin, felt something wrong. Even the air felt wrong in a way he couldn't name, like the silence wasn't quietly waiting on him.
One of the nine men stepped forward. V remained by the door, observing all of this with fascination in his eyes. It was an opportunity one in a million. If they fought and somehow killed each other, then most of the obstacles in his path would be removed. He had witnessed that mythical creature in a state close to death; if just this middle-aged man got out of his way, he could move forward and take down that undead abomination.
The man who had just stepped forward was taller than the rest. He looked at the severed hand, then at the man who'd severed it.
"Still sharp, I see," the figure said with a low, distorted voice. "Even after all these years ?!"
The middle-aged man's eyes narrowed and he clenched his teeth, his grip on the blade tightening further.
"You shouldn't be here!"
"Neither should that kid," the tall one said, nodding toward V.
Which V would've taken offense if he wasn't too busy planning his future moves.
What happened next was almost too swift for V to follow. The middle-aged man moved like liquid lightning. His blade carved through the air with a hiss, and suddenly two more of the black-clad figures were missing pieces. One stumbled backward, clutching their severed arm. Another simply collapsed while his head rolling across the stone.
"Cool!" V said before he caught himself and tried to burry it.
"I mean that—that sword is incredible!" he muttered to himself, nodding his head.
The remaining figures attacked as one, but they might as well have been moving through honey. The middle-aged man flowed between them like water, his sword seeming to be everywhere at once. Each movement was economical, precise no wasted motion or flourish, just the blade tracking their necks.
"Holy shit!" V thought, pressing himself against the door.
"No wonder he wasn't worried about dragging me here alone, but I still couldn't grasp that he was this formidable! Damn my luck! He won't die... ugh!" V groaned quietly and focused on the battle.
Within seconds, seven of the nine attackers were down. Blood pooled around their bodies, mixing with the earlier stains. The middle-aged man hadn't even broken a sweat, yet most of them had perished.
But the eighth figure one of the smaller ones proved more troublesome. He was faster than the others, his movements erratic and unpredictable. The middle-aged man's blade whistled through empty air as the figure seemed to dance around it.
"Persistent little insect," the middle-aged man muttered, adjusting his stance.
The figure lunged with a curved dagger materializing in his hand. The middle-aged man sidestepped, grabbed the attacker's wrist, and twisted. The crack of breaking bone echoed in the chamber. The dagger clattered to the floor, followed by its former wielder.
"Damn! Eight down. Think... think, think of a way, you useless mind!" V cursed to himself.
The tall figure who'd spoken first hadn't moved during the entire confrontation. He'd simply stood there, watching his companions die with what seemed like mild interest.
"Impressive," he stated, clapping slowly. "Though I expected nothing less from the Ghost's personal executioner!"
The middle aged man turned to face him, sword held ready. For the first time since V had met him, there was uncertainty in his eyes.
"You should be dead," his voice was losing that infuriating calm for the first time since V had encountered him the tall figure tilted his head, and even through the black cloth covering his face, V could sense a creepy smile.
"Dead? Oh, my dear Heinrich, death is such a limiting concept, don't you think?"
Heinrich. So the bastard had a name after all. V filed that information away, assuming he lived long enough for it to matter which was looking increasingly unlikely.
"Impossible," Heinrich muttered, but his sword arm trembled slightly. "I killed you myself. Watched you until you drew your last breath, so—"
"You did indeed ! "
The figure's voice carried an odd note of fondness, like he was reminiscing about a pleasant afternoon tea rather than his own murder.
"Quite thoroughly, too. That thrust through the heart was particularly well-executed. I was almost proud of you."
Whatever reunion this was, it had the distinct atmosphere for V
"Then what the hell are you?" Heinrich snarled through gritted teeth.
"Still human! If you're finished, let's get this over with."
The figure pulled back his hood, revealing a face that could unsettle anyone. V watched with morbid fascination and disgust.
It was human, technically. But the skin was entirely scarred, like a mannequin that had been left to burn for far too long. The eyes were the worst part they were completely black, even the sclera.
"You always were resourceful, Marcus," Heinrich said with revulsion in his eyes.
Marcus chuckled, a sound like grinding glass. "The White Ghost isn't the only one who's learned to cheat death, old friend. Though I'll admit, his methods are considerably more... elegant than mine."
"Great! Another immortal psychopath just what this day needed ? "
Both men turned to look at him, and V realized he'd spoken louder than intended.
"Oh yes," Marcus said, his unnatural gaze settling on V with uncomfortable intensity. "The bloodline. The reason we're all here, isn't it? Tell me, boy, do you have any idea what flows through your veins?"
"Mostly sadness and emptiness with poor life choices," V retorted, because apparently his mouth had decided that sarcasm was an appropriate response to mortal terror. "With a healthy dose of 'what the hell is happening to my life.'"
Marcus laughed actually laughed like V had told a genuinely amusing joke instead of voicing his existential crisis.
"Oh, I like him," Marcus said, glancing at Heinrich. "He's got spirit. Shame we'll have to kill him."
"You won't touch him," Heinrich growled, shifting into a combat stance.
"Won't I?" Marcus tilted his head again. "You're good, Heinrich better than you were thirty years ago, even but you've been playing bodyguard to a corpse for three decades while I've been... expanding my horizons."
Suddenly the tension built up. V felt pressure building in his ears, like he was descending too rapidly in an elevator. The strange luminescent orbs overhead flickered, and the White Ghost's breathing grew more labored.
"What's happening?" V asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.
But before he could receive his answer, the fight had begun. Heinrich moved first, closing the distance between him and Marcus in three swift strides. His blade came up in a diagonal slash aimed at Marcus's throat, but Marcus swayed backward just far enough to avoid it.
"Still favoring your right side," Marcus said conversationally, producing a pair of curved daggers from beneath his black robes. "Some habits never change."
Heinrich's response was a brutal downward chop that would have split Marcus from crown to groin, but Marcus crossed his daggers above his head, catching the sword between them. The screech of metal on metal filled the chamber.
"You're slower," Marcus grunted, straining against Heinrich's superior strength. "Age catching up?"
Heinrich twisted his blade, attempting to bind Marcus's weapons, but Marcus spun away, one dagger raking across Heinrich's ribs. The fabric of Heinrich's shirt parted, revealing a thin line of blood.
"First blood to me," Marcus said with that glass-grinding chuckle.
"Creepy!" V thought.
But Heinrich said nothing, simply pressed his attack. His swordwork was methodical, efficient thrust, parry, slash. But Marcus fought like a man with nothing to lose, his twin daggers weaving patterns in the air that seemed to anticipate where Heinrich's blade would be.
These weren't the wild swings of desperate men this was craftsmanship, decades of skill and experience distilled into pure violence. V found himself admiring this battle despite the circumstances.
Marcus ducked under a horizontal sweep and came up inside Heinrich's guard, both daggers driving toward his stomach. Heinrich twisted, taking a shallow cut along his left arm while bringing his pommel down toward Marcus's skull. Marcus jerked his head aside, the metal striking his shoulder instead.
The blow staggered him, and Heinrich pressed the advantage, his sword point darting toward Marcus's chest. Marcus threw himself backward, rolling across the stone floor and coming up in a crouch.
"Getting rusty in your old age?"
"Just warming up!"
Marcus lunged forward, leading with his left dagger while the right came around in a wide arc. Heinrich parried the first strike but had to duck the second, feeling the blade part the air. He countered with an upward thrust that Marcus barely avoided, the sword point tearing through his black robes.
They separated again, circling each other like wolves. Both men were breathing harder now, sweat mixing with the blood from their various cuts.
"Getting... tired... old friend?" Marcus gasped.
"Why the hell am I having these feelings like this all is—?" Heinrich thought.
Instead of answering, Heinrich shifted his grip and drove his knee toward Marcus's face. Marcus threw himself sideways, rolling away from the strike, but Heinrich was already moving, his sword following Marcus's path.
The blade bit deep into Marcus's left shoulder, drawing a grunt of pain and a spray of dark blood. Marcus's left arm went limp, his dagger clattering to the floor.
"Shit," V whispered, then immediately regretted it as both fighters glanced his way.
Marcus used the distraction, his remaining dagger slashing across Heinrich's thigh. Heinrich stumbled, his leg buckling, and Marcus pressed his advantage despite his wounded shoulder.
The scarred man fought with desperate fury now, wielding his single dagger. Heinrich gave ground, his wounded leg affecting his balance, but his swordwork remained precise. He caught Marcus's wrist on an overextended thrust, twisting until Marcus cried out and dropped his remaining weapon.
"Yield," Heinrich commanded, his sword point at Marcus's throat.
Marcus smiled, blood running from the corner of his mouth.
"You always were too honorable for this work!"
Without warning, he grabbed Heinrich's blade with his bare hand, ignoring the metal biting into his palm, and drove his forehead into Heinrich's nose. The cartilage crunched, blood streaming down Heinrich's face as he staggered backward.
Marcus scooped up his fallen dagger, lunging forward in a final desperate attack. Heinrich, half-blinded by blood and pain, brought his sword up in a defensive arc.
The blade caught Marcus just below the sternum, driving up through his ribcage. Marcus's momentum carried him forward, impaling himself further on the steel until the crossguard pressed against his chest.
They stood frozen for a moment—Marcus's hand still gripping his dagger inches from Heinrich's heart, Heinrich's sword buried to the hilt in his opponent's torso.
"Well played," Marcus whispered, blood frothing at his lips. "Though I think... we both know... this isn't over."
His legs gave out, and he slid off Heinrich's blade to collapse on the stone floor. His breathing grew shallow, then stopped altogether.
Heinrich stood over the body, swaying slightly, blood dripping from his nose and the various cuts across his arms and torso. He looked exhausted, older somehow, as if the fight had aged him years in the span of minutes.
"Why... why the hell do I feel like this is all fabricated? But again, this feeling is too real," Heinrich thought.
"Damn! This old man actually killed him."
V looked around the chamber, taking inventory Heinrich's sword, the curved dagger now slick with black blood.
Observing the middle-aged man, V slowly bent down to retrieve Heinrich's blade. After picking it up, he turned to face the middle-aged man.
"You know, I've had a spectacularly shitty day, and I'm not in the mood to die without a proper fight!"
V had made his decision. If not now, he wouldn't survive. On top of everything else, the middle-aged man was injured and mostly exhausted, so now V had a slim chance of killing him. But still, V couldn't believe the mark of the unwritten hadn't vanished since he had met this man, and even now the mark was there, telling him he was still too much of a threat to his life.
"Boy! I told you to die quietly. Why resist? Do you think you have a chance because I'm injured?!"
"Why do I still feel the same...?" Heinrich thought.
"Crazy old man! Who tells people to die without putting up a fight?"
V took his clumsy defensive position.
"Come at me, you cheaky old man!"
Now, whether he lived or died was just a question of how desperately he could cling to his life.