Encroaching Darkness
Zachary sat in the stark quiet of his office, the morning light streamed through the windows as his eyes focused on the piece of paper in front of him. It was a letter. Penned in a neat, precise script of Lady Orwella.
Esteemed Leader of Castalia Mercenary Company,* the letter began, dispensing with the flowery pleasantries of formal diplomacy. *I must humbly impose upon you with this correspondence. The treachery of William and the subsequent upheaval of peace in Ardenia fill my heart with profound regret and anguish. The Council of Knights' appointed plenipotentiary is en route and shall arrive in Ardenian soil forthwith. I am confident that following proper diplomatic proceedings, the Council shall assume full accountability for these matters.
The pursuit of peace is arduous indeed. I wish to convey, in my personal capacity, my utmost admiration to the Castalia Mercenary Group for your steadfast dedication and invaluable service to the cause of peace.
Sincerely,
Orwella Arthur Victoria of the Avalon Knight Order,
Acting Commander of Albion Forces in Ardenia.
Zachary set the letter aside. It was a well-crafted apology, professional and sincere. A proper display of accountability without admitting weakness. The Avalon Knights were nothing if not masters of political maneuvering. The promise of a formal diplomatic mission was a good sign, an assurance that the more rational factions within Albion were asserting control.
His eyes then fell to another letter. This one, sealed with the royal crest of Ardenia, was far more direct.
Leader of the Castalia Mercenary Company:
The peace talks at Silvercreek Town have concluded, bringing temporary stability. Be under no illusion, however; this is merely a momentary truce. Albion has not abandoned its ambitions towards Ardenia. The Holy Empire bides its time, watching from the wings like a carrion crow. The vultures circle, awaiting the first sign of weakness.
Your forces must maintain the utmost vigilance. Expand your ranks. Bolster your defenses. Prepare for the inevitable.
With profound expectation,
Finlay Eafora Ardenia
Crown Prince of Ardenia.
Zachary leaned back, his fingers drumming a silent, restless rhythm on the polished wood of his desk. Two letters, two different perspectives, but the same underlying message: the war was far from over. The Battle of Silvercreek had been a victory, but it was just the opening skirmish in a much larger conflict. Finlay's words echoed the cold calculus that had governed Zachary's own actions for years. Vigilance was his life's creed.
Lost in his thoughts, Zachary almost missed the soft knock on his door. Sylvanne strode in without waiting for an invitation, however, she looks sobered up, and her face etched with something grim.
"Morning, Zachary. This is a new request from the nearby village." she said, placing the letter on the desk. "It's… not good."
"Hm? What's wrong?" Zachary asked, picking up the letter.
Zachary read it in silence, his expression hardening with each line. The message was from the elder of neighboring village, the urgency palpable from the way the letter was written. It spoke of a series of raids from armed people claimed to be part of "The Children of the Eclipse." They had descended upon the village without warning, dragging away men, women, and children. The survivors were few, and their accounts were filled with terror. It seemed that this 'cult' wasn't merely content with terrorizing the helpless; they were actively recruiting, swelling their ranks with forced converts or slaves.
"The Children of the Eclipse..." Zachary murmured. "The same cult that Borwe belonged to. The same cult whose traces Stark's squad found in Erja."
"Yeah. And it seems they've been busy." Sylvanne's usual grin was nowhere to be found. "These aren't just isolated fanatics, boss. They're organized. And they're bold enough to raid villages this close to Loriana."
Zachary stood up, pacing to the window. The peace they had fought so hard for in Silvercreek felt suddenly fragile, overshadowed by this new, insidious threat. Albion was a political enemy, predictable in its ambition. But a cult? Driven by fanaticism and fueled by the desperation of the refugees?
"We're still kinda short of hands either." Sylvanne continued. "What do you think?"
"We respond," Zachary said, his voice flat and decisive. He turned from the window, his gaze meeting Sylvanne's. "Immediately. I'll lead this myself. Gather the squad commanders. We need to assess our strength."
"Aye, aye. It's been a while to see the boss to participate in raid." Sylvanne nodded, a flicker of her old fire returning. "I'll round up the usual suspects. Stark's team is fresh from their little mountain hike. They're ready."
"Good." Zachary looked back at the letters on his desk, the weight of command settling back onto his shoulders.
The late morning sun filtered through the leaves of the old oak tree in the mercenary company's back garden, dappling the ground where three men sat in a lazy triangle. It was a rare moment of stillness, the kind that usually preceded a storm, but for now, the only turbulence was the swirling grey smoke drifting lazily upward.
Asep took a long, testing drag from a hand-rolled cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs for a beat longer than necessary before exhaling a thick, pungent cloud. He grimaced, staring at the burning tip with a look of mild betrayal.
"It ain't it," Asep muttered, flicking the ash onto the grass. "It hits, sure. But it's... fuzzy. Like my brain is being wrapped in a warm, wet blanket. I need the sharp kick. The wake-up slap."
Karl, lying back with his hands behind his head and a goofy grin plastered across his face, laughed. The sound was a little slower than usual. "You're too picky, Asep. This is top-shelf 'Dreamer's Moss.' The healers use it to saw off legs without the poor sods screaming. If it's good enough for an amputation, it's good enough for a Tuesday."
"I'm not looking to amputate my leg, Karl. I'm looking to jumpstart my heart," Asep grumbled, taking another reluctant puff.
It was Cannabis—or something so close to it that the difference was academic. Back home, in the dark corners of Bandung's alleys, they called it Ganja. It was familiar, nostalgic even, reminding him of hazy nights and bad decisions with his old crew. But right now, his body screamed for nicotine. The raw, chemical bite of tobacco was what he craved, the kind that sharpened his senses rather than dulling them.
Bob, sitting cross-legged and meticulously cleaning the trigger mechanism of his crossbow, didn't look up as he chimed in. "The Opium derivative feels heavier. Makes your eyelids sweat."
Asep looked at the small pouch of dark, resinous substance sitting between them. Opium. Another adequate, yet ultimately unsatisfying substitute. "Yeah, and I don't need to be nodding off in the middle of a fight. I need focus." He sighed, blowing a smoke ring that wobbled and collapsed. "Damn blockade. When are the ships from the Western Continent coming back?"
"The 'New World' trade routes are choked tighter than a duck's arse," Karl said, giggling at his own analogy. "Albion's navy is patrolling the strait. No spice, no silk, and definitely no 'Golden Leaf' from the colonies. Until the peace treaty is actually signed and the seas open up, we're stuck smoking whatever the local apothecaries can scrape off a rock."
Asep leaned back against the tree trunk, staring up at the fragmented blue sky. "A whole continent discovered, and the only thing I care about is a dried leaf. Life is a comedy, and the writer is a hack."
He missed the harshness of a *Kretek*. The crackle of cloves. The sweet, numbing taste on the lips. This 'Dreamer's Moss' was pleasant, sure, but it lacked *soul*. It was a distinctive, herbal scent that clung to his clothes, a smell that screamed 'lazy afternoon' rather than 'hard-working break'.
The garden gate creaked open, the heavy, rhythmic clanking of plate armor announcing the arrival of the fun police.
Stark marched into the garden, his helmet tucked under his arm, his face set in its usual lines of severe responsibility. He stopped a few feet away, waving a hand in front of his nose to disperse the haze.
"I can smell you three from the hallway," Stark said flatly. "Put it out."
Karl groaned, rolling onto his side but making no move to extinguish his smoke. "Come on, Cap. We're 'meditating'. It's essential for morale. Mental health, yeah?"
"Your mental health involves not getting skewered by bandits because your reflexes are slower than a slug in salt," Stark countered. "Zachary has orders for us. We're moving out within the hour."
Asep stubbed out the makeshift joint on the sole of his boot, the buzz instantly killed by the tone in Stark's voice. "Where to this time? Another mountain to climb? Or are we finally raiding a tobacco warehouse?"
"Neither," Stark said "Greenpasteur Village. It's a farming settlement about three hours from here. Those Eclipse freaks hit it last night."
The playful atmosphere evaporated instantly. Bob reassembled his crossbow with a sharp clack, testing the string. Karl sat up, his grin gone, replaced by a focused, predatory look. Asep felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. Greenpasteur... that was close. Too close.
"Damn it, right in my smoking time..." Asep muttered, grabbing his brass knuckles from the grass beside him. He wasn't really annoyed about the interruption; it was a deflection, a way to mask the sudden surge of adrenaline. Raiding villages. Kidnapping people. It was exactly the kind of mess he hated, and exactly the kind of mess he was getting dragged into. Again.
"Gear up," Stark commanded, turning on his heel. "Standard patrol loadout. And bring extra bolts, Bob. We might be dealing with more than just a few ragged cultists."
As Stark walked away, Asep stood up, dusting off his pants. He looked at the half-finished joint on the ground, then crushed it into the dirt with his heel.
"Well," Asep said, cracking his neck. "Guess the smoke break is over."
"Duty calls," Karl said, tying his green bandana tighter around his forehead. "Let's go smash some fanatic heads. Maybe they'll have some decent snuff on them."
"Doubt it," Bob murmured, standing up. "Cultists usually just smoke incense."
Asep snorted. "Great. Smelling like a temple while we fight. Just what I needed." But his hands were already checking his pockets, ensuring his brass knuckles were secure. The craving for nicotine was pushed down, replaced by the grim familiarity of impending violence.
Greenpasteur used to be a quiet, unremarkable hamlet—a cluster of thatched roofs and stone cottages nestled amidst rolling fields of barley and wheat. Now, it was a scene torn from a nightmare. The central square, usually a place for market stalls and gossiping neighbors, had been transformed into an altar of cruelty.
A ragged, terrified group of villagers—men, women, and even children—were kneeling in the dirt, their hands bound roughly behind their backs with frayed hemp rope. Their faces were masks of blood and bruises, swollen from beatings, streaked with tears and grime. A dozen figures loomed over them, clad in tattered, dark robes that seemed to absorb the sunlight, their faces hidden within the depths of cowls. These were the "Children of the Eclipse"—not organized soldiers, but a motley collection of fanatics wielding crude weapons: rusted axes, hefty cudgels, and jagged knives. But their lack of discipline was compensated for by a terrifying, maniacal fervor.
"Submit!" a cultist bellowed, kicking a kneeling farmer in the ribs. The man collapsed with a wheezing gasp, spitting blood onto the dusty ground. "Renounce the False Light! Embrace the Eternal Shadow!"
"Please!" an older woman wailed, thrusting a small, worn pouch forward with trembling hands. "Take it! It's all we have! Just let us go!"
The coins, a family's life savings, spilled into the dirt, glittering mockingly in the sun. The cultist didn't even look at them. He stepped on the woman's hand, grinding his heel into her fingers until she screamed.
"Your worldly trinkets are ashes!" he hissed, leaning down until his cowl almost touched her face. "The Eclipse demands your soul, not your scraps of metal! Convert, or be purged!"
Another villager, a young man with a defiant look in his eye, tried to struggle to his feet. "You're mad! All of you! The Radiance will strike you—"
A heavy club swung down, cracking against his skull with a sickening thud. He crumpled silently.
"False idols!" another cultist shrieked, raising a jagged dagger. "See how your light fails you? Only the darkness embraces all!"
"Stop right there!" A distinct female voice called out, before a shield bashed at the cultist who was about to kill the man.
"Gah! You-!" Before the cultist even finishes, an arrow struck his neck, silenced him forever.
"Don't be reckless! You almost get me a heart attack!" Kirsche scolded, nocking another arrow to his bow.
"But I did save him!" Clara replied, before bashing another cultist's face with her shield, and then unsheathed her shortsword and slashed at the cultist.
The sudden violence shattered the ritualistic terror. From the treeline, a disciplined line of armored figures emerged.
Zachary stood at the forefront, his face was a mask of cold fury.
"Castalia Mercenaries!" Zachary's voice rang out, clear and commanding. "Secure the civilians! Purge the hostiles!"
"OOHHHH!" The roar of the mercenaries answered him.
"Shit! It's the Castalia!" the cultists shouted, as chaos ensued on their ranks. "H-how did they know?!"
"It doesn't matter! Fight for the Eclipse!"
"Die, Infidels!"
A cultist raised his rusty axe, charging with a scream of fanatic devotion toward a towering mercenary who held the line. But before he could even close the distance, a crossbow bolt thudded into his chest with a wet crunch. He collapsed mid-step, his cry choking into a gurgle. Around, his brothers and sisters fell like wheat before a scythe.
The cultists, fueled only by rage and madness, were no match for trained soldiers. Their wild swings were parried and countered with lethal strikes. The distinction between soldiers and mere fanatics was stark. Panic began to ripple through the robed mob.
"Hold the line! Don't let them take the sacrifice!" one shouted, only to be silenced by a swift sword thrust through the gut.
From the perspective of a lowly initiate cowering behind a barrel, the scene was a massacre. The crests of the Castalia Mercenary Company gleamed mockingly. *We are dying,* he thought, clutching his rusted knife with trembling hands. We are being slaughtered like sheep.
But that was the point. Death is just another state for the Eclipse to take form. With death, comes rebirth.
From the chaotic fray, a cultist's blood splattered across the dusty ground, creating a macabre pattern. Another fell, his skull crushed by a mace. Their screams were not of despair, but of fervent offering. *Let the blood soak the earth,* the initiate thought with a twisted smile, his fear transmuting into ecstatic realization. *Let them think they have won.*
___
"Karl, watch your side!" Stark barks, thrusting his spear into a cultist's chest.
"Got it, Cap!" Karl grins, effortlessly parrying a crude blade swing before driving his own spear through his attacker's shoulder. "These guys are softer than wet paper!"
"Kh-!" The cultist mob whimpered before dying.
"Don't get cocky!" Sylvanne yelled, her massive greatsword cleaving through two cultists at once with a sickening crunch. She kicked a third one back into the line, her crimson eyes alight with battle lust. "Clear the square! Secure the hostages!"
"Clear!" Asep grunted, delivering a devastating punch to a cultist's jaw. The man spun in the air before hitting the ground, unconscious before he even landed. Asep shook his hand, wincing slightly. "Damn, their heads are harder than rocks. Must be all that empty space inside."
Zachary surveyed the battlefield, his sword point lowered. The last of the cultists were either dead on the ground or scattering into the alleys like cockroaches fleeing the light. The villagers were weeping, huddled together, but safe.
"Form a perimeter!" Zachary ordered, sheathing his blade. "Check the wounded. Make sure none of these rats are hiding in the cottages."
"Yes, sir!" The mercenaries moved with practiced efficiency, securing the area.
Then, the air shifted.
It wasn't a sound, but a feeling—a sudden drop in pressure that made ears pop and the hairs on the back of necks stand up. The fleeing cultists stopped. Those who were injured ceased their wailing. A heavy, oppressive silence fell over the village square, thicker than the dust kicked up by the melee.
From the shadows of the largest barn, a figure emerged. He didn't walk so much as glide, his presence commanding immediate attention. He wore robes of deep, midnight blue, embroidered with sigils that seemed to writhe in the daylight. His face was hidden behind a smooth, porcelain mask that depicted a singular, stylized eclipse—a black sun consuming a golden one.
Behind him, from every alleyway, rooftop, and window, more figures appeared. Dozens of them. Then hundreds. They weren't the ragged, desperate mob the mercenaries had just fought. These people look professional, probably mercenaries. They held crossbows, pikes, and swords with disciplined grips. They wore matching tunics bearing the eclipse sigil.
The "rout" had been a performance. The "massacre" was merely the opening act.
"Welcome, Zachary Valente," the masked figure spoke. His voice was smooth, cultured, and magnified by some unseen magic, echoing across the square. "Or should I say... the Guardian of Loriana."
Zachary's hand went back to his sword hilt, his eyes narrowing. "... I see. So this was a trap all along."
"A demonstration," the masked man corrected, tilting his head slightly. "We require an audience for the sermon, after all. And who better to witness the dawn of the true age than the 'heroes' who cling so desperately to the dying light?"
Around the perimeter, the trap snapped shut. Barricades crashed down across the main roads. Crossbowmen appeared on the rooftops, their weapons leveled at the mercenaries below. The village of Greenpasteur had just become a kill box.
"We have you surrounded. Ten to one," the masked leader continued, spreading his arms wide as if to embrace them. "Surrender your weapons. Kneel before the Eclipse. And perhaps... just perhaps... your souls may yet be salvageable."
Asep looked around at the wall of enemies, then at his own knuckles. He sighed, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette he knew he shouldn't light.
"Ten to one, huh?" Asep muttered, glancing at Karl. "Stark was right. Should've brought more ammo."
"Shit," Karl spat, his grin tighter now. "Guess we're earning our pay the hard way today."
Zachary didn't flinch. He drew his sword slowly, the steel singing a clear, defiant note in the silence.
"Castalia does not kneel," Zachary said, his voice calm, cutting through the tension like a razor. "To anyone."
The masked man sighed, a sound of exaggerated disappointment.
"A pity," he said, and raised a hand. "Then let the shadows take you."
____
The air snapped with the distinct thwip of a hundred crossbow strings releasing at once.
"Shields up!" Stark roared, his voice cracking like a whip over the confusion.
The command was barely out of his mouth before the sky darkened with a volley of bolts. The mercenaries, drilled to seamless perfection, reacted instantly. Heavy tower shields slammed together with a deafening metallic clang, forming a turtle formation that rippled under the impact of the falling projectiles. To an observer, it looked like a sudden hailstorm pounding on a tin roof—*ting, thud, crack*.
"Hold!" Stark braced his shoulder against his shield, grimacing as a bolt punched through the wood near the rim, the tip stopping inches from his visor. "Don't break formation!"
From the gaps in the shield wall, Bob and the other ranged fighters returned fire. Their crossbows sang their own deadly rebuttal, picking off exposed cultists on the rooftops. Bodies tumbled from the thatch, hitting the ground with dull thuds, but for every one that fell, two more seemed to take their place.
"They're flanking us!" Karl shouted, his spear darting out like a viper's tongue to impale a cultist trying to slip around the side. He twisted the shaft and yanked it back, blood spraying across his armor. "Left side is getting heavy!"
"I see 'em!" Sylvanne laughed, a wild, terrifying sound that cut through the screams of the dying. She broke from the formation for a split second, her greatsword—a slab of iron that had no business moving that fast—sweeping in a vicious arc. Three attackers were cleaved in half before they could even raise their weapons. She stepped back into the line seamlessly, wiping gore from her cheek. "Come on, you robed freaks! Is that all you got?!"
In the center of the square, Zachary was a whirlwind of precision. He wasn't wasting energy on shouts or bravado. Every movement was calculated, every strike fatal. He parried a thrust from a pike, stepped inside the guard, and slashed the attacker's throat in one fluid motion.
"Tighten the circle!" Zachary ordered, his eyes scanning the battlefield, analyzing the enemy's flow. "Asep! Clara! Plug the gap on the east!"
"On it!" Asep grunted, ducking under a wildly swung axe. He sidestepped, grabbed the attacker's wrist with one hand, and drove his brass-knuckled fist into the man's solar plexus with the other. The cultist didn't scream; he just folded, air forcefully expelled from his lungs, before Asep finished him with a hammer blow to the back of the neck.
Clara was right beside him, her shield work impeccable. She caught a sword strike on the rim, deflected it downward, and thrust her shortsword into the opening. "There's too many of them!" she yelled, panting.
"Just keep hitting 'em until they stop moving!" Asep shouted back, pivoting to backhand another zealot who got too close.
But amidst the chaos of the melee, a different kind of threat emerged.
From the rooftops, a shadow detached itself. It didn't fall; it flowed, liquid and silent, moving against the grain of the battle. This figure wore tighter, lighter garb than the other cultists, wrapped in dark grey leathers that blurred against the stone and wood. Twin daggers, curved like serpents' fangs, glinted in their hands.
Bob, positioned near the rear of the formation to provide overwatch, was reloading his heavy crossbow. His eyes were scanning the upper windows for archers, his focus entirely on the high ground. He didn't see the shadow drop behind him.
He didn't hear the soft *scuff* of boots on the dirt.
"Bob! Behind yo—!" Kirsche's warning was cut short by a choked gasp.
The assassin moved with terrifying speed. Before Bob could even turn, the figure was on him. One dagger hooked around his crossbow, yanking it aside, while the other—
Shnk.
The sound was sickeningly wet, barely audible over the clash of steel. The curved blade drove deep into the gap between Bob's pauldrons and his neck guard, sinking into the soft flesh above the collarbone.
Bob's eyes went wide, pupils dilating in shock. He made a guttural sound, dropping his crossbow as his hands flew up to his neck. Blood, bright and arterial, spurted between his fingers, painting his leather armor in a gruesome crimson spray.
"Bob!" Karl screamed, his voice raw with sudden panic.
The assassin didn't linger. With a fluid twist, they ripped the blade free—causing another spray of blood—and kicked Bob in the back of the knee, sending him crashing to the ground. Before anyone could retaliate, the figure backflipped away, disappearing into the press of the cultist mob like smoke in a gale.
"Medic! We need a medic!" Stark roared, abandoning his position to kneel beside his fallen comrade. He ripped off his gauntlets, pressing his bare hands frantically against the wound, trying to stem the tide of life pouring out of the young marksman.
"H-Hank..." Bob gurgled, blood bubbling past his lips. His face was already turning a pale, waxy grey. "Tell... Hank..."
"Shut up! Save your breath!" Stark's face was twisted in anguish, his hands slick with warm blood. "Don't you die on me, kid! Don't you dare!"
The formation wavered. The sight of one of their own going down—not in a clash of steel, but from a silent, brutal assassination—sent a shockwave of fear through the mercenaries.
"Focus!" Zachary's voice boomed, cutting through the panic. He decapitated a cultist who tried to capitalize on the distraction. "Hold the line or we all die! Kirsche! Cover fire! Keep them off Stark! Medic, hurry up!"
Kirsche, pale and shaking, nocked an arrow. His hands trembled, but he forced himself to aim. He saw the face of his friend, bleeding out in the dirt. Rage, cold and sharp, replaced the fear.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
Three arrows flew in rapid succession. Three cultists dropped, arrows sprouting from their eye sockets.
"You bastards!" Kirsche screamed, tears streaming down his face as he drew again. "I'll kill you all!"
Asep, seeing the formation buckling near where Stark was tending to Bob, gritted his teeth. The playful, reluctant demeanor was gone. In its place was something cold, something he had buried deep since leaving his old world.
"Clara! Shield wall on Stark!" Asep commanded, not asking. "I'm going to clear some space."
Without waiting for a response, Asep charged. He didn't use a weapon. He didn't need one. He slammed into the encroaching line of cultists like a wrecking ball. He grabbed a spear shaft mid-thrust, snapped it like a twig, and drove the jagged end into the wielder's throat. He spun, a backfist shattering the jaw of a sword-wielder, then grabbed the man by his robes and hurled him bodily into his comrades, knocking them down like bowling pins.
*Where's that bastard? That fast-moving guy?!* Asep's eyes darted around the battlefield as he pummeled another cultist. There is no way it was a normal cultist. *A highly skilled fighter among the mobs.*
"Bangsaaat!" He roared, unleashing a flurry of blows that were too fast for the fanatics to follow. It wasn't elegant. It was brutal street violence on a medieval battlefield. He was buying time. Seconds. Precious seconds for the medic to reach Bob.
But as he fought, he couldn't shake the image of his marksman buddy clutching his throat. The reality of war—the unpredictability, the suddenness of death—had just slapped them all in the face. This wasn't a game. It wasn't an adventure either.
It was a meat grinder. And the handle was turning.
A sharp whistle cut through the din of battle, high and shrill, followed by a sound like tearing canvas.
Fwoosh!
A crescent of compressed air, visible only as a shimmer in the dust-choked light, scythed across the square. It slammed into the thickest cluster of cultists pressing on the mercenary's left flank. There was no impact sound, no clash of steel—just the gruesome thudding sounds of bodies hitting the dirt, severed or thrown back by the sheer concussive force. The encroaching mob faltered, their fanatical screams dying in their throats as an invisible wall of wind blasted them backward.
"For Ardenia! For the Fallen!"
From the southern road, tearing through the flimsy barricades like they were made of matchsticks, a fresh wave of steel and fury crashed into the fray. At the head of the charge, her golden hair streaming behind her like a battle standard, was Princess Adreana. She wasn't hidden in a carriage or watching from a hill. She was in the thick of it, her rapier a blur of silver light, moving with a grace that made violence look like a dance.
Behind her poured the rest of the Castalia reserves, a torrent of armed men and women bellowing war cries that shook the very foundations of the cottages.
"Reinforcements!" Clara cried out, nearly sagging with relief against her battered shield before bashing a cultist who got too close. "The Princess is here!"
The arrival of the main force shattered the cultists' momentum. They were fanatics, yes, but they weren't stupid. Caught between the hammer of Adreana's charge and the anvil of Zachary's defensive line, their formation—if it could be called that—began to disintegrate.
But amidst the shifting tide, Asep's eyes were locked on a single target.
The shadow in grey leather. The assassin.
While the rest of the cultists were panicking, this figure moved with cold, predatory purpose. They were weaving through the chaos, using the confusion to slip toward the rear of the mercenary line, toward where Kirsche was exposed, firing arrow after arrow with tears streaming down his face. The assassin's daggers were drawn, held in reverse grip, ready to silence another voice, another life.
"Oh no, you don't!" Asep growled.
He was too far away to reach them in time. A pile of bodies and fighting men separated them. Kirsche was focused downrange, completely oblivious to the death creeping up on his flank.
Asep's eyes darted to the ground. Debris was everywhere—broken spears, shattered shields, loose cobblestones torn up by the fighting. His hand shot out, snatching a jagged chunk of stone the size of a grapefruit.
He didn't think. He didn't calculate trajectory. He just channeled every ounce of frustration, fear, and street-honed instinct into his arm.
"WOI! ANJING!" Asep roared, bellowing a curse from a world away as he launched the rock with all his might.
The projectile was crude, un-aerodynamic, and ugly. It was also fast. It whistled through the air, missing a friendly mercenary's helmet by inches, and slammed into the assassin's shoulder just as they lunged.
CRACK.
"Tch! Damn it!" The assassin grunted, the impact throwing their aim wide. The dagger meant for Kirsche's kidneys instead slashed harmlessly through the air. The assassin stumbled, their fluid grace broken for a fraction of a second.
That was all Asep needed.
He ignored the burning in his lungs, vaulting over a kneeling, wounded cultist and sprinting toward the assassin. The grey-clad figure recovered quickly, spinning around with a hiss of annoyance, their eyes locking onto Asep.
"Nuisance," the assassin spat. Behind the mask, the assassin is clearly a girl.
But for Asep, he didn't have time to judge, and he particularly didn't care either. He just ran over and using his speed to ram at the assassin. "Gotcha!"
"You—!" The assassin was fast. Faster than anyone Asep had ever fought. But Asep wasn't fighting like a soldier. He didn't feint or probe. He just crashed in.
As the assassin slashed horizontally, aiming to gut him, Asep caught her hand and with all his might, tossed the assassin down to the ground.
The momentum was transferred perfectly. The assassin barely had time to widen her eyes before she was airborne. She slammed onto the hard-packed earth with a bone-rattling thud, the breath driven from her lungs.
"Guh!"
Asep didn't give her a chance to recover. He was on top of her in an instant, pinning her wrist with his knee while his free hand delivered a brutal hook to her jaw.
With a loud crack, the mask shattered. Shards of porcelain flew, revealing pale skin and a mouth bloody from the impact. She writhed, trying to buck him off, her free hand clawing for a dagger she had dropped, but Asep grabbed her by the collar of her leathers and slammed her back down then repeatedly punched her in the face until it was nothing but a bloody mess.
"Hah... Hah... Hah..." He panted.
The assassin lay still, unconscious or dead, it didn't really matter, her face was a ruin of blood and bruises, almost unrecognized.
Suddenly, a hand grabbed his shoulder.
"Asep that's enough! She is done for!" Stark voice's rang.
Asep blinked, the red haze fading from his vision. He looked down at his bloody knuckles, then at the motionless woman beneath him. He took a shuddering breath, his chest heaving. His heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Around them, the battle was winding down. With their leaders either dead or fleeing, and the elite assassin neutralized, the remaining cultists threw down their weapons or were cut down where they stood.
"Bob... How's Bob?" Asep croaked, his voice raw.
Stark's face was grim. He turned around without saying anything.
"Damn it..." Asep cursed out loud.
The victory felt hollow, the taste of ash and iron heavy in his mouth. He looked across the square. Princess Adreana was sheathing her rapier, her face set in a hard, regal mask, but her eyes were filled with sorrow as she surveyed the carnage. Zachary was giving orders, securing the prisoners, but his movements were stiff and weighted.
And near the center of the formation, Kirsche and Clara were kneeling beside a still form covered by a cloak. Their shoulders shook with silent sobs.
I see... This feeling... it's like watching Jaya and Rendy all over again...
He wiped the blood from his brow, his hand trembling slightly. "Let's get moving then."