Once you mock death, you lose the right to run from it.

  The mocking laughter ceased, and mirth vanished from every eye as their comrades’ bodies hit the ground. Staring at the unassuming boy who had casually cut down seven of them, their expressions hardened; they became predators once more.

  The tattooed man considered striking back, but something gave him pause. His eyes could not trace the young man’s movement. All he saw was a black blur rotating, and when it settled a bloody sabre in the man's hands. And his seven men down.

  Did my eyes deceive me? Or is he another one of those wretched Mundukars? the tattooed man thought.

  He raised a hand, signaling his men to hold. "Looks like we got off on the wrong foot. How about you go your way, and we go ours? No need to escalate this."

  Corvus did not reply; in fact, he did not even listen, for his mind was already engrossed in a calculation of its own.

  Receiving no answer, the tattooed man pressed on, his tone hardening. "We’re with the Kin. It’s in your best interest to walk away now. I can forget about my men, but don’t push your—"

  "It's done," Corvus curtly spoke, and stepped toward him.

  "Boss!" one of the men shouted.

  He was wary seeing the unknown young man so close to their leader. He had seen Corvus's unnatural speed and the danger he posed at such close range.

  "It's alright, Skarn. He won't harm me, Mundukar or not, no one wants to risk their life, or their family's over nothing. Because make no mistake, that's exactly what'll happen. So, do you accept my proposal?" the tattooed man extended a hand.

  Everyone's heart skipped a beat at his mentioning of Mundukar, as a seed of doubt was planted inside everyone:

  Is that young man a Mundukar? How can someone so young be a Mundukar? Boss must be joking, right?

  Even unconfirmed ideas exerted undeniable pull over one's temperament and decisions. And the idea that another Mundukar, possibly of the old Mundukar's calibre who had single handedly decimated much of their force, had appeared on the battlefield was an unnerving notion to have.

  Everyone silently waited for the young man to shake their leader's hand, and put their racing hearts at ease.

  The young man, however, was in no hurry; he took his sweet time to respond—stretching his neck, observing every member of the Bone-Rend Kin—before he finally said, "How'd you like your tattoos colored?"

  The simmering tension subsided for a dull moment at his unusual comment. Everyone looked at the young man with a baffled expression.

  The mood collapsed instantly—the young man's hand blurred, and a heartbeat later punched through their leader's mouth. Everyone forgot to breathe for a moment.

  The men standing just behind the tattooed man saw a fist protruding out of their leader's skull. They could have sworn they heard a whisper:

  "You shouldn't have spoken of my friends with that vile mouth."

  "Charge!" Skarn ordered.

  Drowning Skarn's orders, countless voices of doubt and apprehension rang in the air, like:

  "Did you see his strength? He can't be normal."

  "I'm outta here. I'm not fighting another one of those."

  The anxious voices lost the fight before it even began.

  The only person to show a semblance of courage was Skarn, who kept shouting: "Charge! Avenge your leader! Kill him!"

  No one paid any heed to his orders. Survival took precedence over duty, at least among the Kin.

  Even Skarn faltered when the chilling gaze of the young man fell upon him, forcing his legs to flee as well, in panic, shame, and shattered resolve.

  Before anyone knew it, an uncanny scene unfolded over a grisly battlefield. Over four dozen warriors ran away from a lone young man. They scattered in every direction and attempted to escape into the woods.

  But in the end, none were fast enough to escape the wraith.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  A pack of twenty men were sprinting together; their fatigue apparent from their heavy, sluggish steps. They had sought safety in numbers, but it was the very same density that beckoned their doom.

  The young man flashed in front of them. Try as they might, their momentum left them no room to retreat, so they chose to fight.

  They chose wrong.

  Before two of them could even lift their swords, the young man's sabre whizzed through the air and slashed at their chests—severing their ribs and muscles like thin air.

  Other warriors quickly retaliated; the young man dodged some blows while others he blocked.

  He countered with short, precise slashes at limbs and necks. Every strike landed true; any sword or armor that met his blade shattered with a sharp clang.

  Within seconds, six more warriors fell.

  The rest bared their swords at him and lunged simultaneously. Encircled from all angles, Corvus had no means to parry every blade with his crude sabre.

  Corvus, relying purely on his superhuman reflexes and instincts, dropped his hands and evaded each sword by a hair's breadth only. While dodging, he nudged the swords' trajectory with shoulders and elbows toward the other attackers.

  Some lost their eyes; others got away with shallow wounds only while for a few, pierced in the throat or heart, the wounds proved fatal.

  Slain by their own comrades, more dropped dead.

  To others' eyes the young man's graceful and deft movements appeared nothing like a battle art. It seemed more like a dance—and the young man the dancer of death.

  The sight was almost mesmerizing, if not for the blood and gore flying in the air. They hastened their pace.

  "Sixteen more left..." A woman lying amidst the corpses heard the young man speak before succumbing to her wounds.

  One by one all the remnants of the Bone-Rend Kin's force were paid a short but indelible visit by the wraith.

  Only a group of six people managed to escape into the woods.

  However, a question hung in the air: have they truly escaped?

  The day's radiance dimmed as dusk loomed over the horizon, shrouding the land in a dismal twilight. Within the groves, the already faint light grew even bleaker and darker, making it hard to navigate the forest. Yet the six people moving through it were not bothered.

  They would rather be lost than found.

  Of the six people, one was Skarn. A bitter warrior, who had to run with tail between his legs. Where his comrades were content having survived, he lamented that very fact. He had always looked down upon his peers and even some superiors for their fickle and selfish nature.

  Yet when push came to shove, he was no better than those he maligned. Actually, he was worse; he had failed to avenge his friend.

  Forgive me, Hector... Skarn thought.

  Hector, the tattooed man, was foul-mouthed, but a good friend nonetheless. And Skarn had failed him.

  "You think... that is still behind us," one of them said.

  "Don't speak loudly... I've heard the Mundukars have enhanced hearing and sight," another replied.

  "Bloody monsters..."

  The temperature gradually dropped. Slithering through the forest, Glaswold’s frigid winds gave shape to the six warriors’ dread, turning fear into something almost tangible. Dew gathered on their arms and rolled down their trembling fingertips, the sensation sharpened by the eerie lull around them. Each drop felt alien, intrusive.

  Finding themselves so vulnerable and helpless for the first time, they felt like prey being toyed with; their every breath an alms granted for someone else's amusement.

  Rustle of leaves, howling of the winds, and chirping of insects kept them constantly on edge. Each sound shifted their focus and quickened their hearts. Before long, some of their breaths had grown ragged.

  An abrupt sound of a leaf crunching echoed—two of them jumped in shock.

  "You stepped on it—idiot."

  "Did I?"

  "Yes, you did. I’m very careful to watch my steps," an unfamiliar voice answered.

  "Oh, you do. That’s good, very good… Wait… who said that?"

  The others noticed it too—their hearts skipped a beat.

  They quickly scanned their surroundings, but nothing seemed amiss among the five of them.

  Five?

  "Where’s Randall? Randall!" Skarn shouted. His voice echoed several times before fading into silence.

  They did not know when the wraith had claimed Randall. Or how long it had been posing as him?

  Forming a circle, they studied each other’s faces, desperate to confirm who was still real.

  "Whoever lives make sure the Kin knows about him."

  Everyone nodded and scattered into the forest.

  Weaving past countless trees, Skarn sprinted through the woods at full speed. Being the fastest among them—a trait he had come to despise—his chances of escape were better than his peers’. They might have outmatched him in combat, but today, speed was the only thing that could make this nightmare even remotely salvageable.

  He had come far by now, yet he refused to slow; pressing on in a desperate race against the wraith.

  For a fleeting moment, Skarn felt something he had long chased but never known: purpose. It was faint, but real—almost tangible.

  Perhaps it was because he had always sought it in others’ approval, in hollow praise and borrowed titles. Never once had he tried to build something worth cherishing, or to see the people of Bleakmoor Hearth and the Bone-Rend Kin as his own.

  Only through loss and despair did he come to understand their worth. He had failed to find contentment in their lives, so now, he sought solace in their deaths.

  Soon, his lungs gave out. He slumped beside a tree, struggling to calm his burning breath. For a moment, his ragged panting drowned out every other sound. Then, as silence crept back in, he heard it—

  A soft drip... drip... from behind him.

  He let out a short, breathless laugh. Without turning back, he asked, "The others... did you kill them?"

  No one answered.

  The dripping slowed, but grew clearer, closer, as if inching toward him.

  Of course he did...

  "How did you find me?" Skarn groaned.

  The wraith replied, "You reek... of battlefield."

  ***

  By the time Corvus returned to the cottage, snowfall had begun. It masked the countless bodies on the ground beneath a thin veil of white.

  Elsyn and Lea had come out to join him. They watched as Corvus picked something up from the ground and walked toward the old Mundukar’s body.

  Lea did not want to go near the corpses, so she kept her distance. Elsyn quietly stepped closer and saw Corvus place the old Mundukar’s severed head before his kneeling body.

  Gazing solemnly at the fallen warrior, Corvus said, "Your values as a man aside… your virtues as a warrior were unparalleled."

  End of Arc IV: A Ripple in Hearth

  Memento for the Loyal Ones]

  ***