Azrael edged towards the railing cordoning off the veranda, his heart thundering in his chest. A shaky hand rested on his weapon, hesitantly drawing out the blade. What am I afraid of? He just did in Nakta, but I’ve got skills of my own.

  Gritting his teeth, he steadied the katana in his hand, assuming a fighting stance.

  I’ve dealt with worse. In comparison to the helplessness I’ve felt throughout my life, I can oppose fate with my own two hands … and legs, right now. He shook his head, focusing his all on striking the enemy in front of him.

  The cyclops drew his mace out of the cracked porch, making his way towards the redhead, who cautiously took a step back.

  “No need ta hide, runt. Let’s make it easier on all of us.” The cyclops parted a grey bloodless twist of his lips, to show he enjoyed the task before him, less than he made it out to be. As though it was no more than a chore he had to finish up, before afternoon came along, than a bully who enjoyed pushing the weak around.   A task that must be done, even if it means getting his hands dirty.

  Abruptly, the cyclops came to a standstill, blinking confusedly. A trickle of blood traced the length of his chin. His lone eye became unfocused, his eyelid partially closed. A split-span later, a vertical crack tore through him, from groin to skull, felling the colossal demon in a pool of liquid crimson, both halves falling on either side of the mace. Past a geyser raining red, a raven-haired male appeared, wielding a katana.

  Shaking the blood off his blade, Nakta grimaced at the mess, mouthing, “M-I-A-S-M-A.” Sliding Azrael a wink, he slipped in past the open door.

  He clucked his tongue, waltzing in past enemy lines. “I can’t believe Lilith left me with that fuckin’ imbecile. If he can’t take out weaklins of the sort, he’s no different than a flailin’ mortal. Absolute bollocks!”

  As much as he wanted to loiter about and admire the fancy interior of the mansion, an armada of demons from ghouls and ogres to werecreatures and goblins, bustling about the lobby, grabbed his attention. The moment the demons took note of his presence, they all came to a standstill, switching up their agenda for the day.

  High on alert, the demons gathered up in a united front, unsheathing and wielding weapons. A ghoul was the quickest to respond, leading the charge by wielding an axe which had already been swung in a wide arc. In a flash of steel, Nakta’s head rolled off his shoulders, his headless corpse coming to a halt.

  The ghoul’s eerie smile stretched across his face, proudly gesturing to his comrades over his triumph. The other demons hesitated looking at one another, before shrugging their shoulders and retreating to their original posts.

  Nakta’s headless corpse crackled, standing motionless. From thin air, a gleaming katana tainted red, materialized, speared through the ghoul’s chest.

  The air warped and shimmered as Nakta emerged, holding the other end of the blade. With a twist of his wrist, the blade was slid out the lifeless ghoul. With a lash of his foot, he sent the corpse flying. But before anyone could react, he vanished into thin air once again, leaving behind only an elusive afterimage.

  A werecow pointed at the ghoul’s deceased form, shouting, “LOOK OUT!”

  Materializing beside the cow-demon, he had his katana against her throat. He leaned in close and brushed his lips past her ear, “miss me already, sweety?” In a blood-stained swish, the cow’s head rolled past Nakta’s feet, like tumbleweed in the desert.

  Witnessing his prowess, the demons scrambled back into position, wielding their weapons once again, high on alert.

  A sardonic laughter resounded within the lobby of the mansion, as Nakta weaved in and out of cognizance, decimating the ranks of demons from fifty to twenty in ten spans. In the following five spans, he skilfully dispatched the remaining twenty demons, leaving a trail of freshly decimated carcasses in his wake.

  He wiped the blood off his blade against the tunic of a fallen ogre, sheathing his crimson-stained katana. He turned his attention back to the entrance of the mansion, where he expected to find Azrael. Cupping a hand over his forehead, he shielded his eyes from the flickering overhead lights. He scanned the area amid the chaos, in search of the redhead.

  “Oi imbecile! Still ALIVE!?”

  His voice echoed throughout the mansion, reverberating off the walls. In response, a multitude of stomping feet emanated from the floor above.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Shrugging his shoulders, he said, “Well, that’s that.”

  Feigning a struggle against fictitious regret, he took the very first step on his ascension up the stairway to the mansion’s top.

  Sidestepping around the bloodied mess of the cyclops, Azrael strode into the mansion in a lulled state. He thought he had seen it all, experienced the worst of it, and yet, he couldn’t help but acknowledge Nakta’s prowess with both blade and miasma. Observing his display of formidable power, Azrael’s voracity for strength intensified. In the midst of the chaos, he couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel to harness his own miasma, wielding power of that magnitude.

  I could make hand gestures all day long, but it wouldn’t help turn the dead’s death energy to miasma.

  Despite the cadavers littering the lobby, Azrael was at a loss.

  “Dammit Requiem,” he cussed under his breath. “What do I do now?”

  He half-heartedly made his way over to a corpse. The only explanation he could think of, was the fact he couldn’t summon his ‘supposed’ miasma without a viable body.

  Perhaps the right ingredients would help brew the right stew for the occasion.

  He couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow, wondering when he’d come to care as much about cooking. Another issue he grappled with, staying locked up for so long at the stronghold.

  Instinctively, he leapt four strides to his right, nearly colliding with a column, enroute. A set of claws dominated the space he had occupied a moment ago, extended from the hairy reaches of a humanoid wolf-like creature. A belt with a grenade and flashbangs hung from his extended talons for fingers. Sniffing the canister, he tossed the bundle aside. Baring his fangs, the wolfman inched towards the redhead, the corners of his mouth foaming with rabid intensity.

  “Dammit, there goes my one edge over Nakta!” Raising his katana in a defensive stance, Azrael’s senses were heightened, and his focus was lasered in on his opponent’s next move. If there’s one thing he had learnt from Juke’s training sessions, making the first move often cost him the upper hand in battle.

  The wolfman lashed out with his claws for fingers, raking through a column as easily as slicing through butter.

  Shakily, he deflected the claw, shuffling backwards. If he had been a half-breath slower, his face would have been turned to scored meat.

  In that moment, a second revelation struck him like lightning.

  Azrael understood seizing control of the battle required more than just reacting to his opponent’s actions. It demanded an understanding of timing, experience to draw from and an arsenal of moves to upend adversity. But it was something he had to erase from his conscious mind and allow his instincts to take over. Move with the flow, as though he were on a raft riding a river’s currents, and his blade, the oars governing his vessel’s velocity.

  Smirking with newfound confidence, he anticipated the next set of clawed blows from the wolfman, who had forged on with his onslaught of strikes, showing no traces of slowing down.

  Parrying the next cascade of slashes, one after the other, a single step at a time, he grew reassured. He began recognising the worth of ‘the essence of the blade,’ or whatever Juke had spouted.

  Merrily, he continued the exchange of blows, deflecting the claws hounding him. He swung his blade, from overhead to under him, tracing arcs across the space separating the pair of fighters, keeping the distance, as he inched back. Sparks flew, and sweat slathered his brow and back, but he kept at it, reassured he was on the right track.

  Survive the round, no matter how long it takes. Slow and steady.

  He kept dragging his feet back, confident he could keep the pace going, till he found an opening he could exploit. He inched back, gritting his teeth, noticing the distance he had kept, was shrinking. His heel was dragged from empty space and plastered against cool layers of solid brick. The pride he had amalgamated in the span of his exchange was dropped into an ocean of dread.

  “You have nowhere left to run.” The wolfman chuckled, running his tongue over a set of sharpened canines.

  “You can speak?” Beads of sweat gathered over the redhead’s brow, his heart pounding louder than a hammer over anvil, his blade quaking in his grip. A pair of claws were poised over his flanks, barring his escape route.

  In a blink, his life flashed before his eyes. Azrael instinctively unsheathed a second shorter blade just in the nick of time, intercepting the deadly talons hounding him. The clash of metal echoed through the air as he fended off the clawed blows.

  The wolfman seized the moment. He closed the distance, his ferocious maw looming over Azrael’s throat.

  Agony wetted his neck, dripping down the length of his clavicle, as the seven-foot-tall wolf demon lodged his fangs deep in Azrael’s gullet.

  A wordless howl licked at his lips. In that moment, he knew death was inevitable. It was the end.

  If I’m going to die… thought Azrael, grappling against perdition.

  He felt his grip slacken, and in a clatter, the shorter blade slipped through his fingers. He could feel his strength waning, black spots dancing before his eyes.

  Summoning every last ounce of verve, he knew he couldn’t falter. Heart pounding in his head, he tightened his grip on his katana, using both hands to steady himself. In a final burst of energy, he lunged forward, his blade leading the way. With a war cry gurgling out his bloody lips, he drove the weapon through the wolfman’s chest.

  The maw latched onto Azrael’s throat went limp, alongside a symphony of whimpering and scampering, elicited by the wounded demon. The impact juddered his arms, as he held onto his katana. He twisted the hilt and slid the blade out the wolfman’s ribs, cutting through the organs and flesh.

  Unsteady on his feet, the redhead felt the hot bloodied gash on his puckered throat wet his tunic. Despite the wet warmth, a chill ran down a cold and clammy spine, threatening to whisk his consciousness away. He staggered back and forth, from the wall to the clutches of the dying wolfman, as the last traces of adrenaline dissipated. Dropping his katana, he could feel his opponent’s rough fur brush against his skin, a warmer note of liquid crimson, oozing from wolf to man, as the deceased pair embraced the other, and fell to the ground in a lifeless mound.