The arrow carved a straight path through the night towards my neck, and I felt a sharp pain in my adam’s apple as my body prepared itself to be skewered through the throat. It was a stupid reflex, and I wasn’t sure why my brain thought it would be less painful if I felt an imagined version of what was soon to come rather than just accepting the blow, but there we are.

  I’d heard that in your final moments you often remembered your life. Dwell on the good, the bad, the mistakes and the highlights. Not me though, apparently. No, my traitorous mind simply tried to imagine what it would feel like to have my neck stabbed through by a strangely shaped arrow wielded by a fucking red-robed mercenary.

  The same mercenaries that had chased me halfway across the continent. The same ones that had kidnapped me, taken me captive and deprived me of freedom and dignity because their colossal cunt of an employer had wanted to gain power at any cost.

  To now die by the hands of one of the Crimson Lions, and to do so while we were so close to achieving our goal? My soul wouldn’t allow it.

  End of The Hunt roared within me as my hands shot out to grab the archer’s wrists. We duelled there for endless moments, his grin white and shining against his ebony skin, my own teeth bared in a rictus snarl beneath him. I wrestled with all my might, but he was above me, weight pressing down and allowing me no room to move the weapon off the centre line between us.

  I was strong, especially so for my level, but this man had many more levels in the 2nd tier than I did and was heavily invested into strength given his chosen weapon. I could see even now the muscles in his arms, shoulders and chest bunching beneath his cloth shirt, a hint of chainmail peeking out beneath his collar but otherwise unarmoured.

  His vertically-slitted pupils narrowed as he pressed forwards, but we were even for the moment. His better positioning and greater strength warring against my desperation to survive. It brought me a moment, but that was all it would give.

  Then he raised one hand and slammed it onto his own arm.

  The arrow tip jumped another half-inch towards my throat and I cried out in fear as I felt my hands shaking. He reached back and punched down again, and again the weapon inched closer to killing me. I gasped, trying to breathe evenly, knowing that the moment I ran out of air was the moment my muscles would fail, but unable to fight the exhaustion threatening every bit of my arms and chest as he punched down again and again.

  My body was failing, inexorably, and my mind was completely overwhelmed. I felt my head pounding, a ringing in my ears seeming to make my head throb in time with the strikes. I frantically searched around with my stone-sense, activating A Frozen Pyrre and sending my dagger sliding out of my belt and towards the archer’s face when I realised I still had it on me. He batted it aside easily and the distraction only weakened my grip, letting the arrow graze my skin.

  The pain and surprise gave me a short reprieve of an inch as I wrenched it up and wriggled deeper into the stone below, but he soon pressed back down on me, pounding his own wrist relentlessly until the arrowhead was drawing a red painting across my skin with every blow. Another quarter of an inch and my windpipe would be nothing more than a gaping wound.

  I thought of the last year of struggle. All the pain and fighting and heartache…just to end here, killed by a Crimson Lion. I thought of the battle so far; my attempt to escape from the duke ending in failure, my attempt to escape from Varice ending in failure, the same again with Markas. Each step was luck, opportunity; circumstance twisting itself to allow me to survive, but never solely my own talents.

  I’d let luck make a fool out of me, arrogance making me complacent. Why did I think I could charge into a chaotic battlefield against a veteran mercenary with more years killing than I had fights, and win?

  As the arrow dipped lower, I activated Break-Step to give myself a few more moments, hoping one of my companions would rescue me from this self-imposed death I had orchestrated for myself. Not sure why I wanted to drag out my last moments – survival instincts probably, my pathbound skill unwilling to let things end like this.

  But self-recrimination was not a good way to end your life, after all. I thought of the faces of my companions and hoped that my actions had at least given them a better chance. I may have destroyed the wall, but at least a good chunk of the duke and Sultan’s men were now-

  …

  My mind screeched to a halt, suddenly focusing on the overwhelming, deafening ringing that was filling my head.

  You have killed a Human (Soldier - level 42). Experience gained.

  You have killed a Human (guardsmen – level 44). Experience gained.

  ….

  You have killed a Human (Crimson Blade - level 72). Experience gained.

  You have reached level 69. Attribute points available for allocation.

  I pushed aside the dozen or more kill notifications and focused on how many levels I’d gained from the wanton slaughter. Four. Four entire levels, worth 60 new attribute points. I wasted no more time, allocating all 60 into strength.

  The archer let out a snarl of satisfaction as he raised his fist a final time and brought it down on the dagger, but he never had a chance to finish the movement. I released his wrist with my left hand and caught his descending fist, holding it steady as a rock. My right arm was enough to halt the arrow, and then slowly, achingly slowly, I began to push.

  My muscles felt as if they swelled with vigour, a mad grin worming its way onto my face as my entire body tingled with delicious warmth. I had never allocated so many attributes in one go before, and all into the same attribute at that. My mind fizzed at the edges with euphoria, making me giddy and light-headed.

  I sat up, the archer letting out a grunt as I forced him bodily off me. He snarled and grunted, trying to free himself from my grip, but I flexed my hands and squeezed with all of my knew-found strength. He screamed as his wrist cracked and the knuckles of his right hand popped in their joints, my strength total. Undeniable.

  I pulled him towards me and headbutted him, releasing his broken hands as he reeled backwards, blood sheeting down his face. I stood unsteadily, my legs propelling me a little too forcefully to my feet, and then I grabbed him as he got his balance.

  He had no further time, and I picked him up by the front of his robe and slammed him into the stone beneath us, his neck snapping on the jagged edge of an upturned cobblestone.

  You have Killed a Human (Blood-Born Hunter – level 91). Experience gained.

  I acknowledged the notification with barely a thought, End Of The Hunt roaring in approval within my soul. I stumbled back out of the dust, leaning against the wall to catch my breath and wipe away the blood from my face. I took a moment to accept the skill notifications, seeing what had improved before I searched for my companions.

  I could not handle surviving all that I had but falling to an errant blade because I didn’t know the state of my soul, body or skills.

  ‘Stride The Edge’ has gained a level. Stride The Edge – level 7.

  ‘A Frozen Pyrre’ has gained a level. A Frozen Pyrre – level 7.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  ‘A Frozen Pyrre’ has gained a level. A Frozen Pyrre – level 8.

  ‘Axis-Shift’ has gained a level. Axis-Shift – level 6.

  ‘Myrmiddion Spear’ has gained a level. Myrmiddion Spear – level 5.

  ‘Break-Step’ has gained a level. Break-Step – level 7.

  ‘End Of The Hunt’ has gained a level. End Of The Hunt – level 6.

  ‘Shatter-Point’ has gained a level. Shatter Point – level 7.

  Ancestry: Titan-Forged Human (evolved)

  Level: 69

  Class: Blood Of The Mountains

  Titles: God-touched

  Attribute allocation:

  Strength: 210

  Agility: 130

  Endurance: 85

  Perception: 85

  Cognition: 75

  Available attributes: 0

  Current skills:

  A Frozen Pyrre: Level 8. Passive.

  Axis-Shift: Level 6. Active.

  Stride The Edge: Level 7. Passive.

  Break-Step: Level 7. Active.

  End Of The Hunt: Level 6. Active.

  Myrmiddion Spear: Level 5. Passive.

  Shatter Point: Level 7. Active.

  The Mountain’s Gate: Level 4. Active.

  I sighed in a mix of satisfaction at the retreating euphoria of not only assigning so many attributes but also surviving the near-death experience, and exhaustion bought on by both events as well. My mind felt wrung out – nerves shot and tension clouding the edges of my experience – but my body felt fresh, only a small series of cuts marring the dust-covered skin on my neck.

  I looked around for my companions, finding Nathlan and the barbarians, backed by the remaining rebels, fighting the remains of the Castle Ryonic forces on the other side of the wall past where the barbican had collapsed.

  Even as I watched, Jacyntha crossed her great axe across her body, pushing the haft into the chest of the two men before her and pushed them backwards. Nathlan was at her right shoulder, fending off any blades heading towards the barbarian woman as she pushed the guards back, and Sadrianna danced across the crenelations to her left, picking off any fighters that tried to throw ranged skills at any of them.

  The rebels soon joined, and the line began to move, the dozen fighters in black, capped by three fighters in gleaming metal and animal furs, pushed against a sea of confused guards, and the result was clear. First one step, and then another, the guards were pushed backwards, quickly unbalancing as men and women tripped over their companions, and then bodies were falling off the edge of the wall, slamming into the jagged mess of stone shrapnel below.

  A few died, and many more were injured, but the true damage was psychological. As the last defenders of Castle Ryonic lay broken and bleeding amongst the rubble of their broken walls, looking up at the rebels standing powerful and hale above them, their defeat finally became real.

  Decker – the duke’s second in command amongst the Ryonic guard – stood on unsteady legs, hauling up a woman beside him and propping her up with one arm and holding a kite shield up defensively with the other.

  “Mercy!” he shouted at my companions, casting a wary glance around the ruined castle courtyard as he did so. “We surrender! Let us leave, and you’ll have no quarrel with any of us.”

  Sadrianna asked the sensible question that was at the forefront of my mind, too. “Why would we let you leave now, just so you can try and retake this land from us in future?”

  When he answered, the guard’s voice was tired, defeat emanating from him with every word. “Because we have lost. The duke is still fighting the Sultan,” he said gesturing with his shield vaguely out towards the muddy fields outside the castle, where booming impacts and whistling skills could be heard intermittently.

  “…and he doesn’t seem liable to win any time soon. Even if he does, he’ll probably be injured and unable to beat you all. He’s a practical man, and will retreat if needed. This battle isn’t personal to him. Let us leave, and we’ll go home to our families.”

  He looked back at the injured and disheartened guards around him – no more than a dozen now. “I ain’t dying for some noble’s dream. The Sultan might be a shit, but I don’t care enough to never see my boy again if I can help it. Please, you’ve won. Let us live.”

  Simple words, but it was an impassioned plea, nonetheless. I looked towards my friends and shouted up at them. “Let them go. If Vera and the rebels can find it in their hearts to forgive, I say we let them leave. Our goal is the duke, not these sorry bastards.”

  Nathlan blinked in surprise to see me and waved down cheerily. It was such an awkward, out of place gesture that it brought a smile to my face, relieved laughter soon bubbling up from deep in my belly to spill out of my parched throat in what likely sounded more like the coughing of a dying man than the mirth of a living one.

  Still, I saw his smile widen, and Jacyntha and Sadrianna also grinned down at me. I couldn’t see Vera, and was about to question it, was drawing breath into my lungs to ask the question, but it was answered in the next moment.

  The duke staggered through the gate a moment later, bleeding from a gash in his head but otherwise unharmed. He eyes burned with intensity, the lines in his face set hard, as if he had been wearing a firm frown for millennia.

  “There will be no abandoning of duty in my castle while it still stands,” he ground out, flinty eyes glaring around.

  Decker lifted his chin though. “Where is the Sultan?” he asked.

  “Dealt with,” came the firm reply from the duke.

  Decker shook his head, and I was impressed to note the iron in his voice in the face of the duke’s displeasure. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “And I don’t care any longer. I have served you for a decade, my lord, but I won’t die for you now, and I won’t lead my men and women into certain death for you either.”

  The duke’s eyebrows rose a hair, which was as close to an expression of shock as the man probably ever got, but Decker wasn’t finished.

  “If you want this castle cleared and every rebel put to the sword…do it yourself. I’m going home.”

  And with that, the brave man turned and started to limp out of the gate, comrade supported by one of his arms and shield butting against the ground with every step to support his weight on the other side.

  The duke watched him cooly, and then raised his blade. “The Sultan confirmed that the Court is coming, before I killed him. You will stay and defend this land, or I will end your life here and now.”

  Decker didn’t hesitate, limping away with all the speed of an old tortoise, and the grace of a thousand monks. I thought for sure that the duke was about to kill the man, and something within me broke at that. All the death, all the suffering, and we had finally triumphed. It was clear that no matter what happened next and who killed whom, the duke was done. Finished.

  The Ryonic line had died here, in the ruins of their castle, and yet he would take another man down just for spite. He hadn’t struck me as an intentionally cruel man before – ominously emotionless and willing to do whatever he needed to further his aims, yes – but not needlessly cruel. This action though, this execution of an otherwise loyal warrior, would serve no purpose other than spite. None of the remaining guardsmen were worth much in a fight against the relatively fresh and unharmed rebels, many of whom out levelled them.

  What a waste. I couldn’t stand to see it, and so my mouth was moving before my mind had fully caught up to the implications.

  “Estan’s dead!” I shouted, voice cracking mid-way through. The message had clearly been received though, as the duke turned to me, swift as a viper. I felt myself locked by that gaze, held captive by the sheer intensity of those glacial blue eyes.

  “What did you say, little God-Touched?” he asked, and though he didn’t move a step, I felt his presence grow before me, as if a shadow on the bedroom wall of a child, looming closer and larger with every moment. Dread pooled in my guts, but I shrugged it off.

  “I killed him. I killed your son, and it’s your fault.”

  The audacity of that statement seemed to shock him back into being a man once more rather than the looming shadow of death, and I ploughed on while I still drew breath.

  “You weren’t satisfied with being just a middling power in a backwater part of the continent, so you sought for something beyond your station. You kidnapped and killed to get me here, and now your castle lies in ruins, and your only heir dead by my hand.”

  He did take a step forward then, and I flinched as his foot met the stone beneath, the sharp crack of his boot heel echoing around my head as if cast directly into it. I didn’t stop talking though.

  “The irony is that without your greed, I wouldn’t ever be here, and neither would the Sultan.”

  I caught a flash of movement and felt the thud through the earth as three figures landed beside me. I couldn’t take my eyes from the duke’s own, but I knew who they were, nonetheless. I felt a smile play at my lips as I continued to speak.

  “The rebellion would have stayed underground, and you would still rule this castle.”

  He took another step forwards, and I felt my companions flinch along with me at the threat that each footstep represented. “You will regret having told me that, boy. My men can flee, but I am enough to end your lives myself. I will make you grateful to greet death by the end.”

  I shivered, but pushed back against the growing dread and horror. I knew something he didn’t, after all.

  “Most importantly, my lord duke...if you had not been so greedy, Vera never would have returned.”

  I watched the duke’s face twist into the first true expression I had seen then. Surprise, confusion, and finally, as an aura descended; so heavy with power, so blazing with outrage and vengeance and righteous anger it could almost be tasted on the tongue, I saw the emotion I had been waiting for on the duke’s granite face.

  Fear.

  I felt the final set of feet land behind me, and the duke came to a halt. A heavy hand touched my shoulder, pushing me to one side, and then Vera stepped past us and before the duke.

  “Hello Rugal. I have waited many years for this moment,” she said, drawing her broadsword and setting her feet. “Prepare yourself.”