Chapter 7: First blood
Azazel met up with Reginleif at the guild board. "What's our next job?"
She pointed to a notice."How about a bandit-clearing quest? There's a camp harassing the northern trade road."
Bandits. Of course,Azazel thought, the cynical part of his brain noting the genre cliché. But it's work.
We get paid, and we can loot whatever they've got.
"Alright,cool. I'm in."
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After an hour's travel, they found the camp nestled in a rocky clearing. A dozen rough-looking men were drinking and dividing spoils around a fire.
Reginleif scaled a pine tree for overwatch. Azazel picked up two stones.
He threw the first,landing it with a soft thud at the base of Reginleif's tree.
He threw the second into a thick bush twenty feet away.
Two bandits grumbled and stood up."What was that?"
"You check the tree.I'll check the bushes."
The bush-checker pushed through the foliage.Azazel was a shadow within it.
A hand clamped over the man's mouth, yanking him off-balance. There was a wet, slicing sound as the kukri opened his throat. He went limp without a cry.
The man at the tree called out,"Find anything?" Hearing no answer, he turned to go back. A figure dropped from the branches above, and he fell with a gurgle, Reginleif's dagger in his neck.
Back at the camp,the bandit boss, a mountain of a man hefting a giant greatsword, bellowed, "Oy! Where are those two idiots?"
When no answer came,the remaining bandits scrambled for their weapons. "We're made," Reginleif hissed, landing beside Azazel. "Direct assault. Now."
They struck like lightning. Reginleif's wind sliced one bandit's bowstring, then his throat.
Azazel gutted another who was fumbling with a spear. In seconds, two more were down. Then the boss was on them, his greatsword a whirl of steel that forced Reginleif to leap back.
"I've got the boss!You handle the rest!" Azazel yelled, darting forward to draw the giant's attention.
Reginleif nodded, turning her wind on the remaining three lackeys.
Azazel feinted and lunged.The bandit boss parried with shocking speed for his size, the massive blade like a steel wall.
Azazel scooped dirt to fling, but the boss simply tilted the greatsword, using it as a shield.
Stupid giant sword! It's like fighting a bulldozer!Azazel thought, frustration mounting.
He was faster, but he couldn't get past the defensive arc of that steel.
The fight became a punishing dance.Azazel dodged and weaved, but a single misjudgment cost him.
The flat of the greatsword caught him in the ribs, lifting him off his feet and slamming him into a tree trunk. The air exploded from his lungs.
"Is that all you got,kid?" the bandit boss laughed, hefting his sword. "You're nothing. Just weak."
Shit. I'm getting my ass beat,Azazel coughed, tasting blood. And he's using his Mythic—hardening his skin. My blade just glances off. He struggled to his feet, his side screaming in protest. He looked at the kukri in his hand, then at the hulking figure before him. The sounds of Reginleif's fight faded.
All the noise in his head—the fear,the pain, the surrealness of this world—drained away. In its place was a cold, silent void. His expression went flat, his eyes dead-focused. This was his oldest defense mechanism, forged in a thousand desperate moments: hyper-focused survival. The only thought that remained was a single, clear directive.
Kill him.
Azazel rushed in, not at the man, but at the weapon. He slammed his kukri against the greatsword's flat, not to damage it, but to create a split-second of resistance. He used that moment to drive a boot into the boss's knee. The man staggered back, grunting in surprise.
Azazel flowed sideways into his blind spot and stabbed.The tip skittered off the hardened skin. He stabbed again. And again. A flurry of blows that did no damage but were relentless, probing, infuriating.
"Enough!"the boss roared, swinging wildly. Azazel ducked under the blow and kicked him square in the stomach.
There was a sickening crunch. The boss flew back, crashing to the ground and vomiting blood.
As the bandit struggled to rise,something shifted. A deep, unnatural cold seeped from Azazel's core, down his arm, and into the blade of the kukri. A wispy, darkness clung to the steel, not like shadow, but like the absence of light itself.
Round three.Their weapons clashed—but this time, when Azazel's darkened kukri met the greatsword, it didn't ring. It sheared. A chunk of the massive blade broke off.
The bandit stared in disbelief.Azazel didn't hesitate. He lunged, the dark blade slicing across the man's torso. This time, it cut. The bandit screamed, his Mythic-hardened skin failing.
Azazel followed through, severing the wrist holding the greatsword. As the man fumbled with his other hand, Azazel grabbed it, stabbed through the shoulder, and threw him onto his back.
He stood over the bandit boss,who was now just a terrified, broken man. Azazel drove the kukri down into his chest. The dark aura flared, then dissolved.
Azazel pulled the blade free.He saw tendrils of the same darkness retreating from the corpse's veins, snaking back toward the weapon. His hands began to tremble violently.
He had killed before.Once. A man who absolutely deserved it. But this was different. This was raw, brutal, and personal. First blood in the new world.
What the hell is this power?He stared at the now-normal kukri. It feels so cold. So empty.
"Azazel. Are you okay? You look beat up." Reginleif's voice cut through his daze. She stood there, the other bandits dead around her. Her eyes were not on him, but on his blade. "Azazel... your Mythic is not plant-based. Did you lie about it?" Her voice was low, analytical. "From what I saw... that's Darkness itself."
She held up a hand before he could formulate a lie."You know what? Never mind. You have your reasons for hiding it. Darkness is just... labeled as evil. But I think it depends on the user."
Azazel's mind,still reeling from the fight and the kill, latched onto her words. So I do have one. Darkness. All right. Good to know. He took a deep, shuddering breath and focused, trying to push the cold feeling back down. The last faint wisp of aura vanished from the kukri. Looks like it worked.
"Okay," Reginleif said, her tone returning to practical. "We need to collect evidence for the guild."
Numbly,Azazel helped her. They filled a sack with coins from the camp and gathered the least-damaged weapons to sell. The walk back to the city was silent, the weight of the coins nothing compared to the new, chilling weight in Azazel's soul.
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After turning in the quest—the grisly evidence accepted without question—the guild receptionist paid them accordingly, her dog ears twitching. "Thank you for your hard work! Please come again!"
Exhausted and stained with blood and grime, their first stop wasn't the inn. It was a modest, warm-smelling restaurant. When a plate of noodles in a rich, meaty sauce was set before him, Azazel almost groaned with relief.
Man, this world has spaghetti. Thank God. I can eat this shit.The mundane familiarity of the meal was a balm on his raw nerves.
After eating, they went to a blacksmith, selling the bandits' crude weapons for a handful of extra silver. Finally, they returned to the quiet of their inn room, the day's adrenaline fully drained.
Reginleif sat on the edge of the narrow bed, pulling a small, leather-bound book from her pack and beginning to read. Azazel, meanwhile, sat on the floor, his back against the wall. He closed his eyes, trying to quiet the tremor that still lingered in his hands. He needed to understand the cold power that had saved—and horrified—him.
He focused inward, past the memory of the fight, past the fear. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he didn't see a void. He saw a structure—the inverted, skeletal image of a tree he'd read about. And there, at its nascent root, was a seed. But it wasn't a tender sprout. It was a dark, polished thing, like obsidian, and from it grew a single, thorny brand of pure shadow.
There. That's it. That's the Seed.
He willed it to awaken.Not in rage or desperation, but with intent. The room's single candle flickered. The shadows in the corner behind the washbasin thickened, swirling like ink in water. From them, a thin, tendril of black smoke curled upwards, dissipating before it reached the ceiling.
He released his focus,and the shadow settled back into place, normal and inert.
I guess I need more practice. I can't control shadows; all I can do is make smoke from them. Could be useful, though. A smoke screen. A distraction. The tactical applications began to click in his mind, turning fear into utility.
As he stood up, his eyes fell on the long, beautifully woven fabric bundle leaning against the wall next to Reginleif's side of the bed. He'd noticed it when they first crashed into each other in Mornareth, but survival had overridden curiosity.
"Hey,"he said, nodding toward it. "This thing that bumped into me back in the city. Never got to ask, 'cause we've been a little busy not dying. What's in it?"
Reginleif didn't look up from her book."A weapon.
I stole it from the royal vault."
Of course you're a thief,Azazel thought, a wry, familiar feeling settling in his chest. And here I am, making alliances with shady people. Some things never change.
"Let me guess,"he said aloud, his tone dry. "You used the siege as cover to loot the place."
"Yes."She finally met his gaze, her expression unreadable. "And the necklace from the princess's corpse."
Azazel recoiled slightly."Yo, off a dead body? Have some respect for the dead."
"What?She wasn't going to use it. She was already dead." Reginleif stated it as simple fact, devoid of sentiment.
The princess of Mornareth is dead.The statement landed with new weight. He hadn't seen the royal quarters, but Reginleif had. And she had the necklace and a vault weapon to prove it. This wasn't just background noise; it was a political earthquake. I need to start thinking about this like the broker I was. Who has power? Who's lost it? Who's trying to grab more? My manga bullshit might actually be a useful framework here.
"Okay," he said, his curiosity overriding his distaste. "Now show me the cool-looking weapon."
"I'll show you.But don't touch it. I'll only draw it in an emergency. Understood?"
"Understood."
She carefully unwrapped the fabric. Inside was a rapier. Its blade was impossibly thin and gleamed with a silvery light that seemed internal, not reflected. The hilt was intricate, woven like strands of moonlight. As it lay exposed, the very air in the room seemed to hum, charged with a sharp, relentless energy.
"This is Starlight,"Reginleif said, her voice hushed.
Azazel could feel the weapon's power like a physical pressure.It felt alive, and utterly unyielding. After a moment, Reginleif reverently wrapped it again, the intense energy muffled by the fabric.
"Well," Azazel said, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "What can I say? You find a keeper. Even if you did steal the damn thing."
"Sometimes,"Reginleif said with a faint, tired smile, "life teaches you on a strange path. You just have to follow it."
Azazel laughed,a real, quiet sound. "Yeah. You're right about that."
They lapsed into easier conversation as night fell fully,the day's violence and the weight of stolen royal treasures temporarily set aside in the simple comfort of not being alone.
End of Chapter 7