Aldrich tore through the jungle, massive trees blurring past, their shadows swallowing the pale blue sky. The Skitterlings' screeches clawed at his heels, their scuttling steps gaining ground. They were a relentless swarm. He knew he couldn't outrun them forever, fighting was inevitable. But that many? Worry gnawed at him.
He needed to lose them. Veering sharp to the right, he hoped the tangled vines would slow them, but the Skitterlings knew this terrain too well. A faster one surged ahead, its sickle-arm flashing, aimed to cleave his head clean off.
Instinct took over. Aldrich spun, raising his own sickle-arm weapon that he had ripped from the first kill. There was a loud clang as he parried. The clash rang out, but the force hurled him back, slamming him into a tree's rough bark. Air fled his lungs, pain spiking through his back. He crumpled, gasping, the jungle spinning. The Skitterling loomed, its arm arcing down for the kill.
Something ignited in him, a heat pulsing through him, dulling the pain. He rolled, flipping into a handstand, muscles coiling as he sprang upright, sickle still gripped tight. Without hesitation, he charged, blade meeting the Skitterling's in a shower of sparks. Strength surged through him, raw and unnatural, probably double what he ever had before that black orb burrowed into his flesh.
He pushed back, matching the creature's ferocity, his blows heavier, sharper. The Skitterling's mandibles snapped, its arm slashing with desperate precision, but Aldrich was no longer just dodging. He was hunting.
He ducked a wild swing, the hooked blade grazing his shoulder, tearing fabric but missing flesh. The creature's carapace gleamed, but he spotted the same soft gap at its neck, pulsing with black blood. He feinted left, drawing the Skitterling's arm wide, then lunged, driving his sickle into the exposed flesh. The blade bit deep, ichor spraying, and the creature shrieked, a sound that shook the canopy. It staggered, but its arm still swung, forcing Aldrich to leap back, boots slipping in the muck.
Aldrich gripped the sickle tighter. He charged, weaving through the Skitterling's flailing strikes, and aimed for the neck. The blade sank true, carving through tissue, and with a wrenching twist, he tore the head free. It thudded to the ground, mandibles twitching, and the body collapsed.
Another kill. The watch on Aldrich's wrist pinged, but he couldn't spare a glance. More Skitterlings scuttled into the clearing, their mandibles clacking, eyes glinting with hunger. He stood firm, sickle-arm dripping black blood, his body caked in swamp mud, silver hair now a matted gray, streaked with black blood and filth. Fear had burned out of him, replaced by a cold resolve. Running was pointless. If he was going down, he'd drag as many of these bastards with him as he could.
The Skitterlings circled the corpse of their kin, wary now, their movements slower. This prey wasn't weak. Aldrich counted. They were about seven, with more rustling in the jungle's depths. He clicked his tongue, mind racing for a plan, the tension coiling like a spring.
Then, a whisper of motion. An arrow sliced through the air, piercing a Skitterling's eye. The creature shrieked, thrashing, but two more arrows, swift and precise, buried into its unprotected flesh. It collapsed, twitching, then stilled. Aldrich's breath caught. That archery was precise.
Silence gripped the clearing, man and Skitterlings frozen, scanning for the source. Aldrich couldn't pinpoint the shooter, but hope flared, another candidate, maybe. He seized the moment, charging with his sickle, hoping for the unseen ally to cover him. He was right.
The blade carved through carapace gaps, felling one Skitterling, then another, as arrows rained with deadly accuracy. More creatures poured in, but the fight turned fluid, almost easy. For nearly an hour, he slashed and dodged, the archer's strikes syncing with his own, a dance of death that left the jungle floor littered with Skitterling corpses.
Panting, Aldrich stood tall, sickle gleaming, a reaper in mud and blood. A figure emerged on a tree branch, meters away, clutching a massive bow, a quiver bristling with arrows at its back. His eyes widened, recognition dawning. Not human, not a candidate. It towered, nearly his height, with long, pointed ears and cascading brown hair that brushed its lower back.
Its face, eerily beautiful, mimicked a human woman's, but its alien grace betrayed it. A Sylvarith, one of Mako's eight races as sharp as humans, worth 500 points. The jungle held its breath, and Aldrich tightened his grip, unsure if he'd found an ally or a new threat.
The Sylvarith dropped from the towering branch, her lithe form slicing through the air before landing soft as a whisper on the jungle's dark soil. She moved toward Aldrich with a fluid sway, each step a quiet rhythm, her long brown hair rippling like a river down her back. No hostility radiated from her, yet Aldrich's grip on the sickle-arm stayed firm, his eyes sharp.
She slung her bow over her shoulder, a sign she meant no fight, and he couldn't help but marvel at her. She was tall, a head above him, her face a haunting blend of human beauty and alien grace, eyes like polished amber catching the canopy's glow.
"Trak suk mahan luk," she said, her voice musical but foreign, words slipping past him like water.
"Sorry, I don't follow," Aldrich said, rubbing his neck, a half-smile tugging at his lips.
She coughed, a small, deliberate sound, then spoke in Manora, Akagi's general language.
"Sawry. My Manora… not good. I ask for name." Her voice was rough. and Aldrich blinked, stunned she knew his language at all.
"Aldrich," he said, nodding. "Thanks for the assist back there."
She shifted, planting one foot forward, arms crossing her chest with easy confidence. "You strong. Very strong. Not many dance with blade like you. I respect." Her smile was warm, edged with something wild.
Aldrich opened his mouth, but a chill crawled up his spine, a bloodlust so thick it soured the air. The Sylvarith felt it too. Her head whipped toward the trees, mirrored by his own. A Skitterling emerged, slow and deliberate, its carapace a dull, blood-red sheen, dwarfing the others he'd fought. Its sickles curved longer, more cruel, mandibles clacking with menace.
"Kanka," she muttered, her face hardening, amber eyes narrowing. She dropped into a stance, nocking an arrow with practiced speed.
Aldrich raised his sickle, muscles coiling, matching her readiness. "Kanka means what?" he asked, voice low, eyes locked on the beast.
"King," she hissed, never breaking her gaze from the red Skitterling, its presence a promise of death.
The red Skitterling towered over the carnage, its blood-hued carapace glinting amid the strewn corpses of its kin. It tilted its head skyward, unleashing a screech so fierce the air quivered, leaves trembling in the canopy.
"This fight not like others," the Sylvarith warned, her voice low, edged with steel. "Lose focus, you die."
Aldrich nodded, steadying his breath, sickle-arm poised, muscles taut for the storm. The King Skitterling moved faster than any he'd faced, a crimson blur crossing the clearing in a heartbeat. Its shoulder slammed into his chest, hurling him meters through the air, ribs screaming as he crashed into the soft earth.
The Sylvarith seized the moment, her arrow whistling free. The King raised its arm, expecting to shrug off the shot, but her arrow's force was a thunderbolt, shoving it back, claws carving trenches in the dirt. It wasn't enough.
The beast lunged at her, sickles slashing, but she danced, a whirlwind of grace, her agility outshining even Aldrich's. She parried a downward strike with her bow, wood creaking, then spun, nudging the Skitterling off balance. In a flash, she nocked another arrow and fired point-blank at its head.
The King jerked, shielding its face with a shoulder, the arrow's impact drawing a hiss of pain but no fatal blow. It staggered back, carapace cracked, yet roared forward, undeterred. The Sylvarith loosed a barrage, arrows raining with relentless precision, each strike a hammer blow. Still, the beast endured, its bloodlust a palpable heat. It swung. She dodged, but hadn't seen the knee driving into her chest. Air fled her lungs as she tumbled across the ground, gasping.
The King leaped, sickle raised to impale her, but Aldrich was back, boots pounding. He launched a spinning kick, catching the beast mid-air, sending it sprawling. Sickle in hand, he charged, trading blows in a frantic blur. The Skitterling's strength and speed outmatched him, its sickles carving deadly arcs, but Aldrich's honed skill kept him alive. Parrying, weaving, striking. Every clash pushed him to his limit, sweat stinging his eyes, the strange force in his blood pulsing, sharpening his reflexes.
In a fleeting pause, the Sylvarith surged behind the King, her arms locking around its sickles, pinning them tight. The beast thrashed, but her grip held a fatal hesitation. Aldrich saw the opening, his sickle flashing through the air, slicing clean through the Skitterling's neck. Its head rolled free, body collapsing in a heap of red shell and black blood.
The watch pinged, points racking up, but Aldrich dropped to his knees, chest heaving, the sickle clattering beside him. His body ached, every breath a blade, but he was alive. The Sylvarith rose, wiping blood from her lip, her amber eyes meeting his.