The forest was no longer silent.
Azazel's boots sank into the wet, black earth as shadows burst from the treeline, darting between roots and branches. The sun had long slipped past its peak—late afternoon, creeping toward dusk—and the forest now felt like the inside of a coffin.
A guttural snarl tore through the air.
Azazel spun, pistol raised—too late.
Something lunged.
Not a Chuhaister, not a forest Utopiec or Mavka. No, this was worse. Something Azazel didn't expect to meet here.
"Tch… Wrong guess…" he muttered, teeth clenched.
He guessed that it's the wrong evil creature, he was neither prepared nor he had time to look through information.
In reality it was a Chernohlap—the Black-Pawed One his grandfather's journal had only briefly mentioned. A feral forest wraith with the body of a man, but its arms ending in elongated claws like charred tree branches, its face a twisting knot of antlers and rotting bark, and its paws smeared with pitch-black ichor.
Azazel made a mental remark to study more. Information=power.
Boy quickly dropped the suitcase away, as it affected his mobility, and pulled out the other pistol.
Azazel fired. Once. Twice.
The silver runes on the bullets flared, but after two killed creatures appeared four more.
Though he had many, bullets weren't infinite and to use them freely only for forest wraith is pathetic.
Azazel made one more mental remark to buy more simple bronze bullets.
Branches whipped around him as more Chernohlapy emerged from the underbrush, five… six… seven of them, surrounding him like wolves. One hissed, circling. Another climbed a tree, moving upside-down across the branch like a giant spider.
Azazel's back hit rough bark.
He was pinned—literally to a tree, nowhere to run.
The first wraith lunged.
Azazel rolled to the side, drawing a small pouch from his coat. He flung the contents—blessed ash mixed with powdered silver—into the air. Two of the beasts recoiled with angry, sizzling howls, but the rest closed in. Obviously he just wasted this powder as it wasn't something Chernohlapy feared.
One clawed his sleeve, tearing it open, leaving a red line of blood.
"Damn it… this is bad…"
Another leap. He ducked under, rolling, mud coating his coat, his pistols nearly slipping from his grip. He managed to kick one in the jaw, but a third slammed him back against the same tree, claws digging into bark inches from his face.
The wraith's mouth opened wide, revealing rows of jagged, bark-like teeth.
Azazel braced himself—
A roar of water split the forest.
A silver arc flashed past his vision, and the Chernohlap pinning him split in two, dissolving into black mist. Azazel turned, wide-eyed, as a familiar voice rang out:
"Idiot!"
Juan Barbosa.
He landed beside Azazel, coat flaring, Bartolomeo's ornate saber in his hand. With a single slash, streams of water erupted from the blade, spiraling through the air like living serpents.
"Captain always told me to look after you Weyers, you like to throw yourselves into living hell and have problems with communication."
Two more wraiths leapt from the treetops—
Slice.
Juan pivoted, sending a curved stream of water cutting them in half, the liquid turning razor-sharp mid-spin. Black ichor sprayed the forest floor, evaporating into smoke.
Azazel blinked, catching his breath, adrenaline crashing in his veins.
"Since when do you—?"
"Magic? Always." Juan smirked, spinning the saber in a flourish. "Perk of Master's sabre. Water listens."
"That's not what I wanted..."
The last three Chernohlapy hesitated, their unnatural intelligence sensing the shift in the fight.
"After I go through initiation I supposedly can surpass Captain," Juan interrupted.
He flicked his wrist. Blades of water coiled around him like ribbons, droplets catching the faint light that broke through the canopy.
Azazel shook the dirt off, finally finding a hole for rest.
"Stop bragging," he said casually, "You take left. I'll take right."
Azazel smirked despite himself, gripping his pistols, the familiar thrill of battle rushing in.