The figure didn't waste anymore time scrutinizing. With casual indeference, it flung the corpse impaled on its barbed club to the side, smashing it against the ruins of a nearby storefront in the process. Vance flinched at the sickening crunch that followed, the spray of blood tracing a crimson arc that evaporated upon contact with the flames.
The green-skinned beast turned, its glowing golden pupils locking onto Vance with deep interest.
It grinned—a crooked, toothy smirk that reeked of violence—and began to advance, shoulders rolling, massive feet stomping with each heavy step. The club, now slick with fresh gore, twitched in its grasp like an extension of its rage.
Then it charged.
The monster didn't roar or give any dramatic warning. Its form simply tensed, and in the next instant, it was rushing forward with terrifying speed, tearing through the flames and smoke down the street.
That's fast! Vance felt his stomach tightening.
He had no time to think. No time to weigh options. I need to kill it!
The street around him was a scene ripped from a nightmare. Flames crackled from toppled homes, sending ash swirling into the night sky. Mutilated bodies littered the ground, civilians, soldiers, and the elderly. The stench of burnt flesh and ozone choked the air.
Somewhere nearby, a building collapsed with a groan and a spray of sparks. But Vance couldn't look away from the charging beast that had already closed the distance.
"Raghhhh!" It bellowed, club raised high.
Vance moved, but too late. His battered body protested with every motion. The pain in his side stabbed at him with each breath, and his limbs felt leaden.
He tried to sidestep—but length of the club was something he had miscalculated.
I won't make it.
Upon this realization, he braced himself. Raising his arms, he crossed them in front of his face and shifted his weight back, hoping to roll with the impact. It was a desperate maneuver. He'd likely shatter bones on contact. But that was better than being turned into paste immediately.
His breath caught. Something inside him sparked; not power, not strength, but that old hunger. The feeling of being alive only when death was inches away. A twisted grin curled his lips.
This was it!
Just as the club was about to connect, something cut through the air: sharp, fast, and deadly.
The hiss of a blade.
A blur passed behind the orc. In an instant, its body shuddered, stumbled… then collapsed to its knees before falling face-first into the dirt with a crash. The weapon never hit. The swing never landed.
Blood poured from the creature's back, forming thick puddles in the cracked stone.
Several deep slashes ran across its spine, each one clean and deliberate.
Vance didn't move.
He blinked, struggling to process what had just happened. One second, he was moments from death. The next, his would-be killer was lying in a growing pool of its own blood.
"What the hell?" he whispered.
His eyes darted around, scanning the street.
"Was that… a sword?"
It had to be. But the precision, the speed… it was impossible. Whoever had done this wasn't human. Couldn't be.
He stumbled backward, more from instinct than logic, putting what little space he could between himself and whatever had just entered the battlefield.
If they'd wanted to kill him, they could've. That knowledge did little to calm the icy dread creeping up his spine.
Pain surged again, sharper than before. The adrenaline that had carried him this far began to leave his form. His knees buckled slightly, and he caught himself against a scorched wall, fingers trembling.
Shortly after he heard footsteps: Light, deliberate, and definitely rowing louder.
Out of the haze came a silhouette. Lean, straight-backed, calm.
"A knight?" he muttered, voice rough.
A quiet laugh broke the silence.
"No," she replied, stepping fully into his view. "Just an Ascendant."
She stepped into full view, unhurried and composed. The firelight danced across her strange silver armor, catching on elegant etchings along the chest plate and bracers. She was short, maybe five-foot-six but there was nothing small about her presence. Every step she took was measured, and deliberate, as if she owned the battlefield.
She flicked the blood from her short sword in one fluid motion, then slid it into the scabbard at her side with practiced ease.
This only served to puzzle vance more however.
Her hair—dark, wavy, and cut just above the shoulders—was tousled by the wind. Her silver eyes glowed faintly in the smoke, not with menace, but with curiosity. Quiet power radiated from her like heat off molten steel.
Vance stared, still half-doubting that this girl,that look almost as frail as himself, had struck down the orc so effortlessly.
"Are you just going to stare, or are you going to thank me?" she asked, her voice smooth and light, almost teasing. It didn't match the grim backdrop of blood and fire behind her.
Vance blinked, then looked away, suddenly aware of how he must've appeared: wounded, filthy, and barely standing.
"I… I heard you," he muttered.
His throat was dry. He felt every heartbeat in his ribs, each one a dull throb of pain.
Was this really the one who killed the monster?
She didn't look tired. Didn't look like someone who'd been fighting for her life. In fact, she looked untouched by the chaos like she'd merely taken a walk through it. Before he could voice any of the questions screaming in his mind, a fresh wave of exhaustion surged over him. His vision swam. The ground tilted beneath him, and his balance wavered.
He opened his mouth to speak again, but darkness rushed in.
His legs gave out as his back left the wall.
The last thing he saw was the girl stepping forward, arms outstretched, catching him before he could hit the ground.
*****
Cecilia staggered slightly as the weight of the boy fell into her arms. He was light. Far too light. Bones pressed against her forearms through thin flesh, and his body radiated a feverish heat.
She lowered him gently to the cobblestone, inspecting his condition.
"Barely sixteen," she murmured, brushing a smudge of soot from his cheek with a gloved finger. His face was gaunt, lips cracked from dehydration. Blood seeped through the fabric wrapped around his abdomen.
I guess he really was on his last straw.
The boy groaned faintly, muscles twitching, even in unconsciousness. Cecilia frowned.
What kind of will kept someone moving in this state? She'd seen seasoned soldiers break with less.
Her gaze lifted to the ruined town around them. The sight made her stomach clench.
The fires were still burning—flickering orange and red against the shattered night. Ash drifted like snow. And the smell… it clung to everything. Burnt flesh. Blood. Fear.
Corpses lay everywhere.
A mother's body curled around her child, shielding them even in death. A soldier's shattered spear jutted from the back of an orc who had fallen just inches from his target. A group of elderly townsfolk had been cornered and slaughtered in an alley, their bodies piled like trash.
She clenched her jaw.
Even for her, this was hard to witness.
Orcs weren't subtle. But this? This wasn't just a raid.
This was a purge. And one that made zero sense.
She rose to her feet, still carrying the boy, cradling him like something fragile and valuable.
"Two survivors," she whispered.
They'd arrived too late.
For a moment, her composure faltered. She closed her eyes and took a breath, slow, deep. Letting the pain sit with her. Then she opened them again, sharper than before.
There would be justice for this.
There had to be.
She adjusted the boy in her arms and turned, moving toward the direction of the rally point. Her team was waiting beyond the eastern ridge, sweeping the forest for stragglers. They'd regroup there, treat the boy, and then decide their next move.
As she walked through the remains of the town, her armor clinking softly with each step, the fires behind her casting long, flickering shadow.