He met the first ghost head-on. The young man didn't even swing he simply raised the hand holding the Force Blade in front of him.
The shimmering blade became an insurmountable barrier. The ghost, rushing with frantic speed, collided with it itself, slicing its ethereal essence in half with a soul-chilling hiss. The two halves dissolved in the air like steam in frost.
And Saigo didn't stand still; pushing off sharply from the rotten floorboards, he performed a backflip, swinging the sword in a wide arc during the flight. Two more phantoms trying to grab him from behind met the blade and dissipated into billowing mist. A lot of opponents, he thought with an inner smile.
The ghosts swarmed around him like a hive of angry wasps, their pale forms flickering in the dusty semi-darkness. Their icy fingers clutched at the edges of his cloak, his clothes, trying to touch his skin. But Saigo was elusive. He darted across the improvised arena between boxes, over piles of junk, using every uneven surface, every barrel as a point of leverage for a new unexpected maneuver. His sword traced glowing, deadly circles in his hands, slicing through phantom flesh with the ease of a sunbeam piercing water. Every touch of the blade and another wail fell silent, another shadow dissolved.
A couple of times, the icy fingers did catch him. A cold that pierced to the bone, burning away life, locking muscles. It was painful, sure, but tolerable; Saigo had endured worse. His inner fire, the one Katarina had spoken of and which had hooked her so strongly, raged within, digesting the freezing magic of the touches.
Moreover, he kept a covert watch on his rear. The two guard-statues stood by the entrance like stone idols. Standing with their backs to the exit, they swung their swords (one a longsword, the other a heavy dagger) with unhurried but incredibly precise movements.
Their magical armor glowed with a dull, protective radiance the ghosts couldn't pass through it. Behind them, clutching a shortened magical staff, Mona panted. Her face was concentrated, sweat beading on her forehead. She periodically shouted short incantations, releasing bursts of blinding light or buzzing magical arrows, driving back the ghosts trying to flank them.
Saigo, meanwhile, continued his deadly ballet. He carved through the ghosts one after another. They popped from the magical touch of his blade like soap bubbles filled with murky water.
In a brief pause between swings, his gaze slid over the blade. 'Nice piece... I'll have to lift one like it from some careless guardsman,' a practical thought flashed.
Force Blades were the Empire's most powerful mass-produced artifacts. And also... if you sold one, you could make a pile of money. Money meant freedom, and freedom bred action.
A couple of hefty coins, and Akno could be dealt with from another continent, using other people's hands clean, no traces.
The plan was sound, and Linsy was alive... and the clan was unharmed. Besides, who would pay attention to just another drunken brawl with knives?
But that wasn't all. The main thing prompting these thoughts was the lack of his own money. It grated on his nerves; you could say the guy felt slightly helpless. Sooner or later, he would need funds...
He could just imagine with what voluptuous delight Katarina would listen to his request for a couple of coins, and with what a haughty, predatory smile she would ask for a "favor in return"...
The nature of which Saigo didn't even want to think about. 'This way, I'd be relatively free. Just need to pull it off carefully...'
He thought to himself, never breaking from his sword-dance, 'Damn! The tracking runes!' The thought hit him like a club.
'How could I forget!' This changed everything. Katarina would know about every deal, every step. His promising plan crumbled like a house of cards. He exhaled angrily, shifting his grip on the blade. 'To hell with it, I'll think about it later...'
While his mind was tormented by these thoughts, his body operated on autopilot. Chopping, carving, leaping over barrels and through piles of garbage, keeping the pursuers at bay with deadly swings. But now he took full control of the process, and did it so effectively that it seemed like just another ten minutes... and they'd simply run out.
Staring at the diminishing crowd of ghosts, Saigo, like them, froze for a moment, planning his next move.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAH!"
A scream not a wail or a moan, but a true scream: soul-wrenching, inhuman, woven from pure terror and centuries of pain.
It hit his eardrums, his bones, his very soul, making the dust on the boxes vibrate. The crowd of ghosts surged back from Saigo, as if repelled by an invisible force. From their depths, from the very epicenter of the freezing cold and despair, She emerged.
Pale as moonlight on a granite tombstone. In a tattered, decayed dress of eastern cut, probably once expensive. Long, tangled black hair, like a veil of death, covered her face, streaming around her in an unseen current. Cold emanated from her in waves, causing frost to form on the nearest boxes.
It was a Banshee a death spirit, a mourner, and a harbinger of doom.
Saigo raised an eyebrow slightly. Adrenaline surged in his blood with renewed force. Fear? Maybe a flicker from the surprise, but it was instantly overshadowed by the fury and thrill of a hunter facing a mighty beast.
He raised the Force Blade; its shimmer seemed brighter against this icy gloom.
"Come on then, Beautiful!" he shouted with a bold, challenging smile, thrusting the sword forward in a provocative gesture. "Come closer! Let's get better acquainted."
…
If ordinary ghosts were so-so opponents (with proper preparation and magical gear, of course), a Banshee was a different level of threat.
Strong, fast, with an almost tangible, freezing body capable of dealing real physical damage.
And also permanently anchored to this world by some tether—an object, a place, or a memory of incredible power.
Saigo mentally smirked. The process of "killing" such a creature was monotonous and complex. You couldn't manage with a single strike. You had to hit her, disperse her ethereal form, wait for her to rematerialize (and she would rematerialize as long as she was anchored), and repeat—over and over. Until you located her anchor. Well, and then... as you decided? Destroy the anchor—destroy the Banshee. Or... try to "talk sense into the spirit," severing the connection another way. Only saints, madmen, or the most desperate romantics chose the latter. Saigo was none of those.
"Sir!" Mona shouted, her voice cutting through the Banshee's wail and the rustle of the ghostly crowd. "There's something over there, in the distance!"
But it was too late. The Banshee attacked no, she glided. Her movement was unnaturally smooth and swift.
The long, tattered sleeves of her dress swept up like bat wings. Saigo instinctively sidestepped. And for good reason! A sleeve wreathed in icy light slammed into a massive oak chest with a dull...
THWUMP!
Not just entered pierced it clean through, like a hot knife through butter, leaving a hole the size of a good fist, from which splinters and dust poured out, before the sleeve withdrew just as easily.
SWOOSH! The second sleeve shot towards his head. Saigo parried with a sharp sweep of the Force Blade. The blade met the ethereal fabric with a hissing magical discharge, forcing the Banshee back a step. Not losing momentum, Saigo shifted his grip, swinging for a precise, piercing thrust aimed at the center of her hidden face.
WHOOSH!
The Banshee, with her ever-furious, invisible expression, simply... shot upwards. Swiftly, vertically, like a feather in a whirlwind.
His thrust passed harmlessly beneath her, while the blade-like sleeve whistled over his head, nearly scalping him.
Saigo didn't hesitate he just ducked, feeling the icy breath of death directly above his crown.
And in the next instant, he lunged forward. His free hand, wrapped in his cloak, shot out like lightning and grabbed the Banshee by the ankle.
The sensation was vile. Not just cold emptiness. Like grabbing a handful of absolute nothingness wrapped in ice that burned flesh to the bone. But Saigo, gritting his teeth, yanked with all his might.
The Banshee, caught off guard, lost her balance and control of her flight and crashed down.
THUD! THUD! THUD!
Three strikes. Fast as cobra strikes. Not slashes thrusts. The Force Blade flared with blue flame, piercing her ethereal chest, throat, the place where a heart should be. Each blow made her body shudder in a semblance of a death agony. With each strike, her form lost density, becoming more transparent, more nebulous. After the third strike, she literally exploded into a cloud of white, icy mist, which immediately began to dissipate with a hiss.
Saigo jumped back, breathing heavily, plumes of vapor erupting from his mouth into the icy air. The hand that had grabbed the phantom burned with an infernal cold; he could barely feel his fingers. 'She must be somewhere nearby...' he thought, sharply scanning the space. He wasn't wrong.
From behind a huge, cobweb-covered wardrobe standing in the far corner, everything flew at him. Mugs, broken chair legs, rusty tools, old books all the junk an invisible hand could reach became projectiles. They flew with incredible speed, whistling through the air.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Saigo deftly deflected the blows with his sword, batting away the flying debris like balls. Splinters, dust, ceramic shards flew in all directions. He mentally prepared to rush behind the wardrobe, to the spot of the new materialization...
"AAAAH!!!"
A scream: girlish, almost pathetic, and full of pure, uncontrolled terror. It came not from the Banshee's direction, but from the exit, where Mona and the guards were fighting.
Saigo froze for a moment. His gaze darted from the dark corner behind the wardrobe (where a new chill and pale light were already gathering) to the exit. Where Mona, judging by the scream, was in mortal danger.
'Tch...' he mentally cursed. 'Have to postpone beating up the Banshee.' She could wait. Her anchor wasn't going anywhere.
But Mona... her death could lead to serious problems with Katarina. And, strangely enough, he didn't care about Katarina's displeasure, but the very thought that he'd gotten so carried away with the fight that he'd let an 'ally' die grated against his professional pride.
He turned and sprinted towards the exit, batting away a final clay shard flying at him mid-stride. The Force Blade burned in his hand like a blue torch, lighting the way through the dust and icy gloom.