"Rude," he chided, licking the dripping ichor off his fingers. Behind him, the acid-handed woman hissed, her corrupted limb bubbling violently. The eyeless brute's tentacles lashed out, shredding the porch railing like wet parchment.
Harold didn't wait. He slammed his gauntleted fist against the wall panel—a hidden mechanism hissed, and the entire front door frame detonated outward in a burst of searing mana shrapnel. The trio vanished momentarily in the smoke and debris.
The acid-woman lunged first, her corrosive hand carving through the wreckage like hot wax. Harold pivoted, his shoulder pad flaring as it deflected a spray of molten droplets. The stench of burning wood filled his nostrils, mingling with the coppery tang of his own singed sleeve.
Blue mana formed around him as he used a mana force field to momentarily block attacks.
Harold ducked behind an overturned table as the acidic spray hissed past his ear, searing a hole through the portrait of his great-grandfather. The brute's tentacles smashed through the window, glass shattering like a hailstorm. One slimy appendage wrapped around his ankle—cold, pulsing, alive—and yanked hard. His back hit the floor, the breath knocked out of him.
Beneath the floor The same maid that thanked harold was walking over to a young girl. She was crying and looking for an adult to cling to, clearly losing her parents in whatever accident took them.
She tried to best to keep her cries muffled.
Though she was a young girl, she was weary of public scrutiny in the face of certain death.
"Shh, little one," the maid whispered, pressing the child's face into her apron. The fabric smelled of lavender and lye soap—mundane comforts that felt like relics from another world. Beneath them, the floorboards trembled as something heavy crashed upstairs. A muffled curse, then the unmistakable *snap-hiss* of Harold's gauntlet discharging again.
The girl hiccuped against her chest. "Are the monsters gonna eat us?"
"I dont think so. Even if we have to move and escape this place, we'll just have to keep running no matter what happens. Maybe we can find your mommy and daddy as well."
Though mary's eyes betrayed her words. What eas she gonna do if they managed to break down here? 'The only thing i can do for now is have faith in harold, and if it come down to it, have the girl slip away'
*Back upstairs*
Harold rolled as the brute's tentacles crushed the table above him into splinters. He came up firing—three rapid bolts from his father's crossbow, each crackling with blue mana. One struck the acid-woman square in her third eye, making her shriek as ocular fluid boiled down her chest. The others embedded in the brute's writhing masses, but the creature barely flinched, its tooth-filled maw dripping saliva onto the bearskin rug.
'How much longer can i hold them off before i have to use it?' Harold didn't know exactly how strong the trio was, but judging off of the fact that he was struggling and had not even faced the leader, He knew he wouldn't have much longer.
Breathing heavily, harold kept checking the doorway no matter what was going on. Not only were the stones powering his machine slowly running out of stored up mana as they began dimming, but he was also growing tired.
Just then he noticed the undead woman speaking.
"You could've just ran away. Trying to save everyone while having the power to save only yourself was your mistake. Not to worry ill gladly make it your last."
The trenchcoated man stepped through the smoke, his shredded coat fluttering behind him like ragged wings. His face was split open from the bolt, but the wound quickly pulsed grotesquely—black veins knitting together, pulling the flesh shut like a drawstring purse. Harold's stomach turned.
"so, do you plan on running, or will you stick through it all and die trying?" In his mind, human's were dumb creatures, obsessed with honor and duty. In demon society they would be killed and eaten in days.
True strength was in power and cunning. He could have easily left these people and informed other towns and villages of something like him to look out for. But he decided to stay, and now everything he has ever known would be destroyed.
To his surprise, harold was smiling. "Run?"
The mana stone in the middle of his gauntlet glowed brightly. "Sorry to disappoint."
A giant array appeared on the floor of the building.
It put a halt on the mana a mage was able to expend.
Harold had already prepared this beforehand, he wasn't stupid enough to fight these things head on.
Well, technically this array was made by his family a little over a decade ago, but he still decided to use it.
The trenchcoated man froze mid-step, his grin faltering for the first time. Harold watched as the man's fingers twitched—claws elongating, then retracting uselessly as the array's golden threads pulsed through the floorboards. The brute's tentacles spasmed and dropped limp, twitching like dying snakes. Even the acid-woman's corrosive hand sizzled out, leaving only a normal—if grotesque—human limb.
Harold quickly charged forward with all his might.
Swinging at the undead woman with all the force he could muster.
A satisfying crack was heard as her head was turned unnaturally. The brute attempted to grab him with his tentacles—but they flopped uselessly, still paralyzed by the array's suppression field.
As the brute swung, Harold was actually able to block this time, delivering a point blank crossbow bolt into the middle of his skull.
One moment he saw the brute falling, the next he saw a fist fly toward his face.
Harold barely managed to raise his gauntlet in time—the impact still sent him skidding across the hardwood floor, boots carving deep grooves into the wood. His vision swam, but he caught the trenchcoated man's silhouette lunging again, movements sharp and predatory even without magic.
"You know, ive never gotten angry before since coming back into the mortal plain."
Harold spat blood onto the floorboards—copper and salt, warm against his split lip. The trenchcoated man's fist had felt like a blacksmith's hammer, even through the gauntlet's plating. He could already feel the bruise forming beneath his ribs.
"You want a bottle? Suck it up and fight."
Harold was definitely willing to take getting torn apart over petty ramblings.
The trenchcoated man lunged again—too fast, too fluid for something supposedly human. Harold barely twisted aside, feeling claws graze his ribs through torn fabric. He retaliated with a gauntleted uppercut that sent the creature's head snapping back with a wet *crack*. Black ichor sprayed across the wallpaper, sizzling like acid.
As the brawl continued, the undead woman got up. She had a natural healing factor, it was only sped up with magic.
Even without it, her wounds were healing at rapid speeds. She groaned as she stretched her limbs—her head twisted unnaturally backwards—before snapping it back into place with a grotesque pop.
she had know where the humans were from the beginning. She could smell them. As she went to tug at the rug covering the entrance, Harold noticed.
'Fuck'