"Did you enjoy the show? You behind the tree."
Every muscle in his body locked, as though his blood had turned to stone.
The figure’s voice wasn’t loud — it didn’t have to be. It slithered through the trees, heavy with certainty. He wasn’t asking a question; he was stating a fact.
Avin’s pulse hammered so loud in his ears that it drowned out the quiet rustle of the leaves. He saw me... His mind screamed. He killed three people — one of them before they could even breathe — and now he’s talking to me.
All thought condensed into a single truth that echoed in his skull:
He said it under his breath, voice cracking like dry leaves. Slowly, he rose from his crouch behind the tree, every joint protesting. His knees trembled, and his throat ran dry. He was already ready to run — even though he knew it would do no good.
"Try to run," the figure said, almost reading his thoughts, "and that will be your life."
His voice was calm. Flat. Deadly.
"You’ve seen what I can do."
Avin swallowed, stepping hesitantly out from the shadow of the tree into the open. His hands were raised slightly — not quite surrender, not quite defiance. "Um... hello," he said with a weak, trembling laugh.
The figure looked at him blankly. His expression didn’t shift, not even a twitch. "You enjoy spying?" he asked.
"N-no!" Avin’s voice cracked. He waved both hands frantically, shaking his head. "I—I just happened to end up here!"
A sharp tsk escaped the man’s teeth as he started walking toward him. His boots crushed twigs with deliberate rhythm — each step slow, measured, like a predator closing distance on a trapped animal.
"How many points do you have?"
Avin’s mind stuttered. "Oh no..." he whispered internally. He had seen the man murder for points — slaughter for points — and now those same eyes were fixed on him. "Two..." he managed weakly.
The figure stopped a few feet away.
"Two?" His tone carried disbelief — and irritation. "Do you think I’m an idiot?"
"No! No, I swear!" Avin said, panic rising in his throat.
The figure moved faster than Avin could process. One moment he was standing, the next his fist was clutched in the fabric of Avin’s collar, dragging him close until their faces were inches apart. The man’s breath was warm and steady — Avin’s, erratic and shallow.
"You must not want your life," he growled.
Avin’s arms shot up instinctively in surrender, fingers trembling. "I—I’m not lying! I swear I’m not lying!"
The figure’s eyes dropped to Avin’s belt. The red waistband shimmered faintly — the number 2 glowed clearly against the fabric.
He paused, then sighed heavily and pushed Avin back, releasing his grip. "You’re useless."
"Ouch," Avin thought bitterly.
The figure turned his back and began walking away without another word. Avin didn’t move — couldn’t move — terrified that even breathing wrong might trigger his death.
Then the footsteps stopped.
Avin’s head lifted slightly, his body going cold. He turned slowly.
The figure was standing still, half-turned, looking at him over his shoulder. That grin — the same grin he wore when he impaled the mage — crept back onto his face.
"Actually," he said softly, stepping closer, "there is something you can help me with."
Avin blinked, confused. "What... what exactly would he do with just two points?" he thought. But then he saw the man’s gaze drop — not to his face, not to his belt — but to the sword strapped at Avin’s side.
The figure smiled wider. "You see," he began, waving his blade lazily in the air like a conductor’s baton, "my sword suffered tremendously during that little performance."
Avin’s gut dropped. His fingers unconsciously tightened on the hilt of his own weapon, sliding it subtly out of its sheath — just enough that a sliver of the blade caught the sunlight.
The figure noticed. His smile turned into a sneer. "So why don’t you do me a favor," he said lightly, "and give me that beautiful sword of yours?"
Avin stepped back, sweat slicking his palms. His heart pounded so violently he could feel it in his fingertips. "I... I don’t think I can do that," he said carefully.
The figure exhaled through his nose, loud and theatrical. "Of course you can," he mocked. "You just take it out... and hand it to me."
Avin ignored the words, continuing to back away, his eyes never leaving the man’s. He could feel the tension in the air thickening, heavy enough to taste.
He focused — energy flooding into his eyes. The world sharpened, colors deepened, the figure’s outline blurring with movement. His vision bled crimson.
"Oh?" the figure said, intrigued. "Yours are just like mine."
He pointed at his own eyes. But his weren’t glowing — they were bleeding. The whites were spiderwebbed with red veins, the pupils dark and pitiless.
"Well... not quite," he said. "Yours are more... noble." He sighed, rolling his neck. "Mine are something else entirely."
He gripped his sword tighter. Avin mirrored him, both of them reading the other’s stance, both waiting for the first twitch. This update is available on novęlfire.net
Avin saw it. The shift in the man’s fingers. The tightening of his jaw. The flex in his thigh muscle.
He moved instantly, drawing his sword with a clean metallic hiss.
The figure’s grin spread like fire. He ran a hand through his hair, slicking it back — a ritual, a reset, the calm before the storm. "Okay then," he murmured. "I guess I’ll take it from you."
He bent his knees, lowering his center of gravity. The dirt cracked beneath his boots. His sword angled forward, catching a shimmer of red light as he spun it once, cutting the air clean — testing the resistance.
The world seemed to snap — air tearing in his wake, a red streak trailing behind him like a comet.
Avin saw him coming. Too fast. Faster than anything human. His enhanced vision could barely keep up. Every instinct screamed that dodging would fail — so he didn’t.
He gritted his teeth, twisted his torso, and thrust his sword forward at the incoming blur.
Steel met air — then movement.
The figure saw the counter at the last possible moment. His eyes widened — just slightly — and he tried to pivot. His dodge was fast, but imperfect. His boots caught on the uneven forest floor, and momentum betrayed him.
He stumbled — arms flailing — and crashed sideways into the dirt. The sound was loud, the ground shaking from the force. He slid backward, dead leaves scattering until his back slammed into a tree.
For a moment, both men froze — Avin standing, chest heaving, sword trembling in his grip... and the figure, sitting half-upright against the trunk, a smear of blood trailing from the corner of his mouth.
Only the wind moved, brushing through the forest as if even the air was holding its breath.
The figure lay still for a moment, half-slumped against the tree trunk, his crimson eyes fixed on Avin. The faintest smirk crept back onto his lips, and even in his state, the aura around him didn’t waver. He looked... amused.
Avin, panting heavily, kept his sword raised before him. His breathing was sharp, uneven — his entire body trembling not from exhaustion, but from adrenaline. For the first time since he had entered this world, the idea that he might actually stand his ground — that he might even win — didn’t feel entirely impossible.
The thought slipped through his mind like a whisper. Maybe I can do this. Maybe he’s not untouchable.
The figure chuckled lowly, a cruel, rasping sound that echoed through the silent trees. "Heh... got lucky, did you?"
He straightened up effortlessly, brushing a smear of dirt from his sleeve. His movements were elegant, unnervingly calm. As he gripped his sword again, the smile vanished, replaced by something sharper — colder.