They came at dawn.
Not with horns.Not with divine light.
With discipline.
Aerun sensed them before Lyrae did—not through sound, but through absence. The birds had fled. The wind cut short. Even the ground seemed to wait.
He opened his eyes slowly.
"Don't move," he murmured.
Lyrae was already awake, breath shallow. "How many?"
"Five," Aerun said. "Maybe six."
"Censors?"
"No." He listened again. "These ones intend to survive."
They emerged from the fog without haste—figures in layered armor dulled to matte black, faces hidden behind narrow masks. No sigils. No glow. No divine pressure.
Only intent.
One stepped forward, hands empty, posture relaxed.
"Target confirmed," the figure said. "Alive if possible."
Lyrae swore under her breath. "They brought professionals."
Aerun rose to his feet.
He did not reach for his sword.
That was the first mistake they made.
Aerun's Fighting Style: The Quiet Way
Aerun did not fight to dominate.
He fought to end motion.
The first attacker lunged low, blade aimed for the thigh—efficient, disabling. Aerun shifted half a step, letting the strike pass, and placed his palm flat against the attacker's shoulder.
Not a blow.
A placement.
He twisted.
Bone dislocated with a dull crack. The attacker collapsed without a scream, breath driven from his lungs.
The second came immediately, twin knives flashing.
Aerun stepped inside the attack, crowding the space, forearm snapping up to jam one wrist while his elbow struck the throat—not crushing, just enough to steal breath.
The knives clattered to the ground.
Aerun turned with the falling body, using its weight as cover as a third attacker fired a crossbow bolt.
The bolt struck flesh—
Not Aerun's.
The third attacker froze, staring at his fallen ally in disbelief.
Aerun did not hesitate.
He drove his knee into the attacker's sternum, forcing him backward, then hooked his leg and swept.
The man hit the ground hard.
Three down.
No blood spilled.
Lyrae watched in stunned silence.
"This isn't swordsmanship," she whispered.
"No," Aerun said, breath steady. "It's refusal."
The fourth attacker adapted.
They always did.
This one did not rush. He circled, drawing Aerun away from Lyrae, blade held low, eyes sharp behind the mask.
"You don't strike," the man observed. "You remove."
Aerun said nothing.
The attacker smiled beneath the mask. "That makes you predictable."
He feinted high—then threw a vial at the ground.
The vial shattered.
White mist exploded outward.
Lyrae screamed as the fog burned her eyes and throat.
Aerun moved instantly.
He closed the distance in two steps, ignoring the sting in his lungs, and gripped the attacker's wrist mid-swing.
The world shifted.
The warmth at Aerun's back surged sharply.
Not outward.
Inward.
The attacker stiffened.
His blade vibrated violently, then crumbled, metal flaking away like ash.
Both men froze.
The attacker stared at his empty hand, horror bleeding into his voice. "What did you—"
Aerun shoved him back hard.
The man fell, scrambling away in panic.
The remaining attackers hesitated.
That hesitation killed them.
Not physically.
Tactically.
Aerun advanced—not threatening, not rushing—forcing them backward step by step. Every movement they made faltered near him. Blades dulled. Bolts misfired. Balance failed.
One dropped to a knee, clutching his head.
"This is wrong," he gasped. "The world's—"
Aerun struck once.
A precise blow to the side of the neck.
The man collapsed, unconscious.
The last attacker ran.
Silence returned slowly, like a held breath released.
Aerun turned to Lyrae.
She was on her knees, coughing, eyes red but clear. He helped her up gently.
"You didn't kill them," she said.
"They'll live," Aerun replied. "Most of them."
She stared at him. "That wasn't mercy."
"No," he agreed. "It was control."
She looked at the wrapped sword on his back.
"That thing didn't move," she said.
"No."
"But it still acted."
Aerun nodded once. "It doesn't answer commands."
Lyrae swallowed. "Then what does it answer?"
Aerun looked down at his hands.
"Proximity," he said. "And refusal."
Far away, Talrek Vos received the report in silence.
No casualties.Weapons failed.Target unharmed.
He read the final line twice.
Environmental interference detected. Unknown suppression field.
Talrek closed the report.
"A field," he murmured.
He smiled faintly.
"Then it isn't a weapon yet."
As dusk fell, Lyrae finally spoke.
"There's a name for what you just did," she said.
Aerun raised an eyebrow.
"In the old records," she continued, "before divine doctrine replaced combat theory. They called it—"
She hesitated.
"Null-Fighting. The art of winning by denying the battlefield."
Aerun considered that.
"It suits," he said.
They moved on before night fully settled.
Behind them, the fog slowly dispersed, leaving no trace of the fight.
No bodies.
No record.
Only the quiet understanding that something in the world had changed.