"You're not afraid of the dark... are you?"
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The final lantern swung in a slow, uneven arc overhead, its dim light dragging across the room in a wavering rhythm, stretching shadows into long, shifting shapes along the walls and floor. For a brief moment, the men hesitated—their formation loosening as their eyes strained to adjust. In that lapse of certainty, Enark moved.
The sound of his boots against stone was swallowed by the ragged breathing of men suddenly blinded.
*BAM—! *
One of them fired.
The shot split the darkness with a violent crack, the muzzle flash bursting like lightning in the gloom—but by the time the light revealed the space ahead, Enark was already gone. The bullet struck wood instead, splintering a crate behind him as he slipped along the edge of the room.
Another man cursed.
"Spread out—don't let him—"
*Creeeaakkk...*
The command was cut short by a heavy creak.
They turned just in time to catch a fleeting silhouette—a shadow at the doorway. Backlit by the faint glow of the open hall beyond.
And then—
*THUD.*
The door slammed shut.
"Hey—!"
One of them rushed forward, yanking it open hard enough to nearly tear it from its already damaged hinges.
Light should've poured in.
But it didn't.
The open space outside—the same wide hall they had just come from—was gone—swallowed by the same suffocating darkness that filled the room now stretched beyond it.
"What the hell…" a voice whispered. "Where'd the light go?"
"How did he—?"
"What is he…?"
Their voices dropped, no longer shouting—just murmuring now, uncertain and uneasy.
*THUDTHUDTHUD—! *
"W-wait— whos—!"
Enark closed the distance before the man could finish speaking, one hand snapping forward to seize the front of his collar while the other drove the hilt of the blade sharply into his jaw. The impact was solid, and the man collapsed almost instantly, his rifle clattering uselessly against the floor.
Steel whistled through the air as another guard swung blind.
*CLANG--!*
Enark met it with his own blade. The collision showered them in a brief, violent spray of sparks that illuminated their terrified faces for a fraction of a second.
*BAM--! *
A shot cracked through the room.
The man in the clash twisted, trying to break free, bringing his blade down in a desperate slash but Enark caught it on his guard and forced him backward—straight into the line of the gunmen, collapsing their angle of fire completely.
The others hesitated—none of them willing to risk hitting their own.
That hesitation was all he needed.
Enark's blade swept in a tight, horizontal arc. In a single, spinning strike, the steel sheared through the barrels and stocks of three raised guns. The man in his grip tore free, stumbling back, and swung a wild, desperate cut at Enark's head.
Enark dropped, the blade whistling over his hair. But the opening cost him.
A knee shot up into his face from the gunman in front of him—one of whose weapons he had just slashed aside.
*CRK—! *
The impact snapped his head back, sending him skidding across the floor.
For a moment, the world blurred.
Then he exhaled—slow, steady—and melted back into the darkness.
*TKK-TKK-TKK-TKK-TKK-TKK*
Bullets ripped through the space he had occupied moments before, striking only air and stone.
"Group up—he can't handle all of us at o—"
*WSSHHK—!*
A flash of steel silenced the man. The guard's hand—and the gun it held—parted ways in a clean, clinical sever. He collapsed, clutching his ruined wrist and howling into the dark.
*BAM—! *
The last gunman fired at him, as he tried to get out the way, but a bullet tore through his left shoulder.
"Ghk—!" Pain exploded through him—but he used it. He used the force of the impact to accelerate his rotation, throwing his sword mid-spin straight at the shooter. The man raised his weapon to deflect the flying steel—
*CLANG—!*
But Enark was already a blur of motion. He closed the distance in a single burst of speed.
The sword was still in motion—
*WHIR-WHIR-WHIR*
He reached it mid-air and caught it cleanly, reversing the momentum into a descending strike.
*WHING—*
The swordsman stepped in, his blade locking against Enark's.
"Dammit!" Enark thought.
Ten men. Enark's mind calculated through the haze of pain. Ten were inside the building initially. Now six remained—two already fallen inside the room, one unconscious from a hilt strike, and another kneeling and screaming, clutching a ruined wrist. Of the six still standing: one with a functioning gun, five armed with blades.
Enark and the swordsman strained against each other, blades locked at the center of the room, steel grinding as neither gave ground.
Then—
The others fanned out, circling him from all angles.
The first blade came in from his left—
Enark broke the lock, snapping his blade free just in time to knock it aside with a sharp deflection.
*CLANG—!*
The second attack came from behind almost instantly.
He twisted around it, forcing his body as the edge sliced past close enough to sting along his ribs.
The third rushed him immediately, pushing him back against the wall. Enark managed to push the blade away with his before kicking him back.
But it was already too late.
The fourth immediately closed a gap to his right, cutting off his escape line entirely.
Now he was boxed in on all sides without an opportunity to escape, back against the wall.
The gunman centered his aim on Enark's chest. "Nowhere to run now."
But Enark's only response was a smile.
Broken lanterns lay scattered across the floor, their oil bleeding into the stone in thin reflective streaks. One still flickered weakly, its flame swaying with every movement in the room.
He exhaled once.
Then moved, quickly. Not forward or back. Down.
His hand snapped to the floor, fingers closing around the nearest broken lantern frame as the man's finger tightened on the trigger.
*BAM—! *
The gun fired.
He grabbed one of the broken lantern frames from the ground mid-motion—its metal still hot, its wick still glowing—and threw it.
Not at the man.
At the bullet's path.
*CRACK—! *
The bullet struck the shattered lantern mid-air.
Glass exploded outward and oil burst into mist.
For a split second, nothing made sense.
Then—
*FWOOOM—!!!*
Fire bloomed outward in a violent flash and the room was swallowed in white-orange light.
"W-what—?!"
"MY EYES—!!"
Enark moved through the inferno. Before the gunman could blink, Enark's blade moved in a blur—not to kill, but to disarm. In a swift, terrifyingly precise motion, he sliced the fingers of the man's trigger hand.
Another swung blindly into the glare, but Enark cut them down with clinical efficiency of only two strikes.
*THUMP* *THUMP* *THUMP*
Enark's head snapped toward the sound of one man retreating.
But he was too slow. Closing the gap and delivering a quick strike before the man could fully regain his vision.
Behind him, one of the last three grabbed a fallen gun and tried to re-aim through the glare—while another charged in with a sword.
*BAM—! *
*CLING—CLANG! *
*BANG—SHING! *
Steel and gunfire collided in the burning light.
The attacker's rush broke in mid-motion.
Then, silence.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the crackle of fire.
The swordsman—the only one still standing—recovered his vision just in time to see his last ally fall. The room was still burning with low, crawling flame.
And at its center stood a silhouette in black. The fire spilled across the floor where the oil had spread, bathing him in an almost ethereal, vengeful glow.
The swordsman didn't speak at first.
Neither did Enark.
The only sound was the fire.
Then—
A step.
The swordsman stepped forward.
Enark adjusted his grip and mirrored the swordsman before him.
For it a moment's breath, stillness occupied the room
Then—
*SHHK—!*
They dashed at the same time.
Their blades met—
*CLANG—!!!*
The impact rang out like a bell. They passed each other, standing back-to-back for a frozen second.
Just then—
Enark exhaled.
Behind him, the man's blade trembled. A thin line of red formed across the guard's chest—deep enough to shock, shallow enough to spare. The man slumped to his knees.
And the silence returned—heavier now than before.
Enark let the tension leave his shoulders. He turned away from the fallen and crossed the room, stepping past broken wood and discarded iron.
He knelt beside the woman in the corner.
Eliot's mother.
She was trembling, her shoulders bunched as if expecting a blow. Enark reached out, his fingers working the knot of her blindfold with surprising gentleness.
"…It's over," he said quietly. "You're safe"
As the cloth fell, the light of the dying fire reached her eyes. She blinked, squinting at the boy in the mask.
"W-who are…" she whispered.
"It doesn't matter," Enark said softly. He sliced through her bindings in a single motion and extended a hand. His voice was steady, despite the blood soaking his shoulder.
"Let's get you out of here. Your son is waiting."
"Eliot is waiting."