The night air clawed at my skin, thick with the acrid stench of smoke and charred wood from the ruins behind me. The burn on my back throbbed like a fresh brand, splinters digging deeper with every step, but I walked it off.
Pain was an old friend—Life had beaten that lesson into me long ago. Just keep moving.
The explosion's echo still rang in my ears, a hollow reminder of my failure, but I shoved it down. Rage simmered beneath, hot and waiting.
A minute or so into the shadowed streets of South Ravel, something shifted.
A massive thunk reverberated through the cobblestones, followed by a crash like a boulder slamming into earth. I froze, hand instinctively dropping to my sword hilt.
The night was too quiet now—no distant shouts, no flickering lanterns from curious windows. Just the crackle of dying flames in the distance.
I turned slowly, the boar mask's tusks casting jagged shadows under the faint moonlight.
There, silhouetted against the inferno's glow, stood a towering figure of steel and brutality—a fortress given legs. He was easily six feet tall, armored in plates that looked forged from the empire's black iron, riveted and scarred from battles I could only imagine.
Every step he took cracked the ground beneath him, sending tremors up my boots. His face was a map of old wounds, one eye milky from some ancient scar.
"Oi, brat," his voice boomed, gravelly and amused, echoing off the empty buildings. "I see you're hurt. That sucks. I told them specifically I wanted to bring you in myself, but nooo, they had to blow you up first damn bastards."
He uncorked a bottle from his belt with a casual flick, the liquid inside glowing faintly in the dark. Before I could react, he hurled it at me.
I twisted to dodge—instinct screaming poison—but it came too fast, too unexpected. The vial shattered against my chest, and a warm rush spread through my veins, knitting flesh and easing the burn on my back. An elixir.
I straightened, flexing my fingers until the pain faded into nothing. "Why?" I growled, voice low and edged with fury. "I'm your enemy. Why heal me before we even fight?" I shook my head slightly, jaw tight. "It doesn't matter. My anger needs something to pay for those demi-human children you scum blew up for no reason. If you're with them… you're next."
The man smirked, a twisted curl of his lips that showed yellowed teeth. "Oi, brat, before you go on a tangent, you might introduce yourself. But I guess it's bad manners if I don't do it first." He planted his hammer into the ground with a thud that splintered stone, leaning on it like a crutch.
"Name's Ragnar V. Valgard. Captain of the empire's heavy assault division."
I stayed quiet, letting the silence stretch. My sword hand itched, but I held back, assessing. He was built like a siege engine—muscles bulging under armor, veins thick as ropes. This was raw power, the kind that crushed armies.
"Eh, not much of a talker, aren't ya?" Ragnar chuckled, rolling his shoulders with a metallic creak. "I honestly don't care. I'm here because I enjoy this. To me, there's no greater pleasure than feeling the warmth of my fist drenched in my enemies' blood. Honestly, you look so puny—why's there such a big warrant for your arrest? Oh, whatever. I'll give you one free shot, eh? You won't be able to pierce my Shingu anyway."
Before I drew my blade, I had to ask. The question burned hotter than the flames behind us. "Before I take your head off... why do you all hate demi-humans so much? What's the reason for this?"
"Reason?" Ragnar barked a laugh, deep and genuine, like I'd told a joke. "Idk, I don't really care. Human, demi-human, elf—don't matter. If you can stand, you're worth Fighting."
The night wind picked up, carrying embers from the blaze like fireflies. I drew my sword slowly, the steel singing as it cleared the sheath. No more words. He wanted a fight? He'd get one.
But this wasn't just for me anymore. It was for the ashes, the screams I couldn't unhear, the empty arms that should have held a child.
I took my stance for a lunge, blade flashing in the moonlight.
Rage fueled me, raw and unfiltered—I channeled it into my beastified state, muscles bulging and coiling like twisted ropes under my skin, power surging through every fiber.
My senses sharpened: the night air crisp, Ragnar's heartbeat a distant drum, the embers from the blaze flickering like dying stars.
I pounced with all my strength, one thrust aimed directly at his neck. The world blurred as I broke the sound barrier—a sonic boom blasting outward, shattering nearby windows and sending cracks spiderwebbing across the cobblestones.
It seemed to surprise Ragnar, his one good eye widening for a fraction of a second, but as my sword met his armor—or what passed for it—the tip bent, then shattered. Time slowed in that horrifying instant: fragments of steel splintering off like brittle ice, the blade crumbling inch by inch until nothing remained but the hilt in my grip.
This was Arthur's gift, the sword that had carried me through hell. Sentimental fool that I was, I'd never replaced it, never brought a spare, thinking it'd hold forever. But it didn't. The empire's dog stood there, unscathed, not even a scratch on his neck.
"Eh, feel that, boy? This is what I mean—FISTS ARE ALWAYS BETTER THAN SWORDS ANYWAY! HAHAHAHA!" Ragnar's laugh boomed like thunder, shaking the ground.
Before I could recover, his massive fist rocketed forward, slamming into my face with the force of a battering ram. The impact sent stars exploding behind my eyes, my body hurtling backward through the air. I crashed into a nearby house, wood and stone giving way like paper, the structure collapsing around me in a cascade of dust and debris.
I lay there for a heartbeat, buried under rubble, the taste of blood sharp on my tongue. But I got up, shoving beams aside with a grunt, almost no visible damage beyond a slightly stinging jaw.
My defense wasn't some fluke—it was Arthur's brutal training fused with months of blood-soaked battles inside the Empire, fights that should've buried me long ago. Less than a year, and I'd already torn through an insane boss and cut down hundreds of Imperial soldiers who came thinking I'd fall like the rest.
Every scar was proof I'd survived something I wasn't meant to. I spat blood onto the cracked street and rolled my shoulders as the night wind whipped embers between us. I raised my fists again. No sword left. Just my body—the only weapon that had carried me this far.
Ragnar grinned wider, cracking his knuckles with a sound like breaking bones. "THAT'S MORE LIKE IT, BOYO!"