Menzine sat poised on a simple wooden bench beneath the protective shade of a modest tree. His blonde hair caught faint glimmers of sunlight that filtered through the leaves, casting an ethereal glow on his somber, dignified face. His expression betrayed a deep contemplation, as though his thoughts were a labyrinth from which he had no escape.
A sudden ray of light broke through the branches, brushing softly against his face and pulling him back to the present. A faint smile curved his lips, and with practiced grace, he retrieved a quill and a scroll from his satchel. He unfolded the scroll with care, smoothing it out on his lap, and began to write.
At first, Menzine's quill moved leisurely, tracing delicate arcs and lines across the parchment. Each stroke was deliberate, as though every word carried the weight of his measured observation. But as the fight between Annabeth and the bandits intensified, so too did the pace of his writing. His quill raced furiously across the scroll, mirroring the rising chaos of the battlefield.
He never once glanced down at the parchment, his gaze fixed unerringly on the skirmish before him. It was as if the words appeared of their own accord, flowing effortlessly from his quill. One might almost believe he possessed an extra pair of eyes hidden beneath his chin, allowing him to capture every detail without distraction.
Menzine's face remained impassive throughout, a flawless mask of composure. Neither triumph nor concern flickered in his eyes, no matter which side seemed to gain the upper hand. His expression was a study in neutrality—a perfect poker face unshaken by the ebb and flow of the violent confrontation.
When Annabeth's battle reached its climax, Menzine's quill slowed, sketching out the final phrases with deliberate precision. The fight and his writing seemed to end in perfect synchrony, as though his words dictated the outcome. With a satisfied nod, he rolled the scroll tightly, secured it with a band, and stowed it safely in his satchel.
Rising from the bench, Menzine walked towards the battlefield with measured steps. His pace was unhurried until his sharp eyes caught the glint of metal—a sword in the hands of the towering bandit who stood over Annabeth's unconscious body.
In a heartbeat, Menzine crossed the distance. He plucked a blade from the chest of a fallen bandit and intercepted the downward swing meant to claim Annabeth's life. The clash of steel echoed through the clearing as his sword held firm against the metal bandit's strike.
Menzine's face betrayed neither anger nor panic. He harbored no rage over the brutal beating Annabeth had endured. He understood that this trial, painful as it was, was essential to her growth. She had spent nine years sparring with wooden dummies—harmless constructs that never retaliated, never tested her endurance or resolve. This fight, as brutal and unforgiving as it had been, would reveal her weaknesses and forge her into a stronger warrior.
"This will teach her where she falters," Lord Canning had said to Menzine. "Record every moment of the battle. Step in only if her death becomes certain."
Menzine had fulfilled his duties with precision. He had documented every strike, every stumble, every spell cast. And when the moment came to intervene, he had done so without hesitation, saving her life before it slipped beyond reach.
His work, however, was not yet complete. As he locked eyes with the stunned bandit, Menzine recalled his master's final instruction:
"When you are done, eliminate the remaining bandits in the campsite and free the slaves in the marked buildings."
Menzine's expression darkened, and a subtle shift in his posture radiated deadly intent. He approached Ujarak and the healer bandit with a deliberate pace—not hurried, but not idle either. Without breaking stride, he retrieved the sword he had used earlier to save Annabeth.
"Swords are useless against me," Ujarak taunted, his voice dripping with overconfidence. A sinister grin spread across his face.
Menzine didn't respond. Words were wasted on someone so consumed by their own arrogance. His silence, however, only seemed to stoke Ujarak's irritation.
"You and that girl are more alike than you think," Ujarak sneered. "Both arrogant. Both infuriating. And both destined to die by my hands!"
The outburst was met with the same stoic silence. Menzine regarded him as a predator does its prey—without malice, but with unyielding purpose. When had a lion ever argued with a gazelle?
Ujarak raised his sword, preparing for battle, his metal-enhanced body gleaming under the harsh light. The moment his guard shifted into position, Menzine moved.
A blur of motion—so swift it seemed inhuman—brought Menzine within Ujarak's sword range in the blink of an eye. He lowered his stance, readying his blade for an upward strike, but before he could complete the motion, a flash spell erupted in his face.
The healer mage had been lying in wait, timing his attack perfectly. Ujarak seized the opportunity and brought his blade crashing down. The sound of blood splattering confirmed the strike—only it wasn't Menzine who had been injured.
Ujarak staggered back, blood dripping from the stump where his sword arm had been moments before. His eyes widened in disbelief as he tried to comprehend what had happened. The moment he had raised his weapon to strike was the moment he had sealed his fate. Menzine had severed his arm in a single fluid motion.
A scream tore from Ujarak's throat as he fell to his knees, the pain unbearable. But Menzine wasn't finished. He moved with surgical precision, severing Ujarak's legs at the knees before delivering a final, clean slice across his throat. The bandit's screams ceased abruptly as his lifeless body crumpled to the ground.
"Nice sword," Menzine murmured, finally breaking his silence.
The healer mage stood frozen, his mind refusing to accept what his eyes were witnessing. Ujarak—enchanted and nearly invulnerable—had been cut down like paper. And then he saw it.
On Menzine's forehead, where there should have been smooth skin, sat another pair of eyes. Black, glossy, and perfectly round like a spider's. The healer felt his body seize with primal terror, his instincts screaming to run even as he stood rooted to the spot.
Menzine moved again, almost imperceptibly, and the healer mage's world spun. He didn't even register the blade slicing through his neck until his headless body crumpled to the ground.
***
With the leaders eliminated, Menzine began his grim work. He moved through the camp with ruthless efficiency, slaughtering every bandit in sight. Panic swept through the remaining bandits as they realized escape was impossible. The gates had been locked, and the strange rays emanating from the sky-bound object prevented teleportation. What had once been their sanctuary had turned into a death trap, and Menzine was the executioner.
Limbs, blood, and bodies littered the camp as Menzine cut through his enemies. Those who sought refuge in the unmarked buildings met a more gruesome fate. Heavy clouds of acidic gas, summoned by Menzine's magic, filled the enclosed spaces. The gas dissolved flesh slowly, causing agonizing deaths for anyone caught within. Bandits who escaped the buildings stumbled into his waiting blade.
Even the drunk, oblivious to the carnage around them, awoke to searing pain as the acid melted their skin and lungs. The alcohol offered no reprieve from their suffering, and they too succumbed.
A band of bandits attempted a coordinated ambush, attacking Menzine from all sides. But they were swiftly and mercilessly dispatched, their efforts futile against the man whose eerie black eyes seemed to watch in every direction at once.
When the slaughter ended, the campsite was a scene of utter devastation. Pools of blood glistened under the dim light, but not a single drop had sullied Menzine's immaculate black attire. He stepped carefully, leaping over the carnage to avoid staining his garments.
Turning his attention to the marked buildings, Menzine moved with purpose. His master's final instruction echoed in his mind: free the slaves. Whatever darkness had consumed the bandits, Menzine's efficiency ensured it would harm no one else.