The spirituality latent within Marcellus, hitherto a slumbering giant, stirred within him, and at the behest of his concentrated volition, he summoned the Ranged Barrier—a veil.
Upon its invocation, the air above shimmered as if reality itself were liquefying.
A substance, dark and viscous like the ink of night itself, began to seep from an unseen firmament, cascading downwards. The nascent form of the vail as it assumed its designated shape—a half-sphere, a dome of seven meters in radius, anointed by the dark drip from the heavens, solidifying into a barrier as it encircled them.
The veil, in its materialization, was imperceptible to those whose senses were dulled by mundanity, but it maintained the solidity and resoluteness of ancient bedrock.
It unfurled a majestic expanse of energy, to swathe him in a sanctified space of his own conjuring.
The seven men, while shrouded within the alley's deceitful shadows, found themselves unwittingly ensnared within the purview of Marcellus' preemptive bastion.
Their surreptitious motives, their cloaked aggression—every sinister intention was stifled beneath the sudden imposition of the dome.
The whispers and the presence of the seven assailants—though intended to threaten—provided him with an unintended gift; the perfect opportunity to test the freshly endowed boundaries of his abilities.
His intent solidified into action. He wanted to experience the full measure of his new capabilities; to gauge the depth of his newfound powers without restraint. The veil
As the dome of energy coalesced around him, Marcellus focused on its breadth and resistance, attuned to the nuances of its creation. Could he feel the strain of its manifestation? Was there a tremble in the fabric of the spiritual construct, or did it stand firm and assured under the weight of his will?
He might have unveiled his shield under the guise of defence, but within his heart, it was the exhilarating trial of his evolution.
This was the crucible in which he would forge his understanding of the mystical forces at his command, an imperative step in mastering the arcane dance between his spirit, body, and mind.
In the heart of the sprawling city, Marcellus, a figure in a veil, moved with a silent determination.
The pulse of the night throbbed with an undercurrent of violence, a symphony of impending chaos that only Marcellus could perceive.
The whispers that echoed through the alleyways, lost to the ears of ordinary men, were a cadence to which Marcellus' heart syncopated, a grim ballet about to unfold.
His adversaries, camouflaged within the gloom, like venomous snakes, slithered in the darkness, their malice palpable. Seven against one, they held the advantage of numbers, oblivious to the seismic shift in the balance of power, the unseen force that was about to unravel their plans.
Marcellus' hand moved not towards his sword, but towards the dagger at his waistband, a blade as unfamiliar to him. With a fluid grace that belied the violence to come, he unsheathed the weapon, its metallic whisper a death knell.
The first assailant, driven by desperation, lunged from the shadows, aiming for where Marcellus had stood mere moments ago. But Marcellus was no longer there. He was a shade, a phantom of movement, his senses heightened, his reflexes sharpened by the might of a sword saint.
His dagger found its mark, piercing the underarm of his attacker with an almost serene precision.
A geyser of blood erupted, splattering across his face in a warm, sticky cascade.
The alley became a charnel house, the scent of life's essence mingling with the dampness of the night.
With a grunt of pain, the assailant stumbled, his eyes wide with terror as he realized his predicament.
Marcellus, his movements swift and merciless, seized the opportunity. He twisted the dagger, the blade carving a cruel arc through flesh and bone, severing the man's arm from his body.
A bloodcurdling scream shattered the silence, echoing through the alley, a chilling testament to Marcellus' savagery, but the veil would not let the sound out.
One by one, they came at him, their movements predictable, their intentions transparent to Marcellus' enhanced perception.
Each attack was met with a swift, lethal countermeasure.
A dirk aimed at his heart was deflected by the hilt of his sword, followed by a flash of silver as Marcellus' dagger danced, slicing through his opponent's throat, the blade emerging from the severed jugular, glistening with crimson.
The third attacker, a hulking brute with a face like a butcher's block, charged at Marcellus with a feral roar.
Marcellus met his charge head-on, his dagger poised for the kill. As the brute swung a massive cleaver, Marcellus ducked beneath the blow, his dagger finding its mark in the man's exposed gut.
A gasp escaped the brute's lips as he doubled over, the dagger twisting in his abdomen.
Marcellus kicked the brute's legs from under him, sending him crashing to the ground, a fountain of blood erupting from the gaping wound in his belly.
The fourth, eyes wide with terror, attempted to flee, but Marcellus was relentless.
The blade pierced his lungs and heart, a final, gruesome key unlocking the door of death. The man crumpled to the ground, his body convulsing as life ebbed away.
A hush fell over the alley, broken only by the laboured breathing of the three remaining men.
Their chests heaved, their hearts still pounding in the aftermath of the brutal clash-yet they had not even crossed blades with Marcellus.
Fear gripped their hearts, their eyes wide with terror as they watched the figure of Marcellus emerge from the shadows, his dagger still dripping with blood. The stench of death hung heavy in the air.
Four were down, three were left.
One of the men, his bladder failing him in the face of impending doom, urinated involuntarily, his legs buckling beneath him as he collapsed to the ground.
The other two, their courage waning with each passing moment, launched a desperate attack, their movements a blur of panic and desperation.
Alas, their movements were sluggish, their strikes lacking the power of their fallen comrades.
Marcellus moved with a deadly grace, parrying their blows with effortless precision, his dagger moved like a blur. He was a whirlwind of steel and muscle, a force of death that seemed to exist solely to eliminate his enemies.
One of the men lunged, his knife flashing dangerously close to Marcellus' throat. But Marcellus was too quick, too skilled. With a swift twist of his wrist, he disarmed the attacker, sending the knife clattering to the ground.
The final assailant, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and determination, turned and fled, his legs pumping as he ran for his life.
Thud!
But the veil, an unseen barrier, materialized before him, blocking his escape.
He slammed into it with a bone-jarring thud, his body crumpling to the ground.
He scrambled to his feet, his hands pounding against the invisible barrier, his screams echoing through the alley.
Thud!!!
Marcellus walked towards him, his footsteps slow and deliberate.
The man begged for mercy, his voice a hoarse whisper, his eyes pleading for a sliver of compassion. But Marcellus was unmoved, his heart hardened by betrayals.
I let you go before, and you came back with more people. if an injury is to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.
With a sickening crunch, Marcellus bent the man's neck at an unnatural angle. A gurgle escaped the man's throat, his eyes widening in terror as life slipped away.
Marcellus stood over the lifeless body, his chest heaving a little, his face a mask of cold indifference.
But as he turned to leave, a flicker of doubt crossed his mind. Had he done the right thing? Was it necessary to be so merciless?
Marcellus stood alone, his breathing returning to a steady rhythm, the dagger in his hand an extension of his will.
There was no pride in the aftermath, no sense of victory—these were weak men.
I will have to wash my garments; I am covered with blood.
Since leaving Wisbech this was the first time he had gone all out. it felt exhilarating