The scythe, larger than the man himself, flamed into life with a vibrant, blue glow. Wisps rose from its edges. The wielder drifted with seamless grace, each step as silent as a leaf landing on damp earth. Those eyes, a fierce pair of scorching red embers, stoked fear into my soul, despite my current state. He didn't need to say a word, but his weapon conveyed everything I needed to know.
Would this brute be a match for me?
With a feral roar, I launched myself at him. I bared my fangs, lashing out with raw aggression, aiming for anything I could reach. It didn't matter if it were his throat, limbs, or chest. Anywhere I could sink them in would suffice. But the wretch spiraled out of each assault with unmistakable ease. He evaded my bites and slashes by mere inches, spinning his trusty blade in a well-rehearsed pirouette.
He flashed his scythe in controlled arcs, each swing brimming with sheer force. They barely missed my skin. I could feel its burn, energy so intense that it left the air around it electrified, like lightning cracking the sky. Sparks flew whenever my claws and fangs managed to scrape its glowing edge, but even those fleeting contacts felt like indulging in rioting inferno. Every serve of his scythe forced me back. Every missed cut left me stumbling as I struggled to keep up with his relentless and tireless attack. I was losing ground and blood, but not as fast as losing hope.
A breath barely left my lungs before he lunged forward again, his scythe cutting through the air with such speed that it blurred into a blue arc. His meticulous slashes sliced in without warning, each strike aiming for my death. I raised my claws once more, hoping to block or at least deflect the attack.
I barely felt it at first—a strange numbness as the scythe sliced clean through my right shoulder, severing my arm in a single sweep. I staggered back, my own blood spraying across the cracked granite floor. It accumulated in dark, viscous patches at my feet. My disconnected limb twitched beside me, a grisly reminder of who possessed the upper hand.
Clutching at the scorched, bleeding stump where my arm used to be, relentless suffering skewered through the spot. Rage coursed within me, but my vision rebelled, summoning a shuddering haze. The thirst for retaliation quelled the throbbing cut. At that instant, I pounced to tear him apart. I wanted to sink my newfound talons into his flesh. I wanted him to bleed like lamb after slaughter, helpless as he clutched onto his very last breath.
But an insidious sensation danced into play. It started in my shoulder, spreading through my body like conflagration. I glanced at my side, horrified, as bone solidified and extended, with flesh crawling over it. Within a blink or so, skin knitted itself back together in a nauseating yet relieving display. The process was agonizing, a sensation I could only describe as being devoured from within, but it still comforted me that I hadn't lost a limb. Hope shimmered, and a grin weaved itself onto my red-hot face. I still have an ace up my sleeves against this butcher.
As the pain ebbed, I found my new arm at my side, aching. I gave it a swirl or two, checking for functionality. It felt satisfying, though the rotations did seem a little stiff. I rushed in to exchange another round of strikes, but my body throbbed one last time. Steam climbed into the stagnant sky. I coughed up blood and dropped to my bare knees.
That's when he ceased his dance, too.
As confusion sneaked in, I hesitated. My muscles were aching for revenge as I knelt there gasping. The ground beneath me was stained with my own blood, my right to exact vengeance. Each second passed harder than the one before, my reflex battling with the burden of conscience. I could feel myself unraveling, my body rejecting the monstrous strength that had given me an edge over those who toyed with me, like an insane coroner would do to a corpse.
In one agonizing, humiliating moment, my strength finally abandoned me. I could feel the inner beast retreating. The claws retracted, as did the fangs. My body, too weak to sustain the transformation, forced itself back into my human state, leaving me vulnerable and exposed. Pain wracked me, and the taste of iron filled my mouth as I spewed more blood.
When I finally steadied myself enough to look up, I saw him, watching me with that same unyielding stare. His expression was inscrutable, a mask of detachment. He merely observed the fall of a disposable opponent. I flinched as he took a step closer, too drained to do anything more than stagger back a few inches. My body instinctively recoiled.
But then, to my surprise, he lowered his scythe. The weapon's blue light dimmed as he hooked it across his back, no longer poised to strike. He stopped mere inches from me, his hand hovering over my chest, so close I could feel the faint heat radiating from his skin. It was a strange, almost alien sensation in the midst of all this blood and violence.
"Join us," he said, his voice a low, menacing growl looking back at the entrance, "or join them in hell."
The words struck like a threat, tilting my life at the edge of his damned blade. My instincts urged me to recoil, to spit in his face, but something held me there. My gaze captivated me. His eyes were sharp, sharper than his chin or the crooked fang protruding down his lips. Memories surfaced unbidden—dark and twisted—of those who had abandoned me. Those leaving me to rot.
And now here was this stranger. This killer, an unknown face bestrewn with a criss-cross of scars, offered me the same fate cloaked in different words of that accursed Nycro.
A bitter laugh spurred in my throat, and I forced myself to meet his stare, my voice rasping with resentment.
"You think I'm some fool? Like I'll just buy the same lie twice?"
The man's gaze softened, just barely, as if something painful flickered within those eyes ablaze.
"They did the same to me," he murmured, his voice softer now, nearly swallowed by the stillborn silence. "To us."
The words sunk into my mind like stones in a well. I felt the edges of something familiar, something unspoken, as his words stirred echoes of memories I had buried. He knew this pain, this feeling of being discarded. I wanted to reject his words outright, but a part of me—a small, fragile shard—resonated with the need to believe him. Also, it would've been impractical to revolt. I wouldn't last a second against him.
"Explain," I snarled, fighting to hold myself still, refusing to show weakness in front of him. My vision swam with exhaustion. My limbs trembled, but I forced myself to stand tall and defiant.
The man glanced around, his gaze darting to the distant entrance where the faint sounds of footsteps echoed. His body tensed. "This isn't the place to discuss," he muttered, casting a wary glance over his shoulder. The distant clamor of reinforcements grew louder, a low rumble signaling more guards, more bloodshed waiting just beyond the shadows.
Without another word, he turned to the doors, flung wide open. The reinforcements would soon emerge from the mouth of that demonic prison. He squared his shoulders, his scythe flaring back to life, its blue glow casting long, twisted shadows across the bloodstained ground. "Stay back," he ordered, his voice colder than the wail of a banshee.
I wanted to resist, to insist on answers, but my body sagged under the weight of the battle. The toll of my own regeneration was too great to ignore. I watched him as he swooped into action; his scythe blazed as a swarm of vampire-like entities surged into view. A desire beyond hunger sheltered in their eyes. Their fangs yearning to hook onto tender flesh.
They spawned in waves, but the silver-headed man met them without hesitation. His scythe decimated through them like a scissors cutting through the smoothest silk. Each swing of his weapon was a work of deadly art. Their bodies, sliced in halves, fell one by one, catching flames his scythe delivered. I witnessed the masterpiece he crafted in a daze. Truly, the grace and fury in his movements deserved critical acclaim. All that remained of the massacre were ashes that twirled in the howling wind.
After the wind bid us farewell, silence reclaimed its throne. Only the quiet crackle of his scythe's dying flare stole my attention, just for a trivial moment. He turned to me, unspoken understanding lingering between us. I didn't need to ask if he'd expect me to follow him; he'd already given me a choice.
"That settles it, I guess," he said, his voice almost resigned. As he turned away, a part of me knew that despite everything, I would follow him, like a moth to the flame.