Twelve hours had crawled by, and boredom gnawed at Silas like an itch he couldn't scratch. The crowd of watchers had thickened at the edges of the clearing, their eyes glued to the glowing flower as though sheer willpower might make it bloom early. Every so often, beasts ventured into the clearing, drawn by the flower's pull. For some reason, though, they seemed to target him instead of Aberham.
Silas didn't hesitate, dispatching each creature with ruthless efficiency. Most were small, weak predators emboldened by desperation, and each time he ended their lives, he left the corpses where they fell. A grim deterrent, he hoped. The pile of bodies was starting to stack up, and while it deterred some beasts, others seemed only more determined to challenge the king beasts' slayers.
From his perch, Silas noted the increasing desolation around the flower. The edges of the clearing had started to shift—the grass wilted, the trees sagged, and the air seemed heavier, almost suffocating. He frowned, brushing dirt off his hands as he crouched behind cover.
"The flower must be doing this," he muttered under his breath, uneasy with the realization.
After another long stretch of silence, Silas spoke up, his voice low but carrying through the stillness. "So… where you from? Before all this?"
Aberham didn't even look over, his deep voice calm and conversational, as if they were sitting on a park bench instead of a battlefield. "Prison."
Silas blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of the response. Well, that was honest.
Aberham smiled faintly, his tone unhurried. "Took a fall for my younger brother. He got himself into some trouble, and I figured I'd help him out. Big mistake. Ended up in a fight. Hurt some people who wanted to hurt me. Next thing I know, I'm being transferred to a high-security facility. Van broke down, and now I'm here."
Silas raised an eyebrow, his mind racing. Did this guy just casually admit to being a killer? Or was it self-defense? Either way, not great. But he recognized something in Aberham's tone—a weariness, maybe, or just a resignation to the truth.
"I see," Silas said after a pause, his words carefully neutral.
Aberham tilted his head, his dark eyes finally meeting Silas's. "And you?"
Silas hesitated, his grip tightening slightly on the staff resting across his lap. He could lie, but something about Aberham's straightforwardness made him feel like he owed the man the same.
"My family's one of the richest and most powerful in the world," Silas said quietly, his voice tinged with something between bitterness and pride. "I was in a car accident when I was younger. Left me completely paralyzed, but I was still… aware. My mom fought to keep me alive. My dad? Not so much. He wanted to pull the plug."
Silas paused, swallowing hard before continuing. "The system… healed me." The words felt strange coming out, almost too personal, but there was a small relief in finally saying it aloud.
Aberham blinked, then started laughing—a deep, booming sound that was both genuine and startling. "Either we're both full of shit," he said between chuckles, "or we're both telling the truth."
Silas allowed a faint grin to touch his lips. "Guess we'll find out."
The flower pulsed faintly in the distance, its glow cutting through the desolation, and the two returned to their silent vigil. Around them, the world waited
Hours later Silas stood in front of the flower, leaning casually on his staff as his sharp eyes tracked movement in the treeline. The tension in the air was thick, but he didn't feel it the same way. Guard duty, with all its waiting, was dull enough to make him miss the adrenaline of battle. He sighed.
Aberham, a few feet away, leaned on his sledgehammer, relaxed as always. The man's calm energy was almost infectious, but the stillness shattered as five men emerged from the forest, all carrying machetes. Their walk had the cocky, dangerous confidence of people who lived by taking from others. At the front was a massive man carrying an machete over his shoulder, his broad frame nearly Aberham's size. The others, though smaller, were just as rough: tattooed, scarred, and mean-looking.
Aberham straightened, his casual stance unchanged, but his tone turned sharp. "Those guys? They were in the transport van with me. Prison transfer to max security. Don't let their looks fool you—they're worse than they seem."
Silas eyed the group, then smirked faintly. "I don't know. They kind of look like biker gang rejects who got kicked out for being too cliché."
Aberham turned, giving him a baffled look. "What?"
Silas shrugged, chuckling. "Think about it. Big guy with the machete? Straight out of a bad action movie. Two guys with matching tattoos? Henchmen 101. And the short ones? They're practically cosplaying as 'unnamed thug number three.' They don't even have bikes, Aberham."
Aberham blinked, then started laughing, his deep chuckle breaking the tension for a moment. "You're insane."
Silas grinned, leaning slightly on his staff. "Hey, when you've spent two years paralyzed, lying in bed, in constant pain, you learn to find the upside in everything. This? This is practically a comedy routine."
Aberham wiped a tear from his eye, shaking his head. "You're something else, Creed. Alright, let's see if they're here for the punchline or the punch."
The two men squared up as the group of thugs approached, their leader's eyes narrowing as he sized them up. Silas twirled his staff once, rolling his shoulders. "I'm guessing it's the punch."
Aberham chuckled again, tightening his grip on the sledgehammer. "My money's on that too."
Silas and Aberham chuckled softly, their eyes flicking back to the glowing flower. Its eerie light pulsed faintly, a reminder of the prize at stake. Two hours left.
The sound of footsteps broke the stillness. Silas tilted his head toward Aberham. "Mind if I do the talking?"
Aberham, already gripping his sledgehammer like it was an extension of his arm, raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
Silas smirked. "I have an idea."
"Ho ho ho!" boomed the man at the front of the approaching group. His voice was deep and confident as he sauntered into the clearing. "Look who finally showed up—Aberham, my boy."
The leader ignored Silas completely, his dismissive attitude palpable as he focused on Aberham. But just as the man opened his mouth to say more, Silas stepped forward.
"Excuse me," Silas said loudly, cutting in. "May I know who you are? My name's Silas. What may yours be?"
The leader froze mid-step, his brow furrowing as he turned to glare at Silas. "Shut the fuck up, kid. Nobody's talking to you."
Silas tilted his head slightly, a sly smile creeping onto his face. "Wow. This is so cliché," he said, his voice carrying just enough mockery to make the man's eyes narrow. "But you know what's not cliché? Me kicking your ass." He let the words hang in the air for a beat before gesturing between himself and Aberham. "I see none of you have rings of holding, while Aberham and I both do."
The man blinked, his frown deepening. "So?"
"So that means you didn't get into a mini pagoda," Silas said, as if the answer were obvious.
"Fuck you, kid. What's that got to do with anything?" the leader snapped, his frustration bubbling over.
"Lots of complicated things you wouldn't understand," Silas replied with a shrug. "But I believe you're all here for the thing behind us, correct?"
The leader's expression darkened, but he said nothing, the question clearly rhetorical. One of the men behind him—a wiry guy with a scar across his temple—started to step forward, his machete half-drawn. But before he could act, the leader raised a hand, and the man froze. Silas's sharp eyes caught the quick exchange. Interesting.
The leader's control over his group was clear, and the one who had tried to step forward was unusually close to him, almost deferential. The others, meanwhile, stayed back, their postures tense and uncertain. They looked less eager to fight and more wary of what would come next.
"All right, dudes," Silas said, breaking the silence with a cheerful clap. "Here's the thing. This flower? It only has enough for two people. I paid a lot of merits to find that out, and, well, I count five of you."
The leader's eyes narrowed, but he stayed quiet, his jaw working.
Silas pointed at the leader. "So here's my guess. Once you kick me and Aberham's asses to kingdom come, you'll all stand around and watch this guy"—he gestured to the leader—"and his boyfriend over here"—he pointed to the man who had stepped forward and then stopped—"walk away with the spoils."
The leader blinked in surprise, his lips tightening into a thin line. The man next to him stiffened, his body language now defensive as his eyes darted between the others. Meanwhile, the rest of the group exchanged uneasy glances, the air thick with suspicion.
Silas leaned back on his staff, his smirk widening. "Am I wrong?
The leader turned his head to address his group, frustration clear in his voice. "Don't fuck—"
That was the moment Silas had been waiting for.
In a blur of movement, he closed the gap, his enhanced speed breaking mortal limits. The proximity of the two men played perfectly into his hands. With a single fluid swipe of his staff, he struck both their legs in one motion. The force of the blow swept them off their feet, sending them crashing to the ground like collapsing towers.
The leader barely had time to register what was happening before Silas followed up, his movements a seamless flow of efficiency. His staff came down with deadly precision, slamming into the leader's forehead with a sickening crack. The man's eyes rolled back as his body went limp, the last spark of life extinguished.
Aberham was right behind him, moving with practiced brutality. As the second man scrambled to react, Aberham's sledgehammer came down with a thunderous impact, crushing his face and leaving no doubt about the outcome. The second man's body crumpled beside the leader, lifeless.
The air was still for a moment, the brutal efficiency of their actions sending a wave of stunned silence over the clearing. Silas straightened, his staff spinning once in his hands as he prepared for the next move. His breathing was steady, his gaze sharp.
Aberham stood beside him, his sledgehammer resting on his shoulder. He glanced at Silas and gave him a quick, approving nod before turning his attention to the remaining three men, who stood frozen, their grips on their machetes trembling slightly.
"Well," Aberham said, his voice calm but laced with cold warning, "what's the plan now, boys?"
The remaining three men froze for a heartbeat, their eyes darting between the lifeless bodies of their leader and companion. Then, as if on cue, they turned and bolted, their machetes forgotten as they crashed through the underbrush in a desperate bid to escape.
Silas stood still, watching them flee. He could have easily run them down—his enhanced speed would have made it almost effortless—but he didn't see the point. He had more important things to focus on. With a calm breath, he turned his attention back to the flower.
Glancing briefly at the fallen men, Silas noted their lack of rings of holding. Without bothering to search them further, he moved back to the flower's position, his posture relaxed but ready. Aberham silently followed, his sledgehammer resting on his shoulder as he returned to Silas's side.
Finally, Aberham broke the silence. "That was pretty ruthless, kid."
Silas didn't look at him as he replied, his voice steady. "You told me not to trust them. Trusting you, I did what needed to be done."
Aberham blinked at Silas, a moment of surprise flashing across his face. Then he chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You sure did, kid. You sure did."