"There has to be a misunderstanding—" El Ritch began, but his words were cut short.
The boy swung his axe in a wild arc, the blade slicing through the air just inches from El Ritch's face. He ducked to the right, his body twisting instinctively, the soft snow beneath him giving way. His left leg sank deep, the sudden shift in weight throwing him off balance. He stumbled and fell, landing hard against the cold ground.
The boy with the axe wasn't any better off. His right foot plunged into the snow, and he tumbled forward, his face planting into the frost.
By sheer luck, El Ritch scrambled out first, his hands clawing at the snow as he crawled backward. His breaths came in short gasps, visible in the biting cold. His wide eyes remained fixed on the boy, who struggled to rise, fury painting his every move.
This was his second ordeal—his second battle to the death. The beast had nearly torn him apart, and now this. And once again, he faced it alone. No Jol, no witch, no Julian, Aldric, or Adeline.
Just HIM.
His trembling hand reached for his chipped blade, drawing it from its scabbard. The sword felt light, almost brittle, and nowhere near as steadying as he hoped it would be.
[There is no hope in such blade]
El Ritch pointed it forward, his voice trembling as much as his hand.
"Please, we can still talk!"
The boy pushed himself upright, his face a mask of rage and anguish. His hands tightened around the axe handle, blood dripping from his palms as his trembling grip dug splinters into his skin.
"Because of you, my sister is gone!" the boy roared, pointing the axe toward El Ritch. His voice cracked under the weight of his grief, but his malice remained sharp. "You will be the start of my vengeance!"
The boy charged, the snow crunching under his feet.
El Ritch froze for a moment, his body stiff, his heart racing. His training. He had to remember Julian's training. He had to fight, to survive.
His legs moved before his mind caught up. He sidestepped left, his right foot pivoting as the boy closed the distance.
The boy swung his axe in a diagonal arc—a movement smooth, deliberate, and practiced. It came in as the first of his eight movements. El Ritch barely avoided it, his body twisting as the chipped blade parried the axe. The collision reverberated through his arms, nearly disarming him. Ugh.
The boy's left foot moved forward, and the axe swept horizontally toward El Ritch's midsection.
The second movement.
El Ritch ducked, the blade missing his ribs by a hair. He lunged forward with his first movement—a horizontal arc, slashing at the boy's legs.
The boy shifted to his third movement, stepping back with practiced ease to avoid the attack. El Ritch's blade hit nothing but air, his stance overextended. His second movement—pivoting his body to reorient—was too slow.
The boy's axe came down in a vertical strike for his fourth movement, carving a path toward El Ritch's shoulder.
He had to move.
El Ritch used his third movement, retreating a step and raising his blade in a feeble vertical block. The chipped metal barely deflected the axe, and the force drove him back, his boots slipping against the uneven snow.
The boy pressed forward, transitioning into his fifth movement. A diagonal slash aimed at El Ritch's torso.
El Ritch threw himself to the side, his body hitting the snow with a thud. His breath came in ragged bursts as he scrambled to his feet, his sword trembling in his hand.
He tried to reset, but there was no time.
The boy was relentless, flowing into his sixth and seventh movements—a thrust followed by a quick horizontal arc. El Ritch barely dodged the thrust, but the arc nicked his side, cutting through the leather armor.
Pain shot through him, sharp and immediate. He cried out, stumbling back.
I can't do this...
The boy reached his eighth movement, raising his axe for a final vertical strike.
El Ritch's body moved on instinct. He threw himself forward, into the boy's guard. His chipped blade rose in a desperate thrust, aimed at the boy's exposed side.
The axe came down, grazing El Ritch's back as he pushed his blade forward.
The boy screamed, the chipped blade cutting into his flesh. It wasn't deep enough to kill, but it was enough to stagger him.
El Ritch collapsed to his knees, panting, blood dripping from his wounds onto the snow.
The boy clutched his side, his own blood staining his hands. He glared at El Ritch, hatred burning in his eyes. "This isn't over."
El Ritch didn't respond. His mind raced, his body shaking. He had survived, but just barely.
This isn't how I want to die.
The kick drove into his gut like a battering ram. El Ritch's breath left him in a violent rush, his ribs screaming in pain as he crumpled to the ground. His body folded over itself, his face pressed into the cold, unforgiving snow.
"You're dead."
The boy's snarl was venomous, his steps deliberate as he dragged the axe through the snow. The blade hissed against the frost, blood streaking behind it.
I'm dead?
The thought hit El Ritch like a slap.
I'll be killed?
His chest heaved, but the air wouldn't fill his lungs. His vision blurred as the world around him twisted into an unrecognizable haze.
Kill or be killed.
It was an unbearable roar. A pinch in his mind.
Kill or be killed.
The chipped blade was back in his hand. He didn't know how it got there—he didn't even remember picking it up—but his fingers clenched around it with unnatural force.
[KILL OR BE KILLED.]
The boy stood over him, the axe poised for the final blow.
El Ritch moved. He didn't think—didn't hesitate. His body surged forward, his blade plunging into the boy's torso. The chipped metal scraped against bone, the sound grating and sharp.
The boy's scream cut through the forest, but it barely registered in El Ritch's mind.
He pulled the blade to the right, tearing through flesh and ribs with a sickening crack. Blood sprayed across the snow, staining it in wild arcs.
El Ritch wasn't done.
His arm rose and fell, the chipped blade striking again and again. The boy's body twisted under each blow, his screams fading into wet, guttural sounds. The dull blade didn't slice clean—it hacked, mangled, and shredded.
Kill or be killed.
El Ritch's mind was a whirlwind of fear, desperation, and raw survival. His body moved with reckless abandon, driven by the primal instinct to live.
When the pain in his back finally caught up with him, it felt like fire searing through his muscles. The haze lifted, and the world came crashing back in vivid clarity.
El Ritch stared down at the lifeless boy beneath him. The body was unrecognizable, a mass of torn flesh and broken bones. Blood pooled in the snow, thick and dark, its metallic scent filling the frigid air.
The chipped blade slipped from El Ritch's hand, landing with a dull thud in the crimson-stained snow.
His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling violently.
He was alive.
And the boy was dead.
He had killed a man.
The thought drifted in like a whisper, faint and fleeting. It should have been heavier—more profound—but it wasn't. It lingered only for a moment, overshadowed by something more immediate.
He was alive.
That was what mattered.
The chipped blade was there, its dulled edge slick with blood. The chipped blade was still a blade, that was what mattered. Size bigger or smaller of a cat, a cat still had claws and his are as long and as sharp as the boy's, that was all that mattered.
El Ritch's fingers tightened around the hilt and he picked the blade up.
But a thought crept into the edges of his mind, unbidden and unwelcome.
What is a Hunter?
A Hunter hunts beasts, doesn't it? Protects the people from monsters lurking in the wild. But what was El Ritch doing here, surrounded by blood and snow, standing over the mangled body of a boy?
The answers wouldn't come.
He didn't even know what he felt. Anger? Sadness? Shame? None of it fit. The emotions churned within him, tangled and messy, like a knot he couldn't untie.
All that he knew was that the boy was dead, and he wasn't.
The rest could wait.
El Ritch turned away from the corpse. The sight of it didn't bother him—at least, not yet. His feet moved, trudging through the snow. But his body betrayed him.
His legs buckled, and he crumpled to the ground. The snow rose up to meet him, cold and soft.
The chipped blade slipped from his hand, landing beside him.
As the world darkened, the last thing he saw was the crimson-stained snow, the stark contrast of red and white fading into black.
And then, there was nothing.
[Struggler who has their origin unknown, has escaped me, but I will not let go of him, for I am the last and first promise everyone shall fulfill.]