The air of the night was as cold as the iron shackling our hands. The leader stood still, his sharp gaze calculating, analyzing options. Behind him, another man leaned heavily against a crumbling wall, blood pooling around his leg. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his face twisted in pain and fear. Our eyes locked for a moment, and I could see it clearly—he was terrified. The leader glanced back at him, his voice cutting through the tension.
- Go, Marius! Ask for help! This creature won't let us leave unless one of us stays behind. In your condition, you'll be no match.
Marius hesitated, his body trembling as if the thought of turning his back on me was unthinkable. I seized the moment, an idea forming in my mind. The blood on the ground, his blood, began to shift. It slithered like a living thing, curling and twisting into letters. His breath hitched as the words took shape: [Oh! Are you, perhaps, afraid?]
He staggered back, his face pale. I smiled, letting the blood writhe and stretch like thorny vines around his legs. The crimson tendrils tightened, slicing into his flesh with dozens of tiny, cruel cuts. He cried out and collapsed to the ground, his fear almost palpable. The leader's body tensed, his hand moving in a practiced motion as he began to chant.
- Raw Spell: [BASH]!
A surge of force exploded outward, splattering the blood across the walls. My smile faltered for a brief moment before returning. The leader's voice was steady and commanding.
- Marius! Run and don't look back. Just go!
This time, Marius obeyed. He crawled, clawing at the wall to pull himself upright, and limped away as fast as his wounded leg would allow. I let him go. It didn't matter. My attention shifted back to the leader. With a flick of my hand, I wrote on the wall in crimson: [You are no fun, you know that?]
The leader's eyes narrowed. He wasn't foolish. He understood the game. As long as Marius bled nearby, I would have an endless resource. By sending him away, he had already cut off one of my advantages. Clever. Experienced. But that wouldn't save him.
I began to blend into the shadows, my form dissolving into the darkness. Tendrils of blood, sharp as thorns, lashed out toward him. He rolled to the side with practiced ease, narrowly avoiding the first volley, but another tendril struck, deflected only by the blade of his spatha. Blood splattered against the walls and floor, painting the battlefield. My next attack came swiftly, a third wave of thorned vines aiming to ensnare him. This time, I commanded the blood on the ground to shape itself into jagged spikes. When he rolled again, he landed right onto the waiting traps.
The spikes tore into his flesh, leaving fresh wounds that bled freely. He groaned, but his resolve didn't waver. The blood dripping from his body became my weapon, creeping toward him like a living entity. I could sense his desperation growing with each moment. He knew his time was running out. Every move he made seemed to tighten the noose, the bleeding only adding to my arsenal.
But he was no ordinary soldier. His discipline and experience showed in every decision. He adjusted, adapting to my tactics with calculated precision. When he realized he couldn't wait for help to arrive, he made his move.
He rushed at me, spatha held firm, a glint of determination in his eyes. I recognized the feint instantly. His aim shifted mid-strike, targeting a non-vital area to mask his true intent. One of my thorned vines grazed his arm but didn't stop his charge. The spatha came at me with deadly precision.
I reacted instantly, using the blood at my feet to create a barrier—not to block the strike, but to obscure his vision. Silent as death, I slid to the side, disappearing behind the veil of crimson. Tendrils launched from all directions, their thorned tips aimed to pierce and shred. He burst through the barrier, shattering it with sheer momentum, only to be met with a storm of strikes. Each tendril cut into him, leaving deep gashes. Blood poured freely now, pooling around him.
He stumbled, gasping in pain as the crimson web tightened. The blood on his body began to crawl, wrapping around him like living chains. He roared, a sound of defiance and desperation, and pushed forward with one final, reckless charge. He was aiming for my head, hoping to end this with a single decisive blow.
Predictable.
As he closed in, I let him come. His spatha struck true, but the blood around my feet propelled me backward, just out of reach. His blade tore through a thin layer of flesh, but it wasn't enough. My counterattack came swift and brutal. Tendrils erupted from every direction, piercing his arms, legs, and torso. Blood sprayed into the air, and he fell to his knees, his weapon clattering to the ground.
I stepped closer, my knife in hand. With one precise motion, I slashed across his neck. The blade bit deep, and a torrent of blood spilled forth, painting the ground like a slaughterhouse. He clutched at his throat, choking on his own lifeblood. The only sounds were the muffled gurgles of his final moments and the stillness of the night.
Then, a sudden chime broke the silence.
[Bing! Would you like to absorb the blood of your enemy?]
I let out a low chuckle, a smug grin spreading across my face.
"Ah, who would've thought I'd enjoy this sound one day?"
The night air grew colder, the crimson pools glistening under the pale moonlight. The battlefield was mine, the victory unquestionable. Yet, somewhere in the distance, I could hear the faint echo of footsteps. Reinforcements, perhaps. It didn't matter. Let's leave a work of art for them.
After all, the night was young, and the blood was endless.