The jagged peaks of Stonereach Mountain loomed high above and their rocky outcrops treacherous and unforgiving.
The wind howled, whipping through the narrow passages, carrying with it the sounds of pursuit—boots pounding against the stone, grunts of exertion, and the guttural cries of young warriors' intent on the hunt.
Sergei's breath came in sharp gasps as he pushed himself harder whilst his muscles straining with every step.
His body, which was honed by years of training, moved with precision, his feet finding purchase on even the most precarious of rocks.
The youth of the Skypeak tribe were strong, years of medicinal baths, wild beast essence, and relentless training had given them bodies like steel. But so was Sergei.
Behind him, the twenty youths surged forward like a pack of wolves, their shouts bouncing through the mountain.
"Don't let him get away!" one of them yelled, his voice laced with excitement.
Another laughed, the sound wild and mocking. "He's fast, but not faster than all of us!"
Their voices mixed with the thunderous beat of their boots, creating a situation that sent adrenaline surging through Sergei's veins.
He rounded a corner, his sharp eyes scanning for an escape route, but the narrow path ended abruptly in a steep incline.
Before he could double back, ten of the pursuers emerged from the crags, their faces seemed to suggest that they succeeded.
"There's nowhere to run, Sergei!" one of them taunted, cracking his knuckles.
The others spread out, forming a loose semi-circle, their movements coordinated and practiced. "You think you can keep showing off and we'll just let it slide?" another sneered.
Sergei's eyes darted between them, his mind racing. He clenched his fists, the tension in his shoulders betraying no fear but pure focus.
"If you think numbers are all it takes to win, you've already lost," he said calmly, his voice cutting through their jeers.
The first youth moved his punch fast and heavy, but Sergei sidestepped with natural grace.
His counterstrike was precise, his knuckles driving into the attacker's ribs, sending him stumbling back.
The others rushed in, their bodies seemed to blur, but Sergei's technique was impeccable. He maneuvered through their strikes, each movement deliberate.
His fists and feet struck with calculated force, aiming for weak points—knees, ribs, shoulders. One by one, they fell back, groaning in pain.
But it wasn't without cost.
A wild punch caught Sergei's side, the impact jolting through his body.
Another youth managed to land a kick on his thigh, momentarily staggering him. Blood dripped from a cut on his brow, stinging his eye, but Sergei didn't falter.
With a final, powerful kick, he sent the last of the attackers sprawling to the ground.
At this moment the rocky ground around him was littered with groaning bodies, and Sergei stood in the center, his chest heaving. Pain radiated from his injuries, but his resolve burned brighter.
…
It had started just days before, after the festival.
The air in the village was still vibrant with lingering excitement, but tensions brewed beneath the surface.
Vladimir had been watching Sergei closely, his jealousy of the growing bond between Sergei and Ilya turning into something darker.
Despite subtle warnings and cold glares, Sergei continued to spend time with her, brushing off the threats as if they were nothing.
That evening, Sergei had been sitting near the edge of the village, minding his business, when Vladimir's men approached.
Their footsteps were heavy, and their intentions were clear in their sneers.
The leader of the group, a burly youth named Karel, crossed his arms and stared down at Sergei.
"You're really something, aren't you?" he said, his tone laced with sarcasm.
"First, you take the spotlight at the festival, and now you think you can ignore Vladimir's warnings."
'This again…' he thought.
Sergei glanced up at them, his expression was calm but sharp.
"If you've got something to say, say it. I'm not in the mood for games."
Karel's smirk widened. "Games? No, Sergei. This is a final warning. Vladimir doesn't want you anywhere near Ilya. You'd be smart to listen."
Sergei stood, slipping his knife into its sheath. His gaze was steady as he looked at Karel and the others.
"Ilya chooses who she spends her time with. If Vladimir has a problem, he can kindly go fuck himself."
One of the other boys laughed, a cruel sound that echoed in the stillness. "Bold words, Sergei. But we'll see how bold you are after this. Fool!"
The group lunged at him, their movements swift and aggressive.
Sergei dodged the first punch, his reflexes sharp, and countered with a quick strike to Karel's horse face.
The fight was chaotic, the group tried to overwhelm him with sheer numbers.
Sergei's fists and feet moved like lightning, each strike precise, but it was clear they weren't there to defeat him—just to wear him down.
…
Sergei staggered, his injuries slowing him down. The remaining youths pursued relentlessly, their laughter cruel.
"Look at him, struggling already!" one shouted. "He's not so tough now!"
The narrow path led to Eagle's Flight Ridge, a cliff notorious among the tribe. Its edges crumbled underfoot, the drop sheer and deadly.
Below, a river roared, its surface hidden by a blanket of mist. Many had fallen here, their bodies lost to the unimaginable depths.
Sergei reached the edge, his chest burning. Vladimir and his henchmen emerged from the path, their smug expressions filling Sergei with a mix of anger and resolve.
"You've run out of road," Vladimir said, stepping forward.
"You should've stayed in your place, Sergei. Now look at you—bleeding, broken, and cornered."
Sergei wiped the blood from his brow, his gaze unyielding.
"If you think this is the end, you don't know me at all."
Vladimir smirked, his confidence unshaken.
"It's over. Accept it. Or would you prefer I give the signal for my men to finish you off?"
The henchmen chuckled, one of them saying, "You should've seen yourself running, Sergei. Like a scared animal."
"Yeah, there's a door to heaven yet you do not take it. There's a door to hell and you break in." Another one said sticking his tongue out.
"Vladimir was right," another chimed in. "You're just a shadow. A big, bleeding shadow."
Sergei glanced back at the cliff, the swirling mist below obscuring the river. The drop was deadly, but his resolve didn't waver.
He turned to Vladimir, his voice calm but firm.
"You think this is over? You think you've won? Let me tell you something, Vladimir. Strength isn't about how many people you have behind you. It's about how far you're willing to go."
Vladimir sneered. "Words won't save you now."
Sergei took a deep breath, his gaze resolute.
"No. But actions will."
Without another word, he turned and leapt off the cliff, his body swallowed by the mist. The roar of the river grew louder, and moments later, a loud splash echoed through the valley.
The henchmen stared in stunned silence, their faces pale. One finally broke the quiet.
"He... he actually jumped."
Vladimir's expression twisted into a mix of disbelief and satisfaction. "Good. Saves us the trouble of finishing him off."
Another henchman grinned nervously. "There's no way he survived that fall. No one could."
Vladimir turned, his confidence returning. "Let the tribe think whatever they want. Sergei's gone, and that's all that matters."
"Who will question it? He was desperate, running like a coward. It's believable."
One of the youths nodded eagerly. "And with Sergei gone, you'll finally get the recognition you deserve, Vladimir."
Vladimir chuckled, a hint of satisfaction in his voice.
"He was a thorn in my side for too long. Now, the path is clear."
As they turned to leave, the question pans down into the mist, where the river rushes violently.
There, Sergei's body is caught in the current, unmoving but still clinging to life. Whether he survives or not, well that is the question.