Walters face shifted into a sudden alarm, he knew something was VERY very wrong in this moment, it definitely could not be the wind or Barnaby's clumsiness this time, and it wasn't the animals.

  Then suddenly he spotted them in the shadow of the trees.

  Sixteen humanoid figures had stepped into the ring of the firelight in synchronised movement, they were a silent threat.

  He noticed their coordination, the way they had their weapons drawn, the planning. Walter didn’t like where this was going.

  Their swords glinted in the flickering orange glow of the fire.

  Walter glanced at the various swords held up, the daggers that were drawn, and the occasional crossbow or two.

  Each wore leather armor; some wore scarred steel chest plates. They formed a perfect circle around the camp, cutting off every direction of possible escape.

  Walter glanced around warily with alarm and adrenaline, he sensed these were professionals, clearly not the typical low life scum.

  Walter’s eyes drifted; his gaze analyzed what he assumed was the ringleader of the group.

  He stood dead center, staring at Walter with a cold gaze.

  The ringleaders appearance was as unsettling as his cold eyes.

  It was a large man, well over 7 feet tall, his build was stocky, sturdy and firm as if it were a brick wall.

  His hair was nonexistent; all that was visible was tanned skin. The man’s lack of hair reminded Walter of a certain bald hero in an anime he used to watch back on Earth.

  There was a scar across the ringleader’s pale, almost colorless left eye.

  Covering the mans broad shoulders was a brown leather coat that hung open over a mail shirt.

  He wore heavy black gloves. A greatsword rested casually over his right shoulder like it weighed nothing. He didn’t speak yet.

  He smiled, a mocking smile that held no welcome.

  Walters grip on the shovel tightened until the wood creaked.

  Internally Walters mind raced with alarm; There's sixteen, they didn't even stumble in, they were already here. Waiting for us to relax.

  Shit

  Barnaby turned from the stew pot, wooden spoon halfway to his mouth.

  "What in the-"

  The scarred ringleader raised one gloved hand as he stepped forward, his boots snapping twigs with seemingly careless grace.

  “Well, well, well,” he drawled, voice oily and amused. “Why isn’t it a fine evening, aye, travellers?”

  The ringleader stated with a mocking tone.

  Barnaby dropped his spoon. His hand flew to the fire scepter strapped to his belt.

  Ren snarled, claws sliding out.

  Lira shoved Kira behind her, tail lashing. Kira whimpered, cat ears flat, small hands clutching Lira’s coat.

  Walter didnt move.

  He stood still.

  The ringleaders pale eye fixed on the demi-humans.

  "Come now, now need for bloodshed just—" The lead bandit paused for a good few seconds. "Hand over the beasts," he said, “Grayhaven slave market pays triple for the live ones.” His grin widened — a sinister taunt. “Especially the young, soft, trainable ones.”

  His eyes shifted to Walter. "No need for this to get messy."

  Ren spat on the ground. "Go fuck yourselves."

  Barnaby yanked the scepter free. "You lot picked up the wrong camp."

  He thrust the red crystal forward.

  A wild, unsteady burst of flame roared out far stronger than he expected. The scepter let out a loud

  ZOOM

  before hitting two bandits on the left flank. They screamed as fire engulfed them; they dropped, rolling, armor smoking, out cold or maybe worse.

  Ren, on the other hand, did not wait. He lunged forward, both hands thrust out, and to Walter’s surprise, a strange burst of flames erupted from his palms in twin jets of orange.

  One bandit directly ahead caught the full blast square in the chest. His leather jerkin ignited instantly.

  He let out a loud shriek, staggered backward, clawing at himself before collapsing in a burning heap.

  Walter seized the opportunity and lunged. His body moved at speeds no normal human should possess.

  He moved toward a tall, stocky man wearing a hood and wielding a longsword. The bandit tried to react, but

  he wasn’t fast enough.

  Walter swung the shovel; he drove the flat blade straight into the man’s skull.

  CRUNCH

  The bandit let out a muffled gurgle before lifelessly dropping to the ground with no further protest.

  Walter scanned the corpse calmly with mild interest; his gray eyes tracked the final silent twitches as adrenaline surged once more — his kill count now well over two hundred. It was practically guaranteed

  Walter scanned the corpse calmly with mild interest, grey eyes tracking the final silent twitches as adrenaline surged once more—his kill count now well over two hundred it was now practically guaranteed.

  Yet the moment stirred memories of the ancient necromantic grimoire Death had forced upon him as a cheat skill to survive this world, and Walter’s thoughts soured: that smug bastard had dragged him into this twisted tournament against other otherworlders, tasked with slaying the demon lord under threat of reincarnation into a war-ravaged hell if he refused.

  His mind flicked to the black flames first gifted after killing that vicious Wendigo.

  Suddenly multiple distorted, demonic voices slithered through Walter’s head, urging him, convincing him.

  "Raise your hand....say...CINERUS....Raise your hand...say the words...say CINERUS..."

  The voices wouldn’t stop. Walter clasped his ears tightly; his gray eyes bulged. His mind raced with thoughts of slight nervousness and heavy alarm:

  Walter lifted his right hand, palm facing forward and spoke the word.

  "Cinerus." It came out as more of a mutter.

  A jet of black flame lanced out, slamming into two approaching bandits’ chests.

  It caused both to stagger; their eyes rolled back, flesh began blackening and peeling as the madness seeped in and tore through their minds.

  One screamed:

  “Spiders! Spiders!!! They’re crawling all over my fucking skin! Oh lords above, help me! Get them off!”

  The other guy clawed at his face until he collapsed.

  Walter’s face grimaced with slight confusion before realization dawned on him:

  Hallucinations? As well as rotting effect. Very, very, very cruel… but if it keeps me alive, I ain’t gonna judge. The way these flames don’t just kill, but have a hallucinating effect… it’s kinda… cool. In a way. I mean, you can’t really blame me, can you? Having fire abilities and necromantic abilities is kinda cool, isn’t it?

  The newfound brutal ability was far beyond anything he wielded back on Earth. Walter acknowledged that Hugo would have never taken pride in his criminal accomplishments; it was all for the cash and a simple desire to have more meaning in life rather than just existing. He found himself with a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth at the sheer satisfaction of accomplishing something in this new world.

  Ren took notice of Walters creepy smile and side-eyed him with a narrow glare and muttered, "Weirdo."

  Walter replied flatly, "Weirdo? Maybe kid...maybe, atleast im getting the job done."

  Walter snapped back to reality once he noticed a sword that flashed toward his neck.

  He parried with the shovel shaft at immense speed.

  CLANG

  The metal on metal rang and then twisted, as he deflected the second slash.

  CLANG

  With immense speed he spun inside the third bandit’s guard and slammed the shovel’s edge into the man’s temple.

  CRACK

  The body crumbled lifelessly as if it were a sack of grain.

  Barnaby stepped in and fired the scepter again; this time the shot was wild and erratic.

  The flame veered high, catching into the pines behind the circle.

  Dry needles ignited instantly; fire spread fast, crackling upward, turning the treeline into a glowing orange wall.

  "This is getting bad," Walter looked around for a clearing.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Walters eyes narrowed as he realised he might have to risk exposing what he truly was in order to survive.

  Besides, he didn’t intend for the opposition to leave here alive.

  Manifest, he thought internally.

  In a swirl of black smoke, the grimoire manifested, floating in front of him — its skull-hand cover and black leathery material gleaming.

  He tapped the front cover; the book let out a loud groan.

  The surrounding bandits all stepped back in slight fear at the sight of this.

  Barnaby's eyes widened in shock.

  Walter thought of the goblins about how they'd be perfect to test out.

  "Awaken now, in decays embrace, walk the earth in my dark grace."

  The chants were not of his own will they came out more instinctually, he simply thought of goblins, he'd need them to cause a much damage as possible toward the bandits and serve as a distraction, he didn't expect them to survive long.

  Four goblins, all decayed and zombified clawed up from a black smoke from the book, their flesh was rotten, their eyes hollow, their jagged teeth was yellow.

  They shrieked and turned toward the nearest bandits.

  Five armed men in hoods and leather armor stood still, wielding swords, trembling with dread.

  Without a single moment of hesitation, the dead threw themselves at the bandits.

  One zombified goblin plunged its dagger into a bandit’s neck, it groaned mindlessly as it attacked.

  “He—…lp…” The final words came out muffled and gurgled. The goblin mindlessly began eating at the man’s face.

  Two other, stockier goblins crawled toward two bandits.

  The first bandit lunged with his sword, attempting to take a goblin’s head off with one cleave.

  “Die, you filthy undead scum.” The bandit’s fear was evident in the tremble of his words.

  SLICE

  The goblin’s head came clean off; it bounced to the floor, face remaining lifeless.

  It would’ve been a marvelous victory had he paid attention to the second goblin.

  It lunged and bit into the man’s throat.

  The other three bandits formed a circle.

  The three remaining goblins were simply too erratic and unpredictable as they lunged, tearing apart hamstrings, faces, throats.

  One poor lad attempted to slice one of the goblins in half.

  He missed.

  SLICE

  Instead, he sliced the throat of a fellow bandit.

  He shrieked, and the goblins retaliated to the horrifying sound. Two of them tackled him and dragged him into a dark clearing in the forest.

  “AHHH they’re… tearing… me… help… John, fucking do something.”

  Walter glanced over at John, the last bandit.

  John ran toward his friend and attempted to slash one of the goblins on his friend.

  The goblin ducked just in time, slashing a bit of its ear. The living corpse didn’t even react to the supposed pain. John, however, did manage to accidentally slice his friend’s stomach open.

  “Ahhhh you…i-i-id-diot.”

  Blood sprayed as the bandit slumped lifelessly.

  On Barnaby’s side, he roared and charged at John the bandit head-on, managed to tackle him to the ground, wrestled the sword free, and cracked the pommel across the man’s jaw.

  CRACK

  The bandit went limp.

  A second bandit came up behind Barnaby with a club raised high.

  CRACK

  The blow was clean.

  Barnaby’s thick body jerked once, eyes rolling back. He dropped to his knees, then face-first into the pine needles, blood already trickling dark from the split at his temples.

  The stew spoon clattered uselessly beside him.

  “BARNABY!” Lira shouted with anger and venom, and she spun on instinct. Her claws flashed — five razor lines of sharp fury raking across the bandit’s face.

  SCRATCH

  They tore through skin and eyelids.

  The bandit howled, staggering back, hands flying to the ruin of his eyes. Blood poured between his fingers in thick streams.

  Lira didn’t hesitate. She planted one foot, pivoted, and drove a hard kick straight into his ribs.

  The bandit flew backward like a ragdoll, crashing into a pine trunk with a wet thud.

  He slid down, gasping, clutching his side.

  Ren darted to Walter’s side in a blur of red and orange fury.

  His claws were fully extended, curved and needle-sharp as he slashed at any bandit who dared step close.

  He aimed for vital points such as the neck or eyes or even wrists.

  The movement was surprisingly calculated for someone of his temper.

  Almost as if he was trained.

  A spearman thrust toward him; Ren twisted mid air his movements fluid, then snapped his leg out in a spinning crescent kick.

  The heel connected to the side of the spearman's jaw.

  The bandit’s head snapped sideways; his neck made a sickening pop. He dropped instantly, spear clattering.

  The spear dropped to the floor.

  CLANK

  Walter looked at Ren in disbelief. Throughout all of his years in his previous life as a man who killed for money, a child killing so ruthlessly seemed to put him off. It just seemed so unnatural that a youth would be this accustomed to bloodshed.

  Internal (Hugo): Well that was odd, couldn't of been luck, I need to keep my eye on that boy, I find it incredibly hard to believe he's just some common slave on the run. It's clear something else is at play.

  Ren didn’t stop. He landed lightly on the balls of his feet, pivoted on one heel, and launched into a low spinning sweep that took another bandit’s legs out from under him. As the man fell, Ren drove an elbow down into his throat — again with that same faint flicker of flame licking along the strike. The bandit choked, clutching his crushed windpipe.

  Ren vaulted over a third bandit’s low slash, used the man’s shoulder as a springboard, flipped backward in mid-air, and landed behind him. Before the bandit could turn, Ren drove both clawed hands into the man’s kidneys — fire flaring briefly along the claws. The bandit screamed and collapsed.

  Walter cracked a shovel into another bandit who swooped in.— CRUNCH — then muttered under his breath, barely audible.

  “Not bad, kid.”

  Ren shot him a quick, feral glance.

  “Shut the fuck up and keep swinging. We aren’t friends. We’re both just trying to survive.”

  Walter smirked a bit, a sense of mischief appearing in his gray eyes as he walked forward beside Ren.

  “You kiss your mommy with that mouth?”

  Ren lunged at Walter this time — a blazing fiery kick laced with flame zipped toward Walter’s head.

  Walter’s gray eyes widened as he managed to dodge just in time, his superhuman senses gifted by Death itself thankfully granting him the ability to evade.

  “Woah there, calm it down, you little shit. I was only kidding.”

  Ren smirked, his sharp teeth glinting. “You’re quick. Didn’t know common laborers could move like that.” Ren’s tone was sardonic — he knew something was wrong with Walter, something horribly wrong.

  Walter responded with an equally sardonic tone. “Let’s be great friends to Barnaby and keep this whole thing hush for now, okay?”

  Ren didn’t take his eyes off the approaching ringleader.

  “Fine. But when this is over, you’re answering some questions.”

  “Quit it, we need to—” Walter was cut off. His whole body moved on instinct, just barely dodging the heavy sword swing from the left.

  The ringleader publicly declared himself once more.

  His massive form moved with lethal, hasty grace.

  The leader pivoted this time, delivering a venomous slash from the right.

  CLANG

  Walter parried.

  The ringleader’s massive form was highlighted, his broad shoulders straining the seams of his brown leather coat, his bald head gleaming with sweat and reflected flame.

  A thick scar ran diagonally over one of his pale, almost colorless eyes.

  His heavy gloves creaked as he shifted his grip on the greatsword — two-handed, the blade longer than most men were tall.

  It rested casually across one shoulder like it weighed nothing.

  “The name’s Vagrius van Vebronte,” he said, his voice calm, almost respectful.

  He raised one of his hands and placed it on his shoulder.

  “I am a former royal guard of the Kingdom of Grayhaven. Now I serve as a member of the Knights of the One True Vessel.”

  Walter raised an eyebrow and responded awkwardly and flat with an annoyed look.

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  Vagrius tilted his head, the firelight catching the deep scar over his pale eye, making it gleam a bit.

  He studied Walter with a slight sense of apprehension and curiosity as if he were puzzling.

  “You genuinely do not know? Like at all?” His voice was low and edged with confusion. “Have you been living under a rock?”

  He shook his head and sighed.

  His grip on the greatsword turned casual, almost lazy. Walter, however, did not falter. Walter analyzed the way the man’s feet shifted, the way his demeanor — although seeming lazy and cocky — was nothing to be trifled with or underestimated.

  Vagrius let out a short coughing laugh.

  “The Knights of the One True Vessel,” he said, slowing down his tone of voice as if he were explaining something obvious to a child.

  “Weeeeee…” He dragged the word out. “Are the true liberators of humanity.”

  He looked up for a bit as if in deep thought, his milky pale eyes gleaming slightly before returning to gaze at Walter with that same mocking look in his eyes. “We’re demi-human executors. However, I’d prefer the term ‘liberators,’ but your opinion is invalidated in the face of us at the end of the day.”

  He continued his religious rant. “The Goddess and Deities made man in Their image. We are pure, untainted, divine. Those filthy demi-humans?” His tone was now sour and hateful. “They’re filthy mongrel spawn. Beast-kin? Elves? Those are all filthy pale imitations of humanity, and I haven’t even named the surface of the races of this world. It’s the job of the Knights of the One True Vessel to cleanse them and enslave the useful ones.” His voice was raised in a tone that emanated confidence. He then put his right gloved hand to his chest, the palm tightly clenched in a symbolic manner.

  Walter stared at Vagrius with a slight sense of disgust evident in his eyes.

  “So you’re all just a bunch of extremists?” he replied. Walter himself was disgusted. Despite the countless murders and contract killings he had committed in his previous life, he was by no means a discriminator.

  “That’s so pathetic,” Walter scoffed and grinned at Vagrius with the same mocking taunt. “You kill, capture, enslave, rob, steal — all in the name of proving you’re a superior race?”

  Walter shook his head, disappointed. “What a sad little man you truly are.” Walter scoffed, his smirk plastered to his face. “Calling you a man would be a stretch.”

  Walter crossed his arms, his silver hair flicking a bit.

  “You’re a disappointment to the very deities you believe in.”

  Ren, ears twitching in irritation, finally chimed in with a sharp growl. “Keep talking, bald scarface. Last I checked, your ‘pure’ humans bleed just as red when I rip your throat out. Maybe the Goddess forgot to mention that part.”

  Vagrius planted his greatsword point-first into the dirt with a heavy thud, leaning on the hilt as he fixed his pale, scarred eye on Walter and the three demi-humans.

  “Enough of these fucking games,” Vagrius declared, voice low and final. “I am Vagrius van Vebronte, a Knight of the One True Vessel. By the Goddess’s divine order, I sentence you all to be cleansed and judged.”

  He straightened.

  His pale, scarred eye flicked downward — not to the fallen greatsword, but to the inside of his tattered brown leather coat.

  One gloved hand moved slowly, almost reverently, slipping beneath the open front.

  Fingers closed around something long and wrapped.

  He paused.

  The clearing seemed to quiet — even the crackling flames and distant screams of burning men grew distant, muffled, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

  Vagrius exhaled once — a long, steady breath that fogged briefly in the chill night air.

  Then he drew it free.

  The black oilcloth wrapping came away in slow, peeling strips, falling to the ground like shed skin. What emerged beneath was no ordinary blade.

  It was a longsword — longer than most men were tall — forged from metal so dark it seemed to swallow the firelight rather than reflect it. A single, sickly crimson vein ran the length of the fuller, pulsing faintly, like an artery beneath thin skin. Runes etched along the blade’s edges glowed dull red, flickering in time with the vein’s heartbeat. The hilt was wrapped in blackened bone; the pommel was a carved skull — eyeless sockets staring blankly, jaw locked in a perpetual silent scream.

  The air around the sword grew colder.

  The nearest flames bent toward it — drawn in, dimmed, as if the blade was drinking the warmth itself.

  Vagrius lifted it one-handed.

  The crimson vein brightened instantly — throbbing faster, hungrier.

  Walter’s gray eyes narrowed;

  Vagrius tilted the blade so the glowing vein caught the firelight. The red pulse quickened, as if tasting the blood already spilled across the ground — as if it could smell it.

  “This,” he said, voice low and almost reverent, “is Vitae Mors the Life-steal blade. A relic from the First Cleansing. Forged in the blood of demi-human kings. Every cut it makes… drinks. From the victim. From the wielder. From the world itself. It feeds. And it gives back.”

  He turned the sword slowly, letting the crimson light play across his scarred face.

  “One swing,” he continued, eyes locked on Walter, “and I take your strength. Your speed. Your life. And I add it to mine.”

  The blade hummed — a low, hungry note that vibrated through the bones of everyone in the clearing.

  Vagrius raised Vitae Mors high — the crimson vein blazing like a living artery.

  “And you, silver-hair,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried over the crackling flames, “will be the first to feed it.”

  The sword began its descent — slow at first, then accelerating, aimed straight for Walter’s heart.

  The night held its breath.

  And the relic sang — a low, insatiable hum that promised to drink until nothing was left.

  Walter circled Vagrius, his eyes never leaving him.

  "You talk a lot about cleansing and ohh those, disgusting beasts." Walter dragged the word He contined.

  "And yet the closest thing to a beast I see at this moment..." Walter paused. "Is you."

  Vagrius colourfully pale eyes narrowed to a slit.

  For a moment the mocking smile he showed vanished.

  Then Vagrius’s scarred face twisted — rage flashing across it like lightning has struck

  “Me?” he snarled, the calm facade shattering. “You're calling me all people a beast? Comparing the me? You're foolish, so blind,naive and misguided.”

  He ripped Vitae Mors from its sheath in one violent motion. The crimson vein blazed bright enough to cast red shadows across the clearing.

  "I will show you judgement." Vagriuses tone became more and more unhinged. His breathe getting more and more intense.

  "When i'm done with you and the fox boy, i'll make you watch as I Drain the life from your corpse." Vagrius shouted at the top of his lungs.

  He charged the blade pointed at Walter.

  Rens claws slided out, he ran forward at haste speed.

  Walter stood still, the shovel in hand, his eyes scanning the surroundings for anything to use to his advantage.