Zatiel crouched in the shadow of a thick oak, his gaze fixed on the bandit camp. It had been two full days since he'd slipped the Fighter Doom poison into their water supply, and by now every man, woman, and child in that camp should have been carrying its silent death in their veins.
The camp's layout had changed since his last observation. The number of lookouts had doubled, and the patrols seemed more frequent. He didn't need to guess why—two of their men had vanished without a trace, and even dull-witted bandits could connect the dots.
But none of it mattered. The trap had already been sprung.
As night descended, the swamp's air grew heavy with mist, muffling sound and blurring shapes. It was the perfect time to strike. Zatiel moved like a phantom from tree to tree, his steps silent, his breathing controlled. The first lookout never saw him—one precise blow to the neck and the man sagged into unconsciousness. The second barely registered movement before his world went black. Within minutes, the outer watch was gone.
"Now," Zatiel murmured under his breath, "let the real show begin."
He drew a sword from his waist—a curved, slightly nicked weapon taken from the first bandits he'd slain in this swamp. The weight felt good in his hand.
A hundred men or not, his expression betrayed neither fear nor hesitation—only a predatory excitement. His longest life had been as a demon, and in the Abyss, battle was more than survival; it was instinct, art, and blood-soaked joy. Fighting was as natural to him as breathing.
He broke from cover and charged toward the camp's entrance. His enhanced body moved with startling speed—nearly three points in physique, two in agility—and he ate the distance in long, powerful strides, covering almost a hundred meters in ten seconds.
"Enemy!"
"Stop him!"
Two guards at the gate scrambled into position. One was already lunging at his head, the other sweeping low toward his waist.
Zatiel leaned his head just enough for the first blade to whistle past his ear, then brought his own sword down to deflect the second. Using the momentum, he slammed his free fist into the first guard's chest. Bone cracked audibly as the man flew backward, landing in a heap.
The second barely had time to recover before Zatiel's boot crashed into his face, lifting him off the ground and sending him sprawling.
He didn't pause to finish them—he was already inside, the camp erupting into shouts as the bandits realized the attack was underway.
Steel flashed under the moonlight. Zatiel moved through them like a predator through panicked prey, cutting down anyone who stood in his path. Some he crippled with a sweep of the leg or a crushing punch, others he maimed with slashes aimed at tendons and joints.
Then, right on cue, the poison began to sing.
Men who had been rushing him moments ago suddenly staggered, clutching their chests. Others collapsed outright, their limbs twitching as their heartbeats turned erratic. Fighter Doom was subtle—it had no taste or smell—and it didn't kill instantly. But the moment its victims experienced a spike in blood flow, such as during combat, the toxin began constricting vessels and overloading the heart.
Within moments, confusion spread like wildfire. Bandits fell where they stood, choking, gasping, or too dizzy to stand.
That was when Zatiel felt it—a shift in the air, heavy and dangerous.
His instincts screamed a warning. He stepped back, sword raised just in time to meet a crushing overhead strike. The impact rang through his bones, forcing him back a step before he steadied himself.
The man standing before him was nearly two meters tall, broad as a wall, his scarred, square face set in a murderous scowl. Steel plates covered him from neck to toe, the full armor glinting dully in the campfires.
"So," the man said, voice like gravel, "you're the bastard who thinks he can waltz into my camp and butcher my men."
"You could say that." Zatiel's eyes narrowed slightly. "And you are?" He ordered the A.I. Chip to scan him even as they spoke.
"Name's Captain Robert. Remember it when you meet the devil in hell."
The irony made Zatiel's lips twitch in amusement. A demon being sent to hell—what a quaint mortal notion.
"Die, you little shit!"
The Captain lunged, his heavy sword whistling toward Zatiel's skull.
Zatiel slid aside by mere centimeters. The blade smashed into the earth, sending dirt and shards of stone flying.
Robert roared and came at him again, striking from every angle. But no matter how the steel came at him—high, low, straight, or diagonal—Zatiel twisted or stepped away, letting the edge pass harmlessly by.
For over ten minutes they clashed, Robert attacking with brute force and unrelenting speed for a man his size, Zatiel countering with fluid economy, conserving his strength, and answering with quick slashes to exposed joints or seams in the armor. Thin lines of blood began to mar Robert's forearms, thighs, and shoulders.
"You coward!" the Captain bellowed between swings. "Stand and fight like a man!"
Zatiel gave no answer. Rage was useful—it made men predictable. And Robert was boiling over.
Finally, Robert swung too low, his blade biting deep into the ground and sticking for a fraction of a second. It was enough.
Zatiel's arm snapped forward, his sword a flash of silver aimed straight for the man's neck.
Instinct saved Robert—he jerked his head aside just enough to avoid decapitation. The edge sliced across the side of his neck instead, opening flesh in a deep, bleeding gash.
Robert staggered back, hand clamping over the wound. His glare was venomous. "That… that won't kill me—"
"No," Zatiel interrupted calmly, lowering his blade, "but the poison will."
Understanding hit Robert like a hammer. "You… you coated your blade. You dishonorable—"
"If you handicap yourself because of pride, you deserve whatever death finds you," Zatiel said flatly. "Honor won't save you when your enemy is smarter than you."
Robert's mouth opened to retort, but no sound came out. His eyes went glassy, his knees buckled, and he crumpled to the dirt, still clutching his neck.
Zatiel didn't waste another glance. The fight was over.
He stalked deeper into the camp, the groans of poisoned men fading into the background. That was when he found it—a crude pit near the rear, half-covered by a stained tarp.
He pulled it aside, and the stench hit him. A mass grave. Bodies of all ages and races, some little more than bones, others still fresh enough to glisten in the moonlight.
He was about to turn away when his gaze caught something—a flicker of movement. Life.
Zatiel dropped into the pit, boots landing beside a small, emaciated figure. The boy couldn't have been older than ten. One arm ended in a jagged stump, his left eye was an empty socket, and his skin was pale from blood loss. His breathing was shallow, ragged.
Zatiel lifted him easily with one arm. The boy's head lolled against his chest, his faint pulse fluttering like a dying flame.
"So," Zatiel murmured to himself, studying the child's battered face, "what am I going to do with you?"