The captain stood still.
Eyes fixed on the boy—
No. Not a boy. Not anymore.
Draven, blood-soaked and silent, stood in the center of broken bodies. Dagger in one hand, stolen sword in the other. Red eyes like cold coals. Waiting.
The captain's grip tightened on the hilt of his blade.
Not a single burst of mana.
Nothing.
Yet he'd just watched four trained knights die in under ten seconds.
And not by luck.
> He didn't use mana, the captain thought, jaw tense. Not once. Not to strengthen his strikes or evade. Even when he killed them.
Just raw physical aptitude. Precision. Efficiency. Like he'd done it a thousand times before.
If he's holding back his mana... it means he's stronger than this.
Worse—
He was regenerating.
The captain's gaze narrowed.
> If we let him keep this pace, he'll pick us off. One by one. Break the circle. Collapse the formation. Fear will spread.
Though that might be the case for any other army—but not for us. Not the Black Wing.
He shifted slightly, just enough to signal the other captain with a subtle movement of two fingers.
A silent code between elite hunters.
> Don't wait. Press him. Fast. Together.
He didn't know how strong Draven truly was.
But he knew this:
> A predator that doesn't show its full strength is worse than one that does.
The forest was dead quiet.
The kind of silence that waits for blood.
The corpses of four knights lay scattered in the dirt, still steaming. Draven stood among them—breathing steady. Red eyes watching. Unblinking.
Across the ring, the first captain exhaled slowly through his nose. Fingers flexed on his blade.
He'd seen enough.
> No more hesitation. No more single-file deaths.
He tilted his chin slightly—an unspoken signal.
The second captain, still perched in the trees, gave the barest nod in return.
Time to break formation and crush the anomaly.
The first captain raised two fingers high.
Signal: Engage. All units. Coordinated strike.
The knights responded instantly—movement rippling across the ring like black fire.
No battle cries.
No shouts.
Just motion.
Boots hit the ground in unison.
Steel cleared sheaths with a whisper.
Shields lifted. Swords angled. Spells primed under breath.
> "Formation Echo-7," the captain commanded, low and sharp.
"Do not let him isolate targets. Do not break formation. Cut his exits. Collapse the circle on my mark."
Lines began to tighten.
Twelve knights moved as one—half sprinting low to flank, the other half circling wide with blades drawn and shields locking in rhythm.
They moved with trained precision.
A human wall of armor.
Draven didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Still holding the dagger.
Still holding the sword.
His pupils flicked around, tracking.
Mana began to hum low in the air as the knights channeled their enhancements—strength boosts, reflex triggers, kinetic dampeners.
The captain stepped forward into the clearing, blade leveled. Mana leaked from his body through the eye-slit of his helm, as he locked eyes with the demon in a boy's skin.
Draven stared at him, eyes sharp enough to draw blood.
And then—
> "Strike!" the captain barked.
The forest exploded into motion.
Knights lunged from every angle.
A dozen blades.
A dozen trained killers.
All converging on one target.
He shifted—blades met blades, sparks flew.
No brute force. Just razor-fast precision.
The first knight aimed a slash—Draven sidestepped, dagger flicked out, slashing the wrist, sending sword clattering to the dirt.
The second came low—Draven leapt back, landing silently, then spun, sword stabbing straight to the gap at the knight's side.
Blood blossomed; the knight gasped, dropping.
Another stabbed—a blur. Draven let go of the sword, caught the blade mid-swing with his gloved hand, eyes flashing red beneath the hood.
His voice was low, deadly calm:
> "I gave you a fucking chance."
In one fluid motion, his dagger pierced the neck armor gap.
The knight's body went limp.
Draven twisted, already facing the next attacker.
Steel flashed.
He ducked under a broadsword, stepped inside the arc before it finished its swing, and slammed an elbow into the knight's throat—
The force sent the man hurtling back.
Before the next attacker could react, Draven sidestepped a swing, moved like a shadow—
and appeared beside him.
He seized the knight by the helmet, twisted hard, and dropped him without a sound.
Four down. In seconds.
Still, no mana.
No enchantments.
No glow.
Just violence—delivered with surgeon's precision.
Across the field, the formation shifted.
Armor scraped.
Boots thudded against packed earth.
The ring began to move—not faltering, but evolving.
> The mobile captains had seen enough.
They moved.
Not with the speed of panic—but of decision. Measured. Calculated. Predatory.
And they didn't shout.
Didn't call orders.
They just broke formation—and the formation broke with them.
Like a living thing adjusting to the predator in its heart.
The second captain, still in the tree, dropped from the treeline, landing quietly in a crouch behind Draven.
A roll that barely disturbed the dirt. Twin blades drawn.
The first advanced from the right, slower, methodical, longsword already drawn, eyes locked on Draven.
The air tightened.
Weight shifted.
The rest of the circle widened to give them space.
They closed in, bodies surging with mana.
Draven's eyes flicked—he adjusted his stance.
His breathing was steady. Movements minimal. He turned slightly, tracking both captains without shifting his feet.
The second captain struck.
Blades came in fast — high feint, low cut.
Draven blocked the high strike with his dagger—steel-on-steel, sparks flying—then angled it down, catching the low slash and pushing it aside with surgical precision.
He didn't counter.
Not yet.
He waited—just long enough for the first captain to arrive, longsword sweeping low in a brutal arc meant to sever a leg.
Draven moved.
Not backwards. Forward.
He stepped into the swing—let the blade pass just behind his thigh, grazing cloth but not flesh.
Then twisted.
The dagger shot out—a blur of precision, aimed not to kill, but to maim—driving straight for the gap at the captain's shoulder.
But it clanged off hardened plating.
The first captain had twisted just in time, angling his pauldron to absorb the blow.
Draven's blade skidded off reinforced steel, sparks flashing.
A sharp grunt—pain, but not injury.
No pause.
The captain spun with the momentum of the deflected strike, turning into the motion, blade already coming around in a deadly arc.
Behind him, the second captain was already moving—
—twin blades flickering like lightning.
> Slash. Thrust. Crosscut. Vertical. Low sweep.
Relentless. Coordinated. Overwhelming.
But Draven—
Draven flowed through it.
No wasted motion. No extra steps.
Each dodge barely enough.
Each parry exact.