The greatsword flailed wildly, blue-white mana crackling along its edge like lightning.
Draven's crimson eyes widened in shock as the greatsword's edge came down faster than he could react. Reflexes screamed, but even his speed had limits. The blade kissed his neck, slicing through flesh with a hiss of displaced rain and mana.
A searing flash tore halfway through his neck, hot blood erupting in a fine crimson spray as Draven choked, coughing violently, vision flaring red as he staggered back. Each gasp tore through his lungs, hot fluid flooding his mouth and dripping down over his chin. His body jerked back on reflex, one gloved hand shooting up instinctively to grip the blade before it could finish the cut and yanking it away from his throat.
Mud, rain, and iron mixed in a slick, crimson mess across his face and armor.
> "Ghh—damn… old bastard…"
The words came out wet and broken. Blood spilled down his chest in heavy rivulets, pooling at his boots. He yanked the sword away from his neck with a sharp twist, the edge slicing another thin line across his collarbone. Hot air rushed out with every breath, the wound gaping—then twitching, knitting itself back together with sick, sinewy determination.
Draven coughed again, spitting a dark stream into the mud. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding until they cracked audibly.
> "Even on your way to hell… you still wanna cut my damn head off."
His knees wobbled as the pain seared through his chest and shoulder, but he forced himself upright, dagger still in hand, shaking with effort. The wound began to stitch itself, flesh knitting slowly, painfully, the heat fading to a dull ache.
Draven spat a thick glob of blood into the mud, wiping his mouth with a hand trembling from exertion. His jaw cracked audibly as he ground his teeth together, voice thick with blood and effort:
> "Since you like swinging your damn sword so much…"
He paused, coughing again, chest heaving.
> "I'll be sure to make you pay for it."
He lifted the greatsword, one hand gripping its hilt tight, blood running down his forearm before letting the words finish with a wet, ragged growl.
> "…Let's see how you like it when you're the one getting cut in the damn throat."
With his other hand, he raised his dagger, bracing himself. He could feel the sword trembling, the last sparks of Saren's mana crawling along the steel like veins of lightning. He didn't understand it—couldn't control it—but he didn't need to.
Mud splashed beneath his boots as he swung the massive weapon down in a single, brutal arc.
The blade struck.
For a heartbeat, silence—then the world erupted.
The mana inside the blade exploded—not his power, not his doing, just the final convulsion of a dead knight's fury. The ground split beneath the impact. The shockwave flattened trees and hurled dust and stones in every direction. Mud and shattered rock exploded outward in a blinding flash, rain vaporizing into a hiss of steam.
When the sound finally died, only ruin remained: a crater of smoking earth and what was left of Saren's body, cleaved clean in two.
Draven staggered back, chest heaving. He stood amid the ruin—blood and mud slicked across his skin, the cut on his neck closing by inches, the smell of iron and rain thick in the air.
He spat once more.
> "Persistent old bastard," he muttered, voice low and rough.
"Should've stayed dead."
The rain lashed down, washing mud and blood across his face. He turned to the ring of knights standing in the mud. They were a pale, frozen circle—visors up on some, lowered on others, breaths coming out in ragged white puffs. For a long, wet second nobody moved.
Draven's voice cut the hush, low and colder than the storm.
> "Anybody else think they want to try their luck dealing with me too?"
He spat a glob of blood into the mud at their feet.
> "Any one of you bastards want to take a swing? I'll gladly send you along with him."
A murmur ran through the circle—prayers, curses, the wind of frightened men. One voice—young, shaking—muttered something about the captain, about orders, about living to fight another day. No one stepped forward. Their eyes flicked to each other, then away. Fear and the taste of survival held them tight, rooted.
Draven watched them, listened to the weak arguments rise and die. He let them stew in it for a breath, then smiled—a wet, feral curl that showed too many teeth, bared in a grin that might have been a smile once.
> "Guess not," he said. "Y'all are fools."
He tightened his grip on the greatsword. The hilt was slick with blood, the blade still humming faintly from Saren's last pulse of mana—a dead thing coughing a barely visible blue-white through the rain. For a heartbeat he looked like a monster who would rather butcher every last one of them than walk away.
> "I'd really like to kill you all for wasting my time," he said, voice flat. "Lucky for you I don't have that time."
He reeled his arms back, then snapped the sword forward with a practiced motion that was half swing, half fling. The blade took the arc spinning from his hands. The blade caught the lingering mana like a sail; it became a blur, a screaming arc of steel he had no right to fling.
Panic broke among the knights. Hands scrambled. Knights carrying shields flickered forward, surging with mana, slamming their shields into the ground—a hastily woven lattice of light and force thrown between man and blade. The spinning greatsword didn't care for manners.
It tore through the first thin shields as if they were cobwebs. Helmets split; a lance of steel cleaved a man in two. Another knight caught the edge through the ribs—the body folded like a discarded cloak and slid from the saddle into the mud. Blood arced, a terrible, bright ribbon in the rain. Two down before the others even realized what hit them.
The rest answered with everything they had. A wall of mana slammed into the blade; the collision rang like a bell being struck with a hammer. Sparks and steam and the smell of ozone filled the air. The greatsword skidded, slammed its point into the churned earth, and ground to a stop as the last of its borrowed mana fizzed away.
Silence rushed back, heavier for the dead.
The remaining knights began to move—some to pull their dying, some to drag the wounded into a rough circle, some to stare at the half-buried greatsword with wide, stupid eyes. Cloaks hung in ragged stumps over broken faces. Some glanced over at the place where Draven had stood.
He was already gone.