Imps.
Dozens.
A wave of madness.
Ian exhaled once.
Then—
He moved.
A flash.
A scream.
Another imp fell, its torso carved clean through.
Ian flowed between them, blades a blur, feet skimming the earth like a shadow with flesh. He ducked beneath a claw, spun, severed a head, and stepped into the next strike all in one seamless motion.
They shrieked.
They swarmed.
But they couldn't touch him.
He was too fast.
Too precise.
Every cut was fatal. Every dodge, exact.
One imp leapt from a tree, shrieking—
Ian caught it mid-air, drove a dagger through its eye, then flung its body into two others before they could pounce.
A third imp lunged for his back.
Too slow.
He twisted, slashing low.
The blade cleaved through its legs.
It hit the ground screaming.
He finished it with a downward stab, then rolled sideways as three more surged in.
A flurry of claws tore through where he'd been.
But the imps kept coming.
