PREVIOUSLY-
The knight tilted his head slightly.
"Let's end this—"
Theobald exhaled through the mask, rolling his shoulders as the weight of steel settled into each palm—the axe in his right, the sickle in his left.
Chains clinked softly with every movement, the links swaying like restless serpents.
A wry smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Haha…I am fucked."
---x---
BOOM!
The knight's longsword cleaved through the air, humming like a bell of iron fury.
'Shit!'
Theobald jerked his body back, boots splashing through swamp-muck. The tip of the blade passed so close it burned the air in front of his mask. He barely had a breath of relief before clink, clink, clink—the chains slithered around him again, biting into his ribs, tightening like the coils of a viper.
"You won't get away again," the knight growled, his voice muffled behind the steel of his visor.
Theobald's breath rasped in his chest, each inhale shallow. Shadows loomed, and in that instant, another one fell directly over him—massive, crushing.
The fat mercenary, red-faced and bristling with sweat, hefted the greataxe in both hands and let it fall like a guillotine.
The swamp itself shuddered at the sound of air splitting.
The mercenary's lips curled into a cruel grin.
"Damn kid, thinking he is all shit—!?"
And then—
His eyes flared wide.
The axe halted mid-swing.
The haft trembled as if some unseen hand had clutched it. The mercenary snarled, trying to force it down, veins straining at his temple, but it would not move. Inch by inch, the weapon began to rise again—back against its wielder's strength.
The knight stopped cold, longsword low at his side, helmet turning to glance.
Theobald froze, eyes darting.
The swamp's mist stirred unnaturally, curling around boots and steel alike. A sound whispered through it—low, guttural, like a growl echoing beneath the water.
"Krr…"
Theobald's eyes lit up. "Rook!"
The flesh split with the blur of talons.
SHLK!
"AAARGH!" The axeman howled as his flesh tore free, ribbons of meat slapping the mud. His weapon clattered, useless.
Rook smirked, wings beating as he rose back into the mist.
"Thanks," Theobald hissed, flexing his arms. The chains groaned, veins bulging across his skin.
"I… am… done with you bastards!"
CRRRRK.
Cracks spidered across the iron links.
"What a drag…" the black-clothed mercenary sighed, shaking his head. With a lazy flick of his wrist, the chains fell slack.
Theobald barely had time to grin before—
THUD!
A boot smashed into his face, snapping his skull sideways. His body shot through a tent like a ragdoll, ripping canvas and scattering crates in a spray of dust.
"Damn this chicken!" the fat mercenary bellowed, rage boiling as he raised the greataxe over his head. He hurled it toward the circling hawk.
But the throw never came.
His massive frame jerked upward, heels kicking helplessly, before gravity reversed.
BANG!
The earth swallowed his face with a quake, leaving a crater and a muffled groan.
Rook perched elegantly on a branch, feathers ruffled but smile unbroken. His beak parted in a low hiss—then a deafening exhale blasted outward.
BOOM.
The swamp collapsed under invisible weight. Trees bowed, tents shredded, and mercenaries crashed to their knees, clawing at the ground as their lungs crushed beneath the force.
Theobald staggered upright, coughing, eyes bloodshot but burning. A sickle screamed toward him, its tip a whisker from his nose.
He reeled back—then surged forward.
His calves flared like springs, and he lunged. The axe in his grip clashed against the mercenary's sickle.
CLANG!
Sparks lit the night. Blow after blow, heavier, faster, like hammer-strikes on steel.
The two locked eyes—hunter and hunted.
Then—
"Avos."
The word rolled like thunder.
Theobald froze, axe trembling in his grip.
The knight had stepped into the moonlight, sword resting casually across his shoulder. His helm tilted, visor catching the glow of firelight.
His eyes fixed on Theobald with unmasked disgust—then slid, cold and commanding, toward the black-clothed mercenary.
"End this. Quick."
Avos sighed, the sickles dancing across his fingers like vipers tasting the air.
"As you wish…"
CLANG!
Steel shrieked. His sickle carved downward in a ruthless diagonal.
Theobald's axe caught it with the flat, shunting the strike aside. His body coiled—heel snapping up for the mercenary's temple.
Avos chuckled, wrist flicking.
WHRRR—SNAP.
A chain slithered out, wrapping Theobald's ankle tight.
"Shit—!"
Before he could even cut it loose, his body was whipped off the ground.
The world spun. Canvas, torches, and dirt blurred into a dizzy wheel. Avos yanked—intending to smash him into the earth.
"I… I am tired of being thrown around!" Theobald snarled.
Instead of fighting the spin, he gave into it—rotating faster. The chains twisted with him, pulling Avos off balance.
CRACK!
Theobald's boots smashed into his opponent's face. Bone gave under the impact. Avos staggered back, his black hat tumbling into the mud.
Scars raked across his scalp like rivers burned into flesh. From nose down, a ragged mask clung to his face, but his eyes—sharp, green, and burning—fixed on Theobald with venom.
Blood dripped from his crooked nose.
"…You'll regret that, boy."
The chains slithered again, tighter this time—hissing like serpents ready to coil around Theobald's throat.
"You've crossed a line!" Avos snarled, his arm snapping forward. The iron chain whirred as it unfurled, the curved sickle at its end gleaming with murderous intent, darting straight for Theobald's chest.
Theobald dropped low, spine curling as he rolled across the earth. His boots dug into the ground—then with a sudden surge of muscle and momentum, he kicked upward, both feet driving like a ram into Avos's jaw.
The blow cracked home. Avos's teeth clacked as his head snapped back, the mercenary gritting through the pain, eyes flashing with rage.
"Gorvax!"
Theobald barked, still crouched low, trying to catch his breath.
"Hm?" Gorvax replied absently, idly scraping an invisible speck of earwax from his ear, as though none of this chaos deserved his attention.
"Any tips?"
"No." The word landed like a stone.
Theobald blinked. "Huh?!"
Gorvax gave a languid sigh, finally glancing up. His face was utterly calm, carved from indifference.
"You're not in danger," he said flatly. "But you're not going to win, either."
A faint, maddening smile tugged at his lips.
"Consider it a gift—the chance to learn something only defeat can teach."
Theobald's jaw clenched, indignation rising, but his protest was cut short. Avos's chain sang through the air again, the sickle descending in a merciless arc, silver catching the light as it aimed to split him where he stood.
Theobald darted sideways, boots skidding in the mud. Avos anticipated the dodge—his chain snapped low, scooping a spray of muck into Theobald's face. Instinct sealed his eyes shut.
"Oh… shit—"
Pain bloomed a heartbeat later. The sickle's edge raked across his thigh, tearing through flesh. Blood welled and streamed hot down his leg. Theobald staggered backward, teeth bared, but Avos pressed on without pause.
Steel clashed—Theobald barely caught the descending hook with the haft of his axe. Sparks leapt, the chain recoiling, and suddenly Avos was in close, their foreheads almost colliding, breath mingling in the narrow space between them.
"Kid," Avos growled, voice roughened with a cruel glee, "I'm done holding back."
His body twisted—an uncoiled spring. A sharp kick blasted into Theobald's ribs, the shock forcing the axe from his hands. It thudded into the mire.
Before Theobald could reclaim air or footing, Avos was on him again. The mercenary's middle phalanx—hardened, bony, merciless—drove into his solar plexus. Theobald gasped, spine arching as the world tilted. Avos seized that opening, one hand snapping to the back of Theobald's neck. His right knee slammed up into Theobald's stomach, folding him like paper.
The boy reeled, vision hazed, his body no longer obeying. Avos drew a narrow blade, its edge catching the light, and angled it toward the throbbing vein at Theobald's neck.
But just as the knife hovered at the cusp of the kill, the mercenary froze. His eyes widened.
Because Theobald was smiling.
"I too…" Theobald rasped, smirk curling despite the blood at his lips, "am done holding back."
Theobald's fingers clamped tighter around Avos' wrist, iron digging into flesh. He twisted at the hip, letting his body flow with the mercenary's momentum. Arms coiled, hips heaved—and with a sharp snap, Avos's weight was hurled skyward. His body pitched over Theobald's back, crashing down into the muck face-first. Mud splattered in every direction.
"That," Theobald muttered between ragged breaths, "is called a throw."
A smile tugged at his lips, though his vision wavered. Through the haze, a silhouette emerged—a white-haired man, watching.
'You hold back too much,' the figure's voice whispered, half-reproach, half-amusement. 'Don't you know you're the strongest of the four?'
Theobald's chest clenched. The phantom laughed, words echoing as if inside his marrow.
'At least, in terms of physique.'
Theobald staggered, blood dripping down his thigh, but the words dug in like hooks.
Avos, groaning in the mud, seized his moment. With a savage growl, he whipped his knife in a low horizontal arc, steel flashing toward Theobald's heel.
WHAM!
Theobald's boot met Avos's cheek with brutal precision, the impact snapping his head sideways. The mercenary spat dirt and blood as Theobald dropped to one knee beside him.
Cold fingers clamped Avos's wrist. Theobald wrenched the arm outward, his shoulders driving the torque. Then came the jolt—sinew strained, bone levered—and with a jagged pop, the shoulder tore loose from its socket.
"Hahahaha…"
Avos's laughter bubbled out in a broken cackle, splattering mud and blood. His shoulders shook.
"Hahahahahaha!"
Theobald's brows knitted. Has he gone mad?
"You've already been captured, boy," Avos wheezed between fits of mirth.
Theobald's grip tightened on his axe as he rose, his gaze sweeping the battlefield. The fat mercenary lay sprawled and unconscious, chest heaving shallowly. Others slumped against walls and trees, their breath ragged, some collapsed outright.
A new voice cut through the carnage.
"—Intruder."
The knight stepped forward, each pace measured, armored boots sinking slightly in the wet earth. His tone was calm, almost casual, though his eyes never left Theobald.
"Look around."
Theobald's head snapped left, then right. His stomach lurched.
They were encircled. Dozens—no, hundreds—of figures in white robes ringed the field. Medics, their hands gloved, crossbows raised, vials of venom and dart-tipped syringes glinting under the sun. Their formation was tight, disciplined, suffocating.
His eyes darted upward instinctively—searching for wings. Rook.
The vulture was caged, feathers ruffled, his golden eyes burning behind iron bars. A withered old woman clutched the cage as though it weighed nothing. She stood directly before Theobald, her presence pressing against him like a wall. Her gaze bored into him—annoyed, amused… and faintly curious.
Theobald's pulse hammered. He turned back toward the knight—
—but the man's blade was already at his throat, cold steel kissing the vein.
Theobald exhaled slowly, raising his hands in surrender. His mouth curled into a crooked grin despite himself.
"Heh… déjà vu, is it? How about a truce?"