The bald man emerged from the smoke of the burning wagons as if the flames themselves had birthed him. His skin was sun-darkened, glistening faintly under the bloodied light of dusk. A ragged scar carved down his face from brow to cheek, tugging the corner of his mouth into a permanent sneer. His left shoulder was strapped with hardened leather, scarred by old impacts, but the rest of him wore only tight-fitting black cloth, built for movement, for killing. Around his waist, a sash of red hung loose like a streak of blood, and in his right hand—an executioner's scimitar, wide-bladed and heavy, already chipped with use.
Reivo's chest tightened. This man was different. Not a bandit, not a brigand scraping for coins and food. This one was like a weapon in human flesh. The way he moved radiated intent—the predatory grace of someone who had ended too many lives to count.
Escaping wasn't an option. Turning your back on an enemy like this was suicide. Reivo's body settled instinctively into guard stance, knees bent, short sword held steady before him, point aimed directly at the killer's heart.
"Who are you all?" Reivo demanded, voice low, controlled. "Don't bother lying. You're no bandits."
The man chuckled, rough and jagged, like a blade dragged across stone. "Hah. That evident, is it?"
"You're not denying it?"
"Why would I?" The scarred man tilted his head, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement above the scarf that masked his mouth. "There's no harm in speaking truths to a corpse."
The words dripped with mockery. Then he lunged without warning.
The scimitar blurred in an arc, a brutal horizontal slash that would have cut Reivo from thigh to shoulder if not for his reflex. His short sword shot up in a desperate parry. Steel screamed against steel, and the impact rattled Reivo to his teeth, jolting his bones. The force flung him back several steps, boots scraping the dirt. His arm trembled violently, shoulder throbbing from the shock of the blow.
The bald man let the scimitar fall lazily to rest across his shoulder. His eyes shone brighter now—hungry. "You have talent, boy. Real talent. What a misfortune you met me. After killing, the only joy I savor more… is snuffing out youngsters before they sprout. Watching promise rot on the vine." His laugh was wet, animalistic, filled with delight. "Hahaha."
Reivo's heart hammered. A shadow crept along the edges of his thoughts. Something old. Something vile.
The voices stirred.
"Kill him," one rasped, sharp as a saw against bone. "Slice him open, make him scream, tear him slow."
Another giggled, high-pitched, broken, like glass splintering. "Ohhh, he's beautiful. Skin him. Skin him alive. Let's see the meat under the smile."
A third voice, low and grinding, like chains dragged across stone, hissed: "We'll guide your hand. Just give it to us. Yes. Yes. More blood."
They pressed against him, hot and suffocating. Nightmarish laughter filled his skull, but it wasn't random—always pushing, always circling back to him. His hand. His blade. His violence.
Reivo's breathing grew harsher. He wasn't losing control completely—not yet. But his composure cracked, and what leaked through was darker, sharper. A grin ghosted across his lips. The voices wanted him to kill, to torture, to savor every wound he carved into this man's flesh. And for once, Reivo wanted it too.
He lunged forward. His sword came low, thrusting upward in a vicious arc aimed to gut. But with a mere flick of the wrist, the scimitar intercepted, steel ringing as the blow was brushed aside. The bald man's chuckle rolled across the battlefield.
Then the storm began.
The two exchanged blows—sword and scimitar flashing under the firelight. The killer's strikes were heavier, faster, every swing meant to maim, every strike a death sentence. Reivo's arms burned with each block, each deflection. When the scimitar came down in a crushing vertical chop, he barely caught it, knees buckling, his body driven halfway into the dirt by the sheer weight of the man's strength. His ribs screamed as a glancing cut grazed him; his forearm burned where the scimitar bit shallow. Every clash left him bleeding.
And yet—Reivo laughed.
It was not loud. It was not joyous. But his lips peeled back in a smile, teeth bloodied. Each shallow wound only sharpened the gleam in his eyes. The voices rejoiced with him, hissing and shrieking in delight. "Good. Good. Yes, bleed! See how the pain sings? See how alive you are?"
The bald man's grin faltered. He had expected the boy to break. Most did. The pain, the hopelessness, the sheer weight of his presence usually shattered them. But this one… this boy grew hungrier with every cut, his blade testing, adapting, not giving ground. The mad little smile tugging at his lips was worse than any curse.
"Damn," the man muttered under his breath, irritation flickering. "This one's already cracked. No fun killing madmen. Let's finish it."
They locked blades one final time. Then the man's boot slammed into Reivo's ribs. Pain burst like fire. Reivo was hurled across the dirt, slammed into the side of a wagon with enough force to jolt it sideways. He crumpled at its base, surrounded by corpses of the fallen guards. His blood stained the earth beneath him, mingling with theirs.
The bald man approached slowly, savoring the moment, scimitar resting across his shoulder like a trophy bat. "Time to wrap this up, boy. Nothing personal." His voice dripped mock sympathy. Then he shifted his stance, the scimitar raised high and behind, a posture too deliberate to be anything but practiced. "I will show you a glimpse of true power."
"Ghost Orchid's Bloom."
The blade swept down in a graceful, circular motion. As it carved the air, something impossible followed—a ghostly flower of light, blooming pale and spectral in the darkness. Its petals burst outward, shattering into a storm of blades. A cyclone of phantom cuts shrieked through the air, slicing everything in their path.
Reivo braced, short sword raised desperately. He blocked one, then another, but the storm was endless. Cuts ripped across his arms, shoulders, chest, tearing flesh and cloth alike. Blood sprayed with every second. His sword arm grew numb, his body failing. Then one final wave of cuts slammed him into the wagon with crushing force, wood groaning and splitting beneath him.
When the storm faded, Reivo sagged, broken and bloodied, at the wagon's base. His sword hung limp in his hand, his body a map of wounds. His chest rose and fell shallowly. The killer's footsteps crunched closer, steady, unhurried.
And still—the voices laughed.