The hall trembled with the clash of metal and the heartbeat of fear. Eight figures moved as one, two sides slipping through a web of parries, feints, and desperate bursts of speed. The air tasted of iron and ash, and the heat from the dying furnaces pressed in like a tangible force.
Han Chen watched the clash with a cool, almost bored gaze, calculating every motion. The trio—the saber-man, the fishman, and the leopard girl—had begun advancing in measured steps toward the five humans who remained. Each of the five carried a distinct weapon : two had swords, one had a nunchaku with a curved blade and chain, one had a jagged pole, and one had a short saber. They moved with wary discipline, eyes flicking between their would-be attackers and the looming threat of Han Chen's silence.
First contact. The saber-man lunged at the human with the jagged pole, his blade singing a cold arc through the air. The pole-wielder yanked the weapon aside, the two weapons crossing with a shower of sparks. The force of the impact rolled through the floor, sending a spray of sparks and grit into the air.
The leopard girl darted in from the left, daggers flashing as she sought to strike at the short saber-man's exposed flank, but the short saber-man feinted and delivered a brutal kick that sent her skidding backward.
Meanwhile the fishman peeled away from his partner and swept across the arena with a curved blade that whistled in a lethal curve. He caught the edge of the nunchakus as the wielder tried to pull away, forcing them into a dangerous scramble where steel sang against steel and the air hummed with barely contained violence.
Han Chen shifted, his body moving with a predator's economy. He let the field of battle carve its own rhythm, stepping to the outer edge of the fray, waiting for a gap that wouldn't come easily.
The three coalitions and five humans clashed with ferocity as the battle was reaching its climax.
The saber-man in the lead pressed the advantage, driving the human with the jagged pole backward, the two weapons clashing in a brutal exchange.
The leopard girl leaped, landing a temporary stun with a dagger that drew a thin red line across the short saberist's forearm. The fishman circled, probing, while the other human with a short saber pinned the foe with a quick, surgical strike to the upper arm.
From Han Chen's position, the old wound in his leg throbbed, reminding him to conserve energy. He knew that if the skirmish dragged on, exhaustion would tilt the balance in favor of the three. The trio needed to subdue the five before they became accustomed to the cooperation between them. He could not let the situation devolve into a free-for-all where his own chance for a deadly harvest slipped away.
The saber-man and the leopard girl pressed a synchronized assault, their timing sharpening with every exchange. The leopard girl feinted low, then sprang up, driving her dagger toward the saber-man's neck. He ducked under the blade and swept an arm wide, knocking her off balance, but she recovered instantly, bouncing back with a rain of light and steel.
The sabre-wielder who had once tried to seize control of the situation—the same man who had orchestrated the earlier betrayal—suddenly altered his approach. His eyes flickered with a cold calculation as he stepped aside, not to attack Han Chen but to create a corridor for the fishmen to slip through and deliver a decisive strike to the human wielding the jagged pole.
The human's breath hitched as the curved blade tore across his shoulder, a spray of blood dulling the air and marking a brutal shift in the battle's tempo.
Across the hall, the exchange intensified. The fishman's blade whispered through air, catching the nunchakus with one end.
The leopard girl, not to be outdone, spun like a dancer, her blades flashing in a blur as she tried to land a killing stroke on the short saber-man. The five humans staggered, trading rapid defenses and desperate counters, their bodies drawn taut by a survival instinct sharpened to a razor's edge.
Han Chen watched, patient as a hunter waiting for the right mate to step into the trap. He saw a small opening—the saber-man's posture, the momentary misalignment as the leopard girl feinted and the fishman lunged at a different target.
It would be the exact moment to strike, if he could endure the next flurry of blows. Then came the crackle of a broken breath as a misstep gave way to a sudden, brutal counter.
The leopard girl, her dagger snapping in mid-air, collapsed against the chest of the saber-man who had pressed in too close. A scream split the hall, cut short by a heavy, suffocating silence as the body dropped to the ground.
...
The clang of steel rolled through the cavernous hall, echoing off the rows of ancient furnaces. Fifty alchemy cauldrons stood like silent witnesses upon low stone tables, their bronze bellies stained with soot and forgotten flame. Flickers of residual heat shimmered above them, warping the air with a faint crimson haze.
Han Chen stood near one of the cold furnaces, hands tucked behind his back, eyes half-lidded. His breath was steady, unhurried.
The war unfolding before him was chaotic—steel against bone, air filled with sparks and ashes—but in his eyes, it was little more than a passing storm.
Sparks scattered. Boom! A table cracked as the fishman's curved blade slammed into it, the impact spilling half-molten residue onto the floor. The glow caught the wall, painting all eight fighters in strokes of orange and blood-red.
The saber-man roared and countered, his blade cleaving through the haze. Against him, the human with the jagged pole held firm, sweat trailing down his cheek. Each parry sent crescents of molten dust spiraling outward.
Han Chen's gaze shifted slightly. His thoughts cut through the noise. "They're not coordinated. The fishman presses too early... the leopard girl breaks rhythm… the humans are standing on instinct, not pattern."
A dagger scraped metal. Shhk! The leopard girl lunged but misjudged distance, her foot slipping in spilled ash. Her partner's warning came too late, and she barely ducked a retaliatory spear thrust.
Han Chen's reflection shimmered faintly on the black iron of the nearest furnace. To an onlooker, he might have seemed a statue carved from smoke—expressionless, unmoved, observing as chaos unfolded at arm's length."Still too soon," he muttered softly, eyes narrowing.
He tilted his head, tracking the way movement rippled through the multiple pairs of fighters, watching for that inevitable collapse—a break in rhythm that would open a direct path to the strongest among them.
The hall filled with the continuous hum of battle. Whoosh. Clang. Crack. Each blow stitched together a rhythm that only he heard fully: the slow tiring pace of humans, the uneven aggression of beasts. The fishman overextended again. His tail swept wide, narrowly missing a furnace leg. The vibrations rattled dozens of cauldrons.
Thung. Thung.
Hot dust rained down, coating the floor with glowing particles.
Han Chen's eyes flicked across the battlefield. One furnace behind the saber-man began to sway. Its base was cracked from the earlier shock. He saw the line in his head—the path that would emerge when the furnace fell. A single moment in which the humans' formation would split and the trio's guard would break. Then, and only then, would he move.
The air shimmered hotter. Every movement grew heavier; breath came ragged from the fighters. Sweat, ash, and blood mixed into an acrid scent that burned the throat. The furnaces glowed faintly again, reacting to the heat of battle like old beasts stirred from slumber.
Han Chen's eyes half-closed. "Soon." The saber-man's next strike echoed like thunder. The floor groaned. The cracked furnace lurched from its table—clang!—and crashed to the ground.
Boom.
Sparks burst into the air like a shower of fireflies, fiery motes carried upward by the draft.
For the briefest instant, all eight paused—their instincts screaming. Han Chen's pupils narrowed. Every sound around him collapsed into silence. Time slowed, the storm of movement freezing at its edge.
That was the moment he had been waiting for.
...
The crash of the fallen furnace had unleashed a wave of heat thick enough to twist sight itself. Fire and smoke rose, mingling into a fiery fog that swallowed the entire hall. Shadows flickered, blurred at the edges, and the faint roar of settling embers filled the silence that followed.
Han Chen's hand brushed over the cold metal of the spatial ring on his hand from his thumb. A flick of thought, and a blade slipped into his grip. The steel gleamed faintly red in the haze. He lowered it beside his thigh, breathing once—slow, measured.
"Heavenly Eye, open." A faint whisper left his lips. The center of his forehead split vertically, skin peeling apart like a curtain drawn by invisible fingers. From within, a violet eye opened—its pupil dark as storm glass, sclera black as obsidian.
His vision sharpened. Through the fog, the eight surviving figures became silhouettes of trembling light. They stood rigid, weapons raised, unable to see or sense properly. The heat distorted the air around them, making every breath feel heavy, every movement uncertain.
Han Chen stepped forward.
His footfalls were too light to echo. The blade in his hand trailed a faint glimmer through the haze. He moved past a furnace, its rim glowing faintly like molten gold, and stopped behind the saber-man.
The man shifted slightly, trying to pierce the fog with widened eyes. A low hum drifted through the hall, soft as a sigh.
Shhk! The sword passed in one smooth motion. The head slid from the body and thudded to the ground, rolling once before disappearing into the smoke. The others froze. Someone whispered, "What was that—?" No answer came. Only the faint tremor of hot air, and the slow fall of ash.
Han Chen turned. His eyes glowed faintly in the fog as he stepped toward the next shadow. The nunchaku wielder turned half-around, weapon raised high—Thung. His body jerked once, then went still. Head and shoulders parted. Somewhere ahead, one of the humans muttered, "Something's here… it's moving."
The rest tightened their circles, but the fog stripped away direction and shape. Every flicker of heat felt like a presence. Every breath sounded like a whisper of danger. Han Chen did not pause. He drifted from one presence to another, the purple eye widening slightly with each cut.
A streak through the fog, a soft rustle of ash—and another fell. The leopard girl never saw him. Her daggers flashed upward just before her vision turned red. The short-saber man's stance broke the next instant, his body collapsing before his eyes even closed.
Han Chen's blade arced again and again in silent rhythm. The man with the jagged pole dropped to his knees, clutching at nothing. The fishman fell last among the nonhumans, his curved blade slipping from his twitching fingers.
One by one, the sound of bodies meeting stone filled the fog.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Only two remained. Both human. Both with swords drawn and lungs burning from the smoke. "Stay close!" one shouted hoarsely.
But fear outweighed sense. They turned opposite directions—too far, too fast. Through the molten haze, one mistook the other's shadow for an enemy. A sharp cry split the air.
Shhk! The first man froze, looking down at the steel buried in his stomach. His trembling hand reached out. "You…?"
The second swordsman's eyes widened. "I thought you were the enemy!" The wounded man gritted his teeth, pain twisting his features into fury.
"Then die with me."Their blades crossed again—piercing together, both finding flesh. Their groans echoed once in the fog, faint and hollow.
Han Chen moved. One swift burst of motion. The sword flashed, cutting through both necks in a single perfect sweep.
Silence returned.
The fire's glow dimmed slowly, the smoke curling toward the rafters. For five long minutes, no one moved. Then, as the haze thinned, the hall revealed itself once more—less than fifty furnaces standing amid bodies and ash.
Han Chen stood alone, the blade in his hand steady and clean despite the slaughter. His third eye closed, sealing without a sound. The hall returned to dull red quiet.
-----TO BE CONTINUED-----