As the sun set and painted the room in orange light, Krey stood, grabbed his sword, and stepped out the door.
A soft voice came from above.
"Be careful."
He raised a hand in a silent wave to Alison, who was looking intently at the stars.
Krey made his way to the street where he'd last seen Samuel and turned into the same narrow alley. The stench hit him first. Before him lay a pile of mangled, rotting corpses—the armed men from the day before.
A voice, cool and familiar, spoke from the shadows above.
"I knew one of you would eventually come."
Krey looked up. The figure with the crimson scarf dropped from a ledge, landing with feline grace. In one fluid motion, a grip appeared in Samuel's hand, and a silver blade slid soundlessly from the seemingly empty sheath at his hip. He raised it, the steel gleaming dully in the twilight.
In a moment of desperation, Krey swung his dull blade. As it neared Samuel's skin, Samuel twisted in mid-air, scraping his own sword against Krey's with a sharp ring, deflecting it effortlessly.
"Is that it?" Samuel asked, his tone flat.
"Damn it, I'm not an enemy—" Krey began, but Samuel cut him off with a slash that nearly split his skull. Krey barely dodged by leaping backward.
The pages of swordsmanship flipped in his mind, and a combination formed. Gripping his sword, Krey wove an array of arcs through the air, moonlight reflecting on the dull edge. Yet each attack was slid aside by Samuel's blade before it was smoothly returned to its sheath.
Samuel followed with a seamless barrage of eight slashes—right shoulder, temple, left shoulder—each strike forming a lethal circle aimed solely to kill. Unlike Krey, his sword was sharp, filled with the fresh experience of battle.
Krey countered with a sweeping crescent slash. He blocked and parried a few strikes, but the four burdens made movement difficult, and his body was already battered from the wolves. His muscles strained; his once-clean steps grew sloppy. As the battle dragged on, the mental pages of technique seemed to rip away, because whenever Krey unleashed a move, he was met with a swift counter.
His breath grew shallow. Gasping for air, he lifted his sword overhead, lowered his center of gravity, and swung with the countless hours of practice behind his most drilled technique: the overhead slash.
"Faster, swifter. I need to be faster!" Krey thought frantically.
Samuel knelt, deflected by letting the attack hit his raised grip, angling his sword so Krey's blade slid harmlessly to the side. Then Samuel dropped his sword, held a hand over his sheath, and another grip appeared. A ruthless, sharp slash cut across Krey's chest, leaving a burning line.
The page Krey had clung to was now shredded. Moonlight showered them, and Samuel paused, his golden eyes narrowing.
"Hold on. You're not one of them?"
"...No."
Samuel pulled up Krey's pants leg, inspecting his ankle.
"I'm just kidding, I already knew... I just wanted to see how much you've progressed."
Gritting his teeth, Krey raised his arm and elbowed toward Samuel's back. But Samuel twisted, letting the attack slide off his body, and countered with a backfist to Krey's face. Krey raised a hand to block, the back of Samuel's fist stopping just short of the jade bracelet on his wrist.
Samuel stood, kicked Krey down, and grasped the weighted bracelet.
"How much would these go for?"
"Get off me, you bastard! They're not for sale!"
Finding the bracelet couldn't be removed, Samuel raised his sword.
"Should I just cut your limbs off?"
"Let go of me..! I'll kill you, bastard!"
"Relax. I was only talking to myself." He let go, retrieved his blade, and sheathed it—the sword disappearing from sight.
"You don't need your sword, do you?"
Krey's eyes widened. He crawled to cover his blade with his body.
"I need it! It's mine!"
"Worry not. Your blade is not the one I seek." With those words, the swordsman with the crimson scarf left, his golden eyes shimmering in the dark.
Standing painfully, Krey walked to the corpses and searched them, finding only a few silvers, dried meat, and a small piece of paper each marked with the number seven. He ripped strips of their clothing, placed one in his mouth, and laid the rest on the ground. Scraping his sword against stone, he sparked a flame to ignite the fabric. Once it caught, he held his sword over the fire until the metal glowed red-hot, then pressed it against the slash on his chest.
"Urgh...!" He clenched the fabric in his teeth, pushing through the agony as his skin sizzled.
Spitting out the cloth, he chewed the dried meat—oddly satiating, tasting of over-salted beef. He rewrapped the bandages that had come loose during the fight, tearing strips for smaller cuts. In his hand, he held the three pieces of paper, each marked with a seven. Arranged together, they vaguely formed a star—perhaps coincidence, perhaps not. Only the world knew.
Bending over the corpses, mimicking Samuel, he checked their ankles. Each bore the mark of a three-legged frog. He took scabbards from nearby, but none fit his blade; they were all too large or too small.
"...Don't worry, buddy. I'll find you one that fits."
He headed in the direction Samuel had gone, turning left and walking aimlessly past drunkards, lovers, and night strollers. In the distance, he heard loud cheering beneath the silent moon. Following the sound, he found a tavern with a crude star hanging above the entrance.
Watching from a distance, he saw people with the three-legged frog mark entering. His four burdens tightened slightly, making him groan. Sensing an entire army might be inside, he looked around, found a bucket, carved two holes in it, and wore it as a crude helmet.
He observed patrons presenting a small paper to gain entry—similar in size to the ones he held. Shakily, he approached the door. A peephole slid open.
"What's the color of the frog?" a gruff voice asked.
"Color of the frog?" Krey wondered. Believing it a trick question, he pulled out one of the small papers and presented it.
Silence hung in the air. After a long pause, the door opened. A large, rugged man stood aside, gesturing for him to enter.
Inside, the roar of the crowded tavern assaulted his ears. Misfits of all sorts filled the space—gambling, eating, drinking, and bragging about misdeeds.
"I managed to haggle an old fool out of twenty whole silvers! The geezer begged for it back, muttering about his family!"
"That reminds me of when I went to the outskirts and stole a bucket of nuts from an old man in a shed. He cursed that his savior would kill me, so I kicked him until he begged for mercy!"
Krey gritted his teeth, his hand twitching toward his sword. But a familiar voice whispered behind him.
"Don't. What are you doing here? I thought I did enough to stop you from moving."
"I followed you so I could pay you back for the scar from you—" Krey began, but his reply was cut off.
A voice resonated through the entire room. All heads turned toward a beautiful, youthful man standing on a central podium. His deep, dark red eyes were like voids staring at everyone present. His long, elegant hair waved as if alive, so dark it seemed to absorb the light, with streaks of dark red breaking the flow.
"Welcome, all—young and old. Our time has come. We, the Tercet, will purge this world. We will become the greater evil to purge evil from this cursed world, and crush all those who look down on us for being different. My people, rise! For within two moon cycles, we shall commence our cleanse of the weak!"