The wind whipped past my face as the horse's hooves thundered against the dirt. Gripping the reins tightly, a sense of urgency fueled the pumping of adrenaline, syncing the horse's gallop with the frantic beat of my heart.

  Cold logic turned like gears in the back of my mind, trying to strip away the very sentiment that had me recklessly heading back for the elf.

  Taking a pointless risk can't alter the past. Turn back, this is the perfect opportunity to shed the baggage.

  But the past came flooding back, drowning out my heartless instincts. I was seven years old again, malnourished and bruised, locked in a basement, listening to my foster father's voice bleed through the floorboards as he shouted at the TV.

  Before the anger, I only knew fear and hunger. Over time the fear faded, but the hunger sharpened. I remembered the fury in my belly when Vicky, a teenage runaway, showed up at my foster parent's doorstep.

  Donald and Mary treated her arrival as a special occasion, graciously allowing me upstairs for an introduction. She was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a plateful of scrambled eggs and toast.

  I hated her for that. Why was she allowed upstairs? How come she was eating more food than I'd seen in three days with a smile on her face?

  Her smile didn't last.

  At the time I didn't understand why Donald treated her so much better than me. Eventually, Mary caught wind of her husband's escalating indiscretions and sentenced her to the basement—my home. Out of sight, out of mind.

  Seven years old and broken beyond repair, I rarely spoke a word. Despite my withdrawn nature, Vicky talked enough for the both of us. She'd tell fantastical stories borrowed from existing movies and books, inserting the both of us as characters who always stole the hero's spotlight.

  On nights when Donald drank enough to forget about locking the basement door, Vicky would sneak upstairs. She was too brave to heed my non-verbal protests and would scavenge for a bag of chips or cookies, sometimes even just an extra slice of white bread.

  I'd shudder as each floorboard creaked, heart lodged in my throat like a dagger. Somehow, she pulled it off every time and I was always too hungry to care about the next morning's beating.

  Vicky wore makeup to hide the bruises and I wore long sleeves.

  She said I was her little brother and promised she'd take me away.

  "Yes," was all I could say.

  But darkness smothered the light, as it always did, like storm clouds blotting out the distant stars.

  Vicky vanished along with any mention of her existence.

  But I knew what had happened. I had heard the shouting, the clash of pans, a thud, and then the devastating silence.

  I could still remember the pungent stench of bleach permeating through the floorboards the following morning.

  The black hole she left ripped away the ever-present shackles of fear. So, I waited, and waited, until one late night drunken Donald left the basement door unlocked.

  I tiptoed up the stairs and into the kitchen where I fixed a pot of water on the stove. Scorching heat bled through the dishrag as I grabbed the handle and carried it into the living room.

  Donald was fast asleep in a drunken stupor, legs kicked all the way back in his recliner, jaw drooped open as he snored. I wanted to pour the boiling water down his throat, but he thrashed awake when the first dribble hit his chin, knocking the pot out of my hands and into his lap. Boiling water rushed out, splashing across his face and chest as he flung himself out of the chair.

  Donald's pained screams as he writhed on the ground sounded like nothing I had heard before. The usual hatred and vitriol was absent from his tone, replaced by whimpers of unadulterated suffering.

  While I ended up with second degree burns on my hands and feet, Donald spent months in the burn unit with him and his wife facing a torrid of felony charges after an investigation uncovered evidence of severe abuse and the bribery of a corrupt CPS worker.

  I snapped back to reality, quickly approaching the dirt path that led back to where everything started. The air grew colder as the path narrowed, darkness swallowing the moonlight underneath the dense underbrush.

  An eerie silence fell, broken only by the snorts of my steed and its clopping hooves. It was a drastic contrast from a little over an hour ago when the sound of a battle raged.

  I blinked and a figure appeared 30 yards, straight ahead, partially obscured by a low hanging canopy. Karma's Gaze automatically activated, informing me that I was about to collide with Fisk.

  He was strolling down the path, hands tucked into the pockets of his frayed trousers. Fisk tilted his head as his beady eyes locked onto me.

  I pulled back on the horse's reins, slowing its advance to a sluggish trot, steeling myself for inevitable combat.

  Fisk scratched at the top of his mask, his fingernails feverishly digging into the leather gimp mask like a maggot had burrowed into his skull.

  "You bear the same hollow eyes as the man I saw earlier in my associate's custody. Damn. Damn. Damn." Fisk squeezed his forehead. "Their task was the easiest by far. I held the line. I'm the one who had to cancel his reservation at The Celestial Table."

  The assassin pivoted on his feet, turning his back as he threw his hands into the air. I considered making the first strike, but hesitated. If I missed with Shadow Weave, I'd be facing the wrath of his unknown power that made people drop dead without a word.

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  He mumbled something to himself then turned back around. "Do you know how long it takes to get on the registry?"

  I shook my head, carefully gauging his body language, waiting for an opportune moment to attack.

  "Two winters of waiting... All wasted for a failed mission." Fisk sighed. "I practiced patience like Leader suggested. And where has that left me? In the middle of nowhere, slaying nobodies when I should be in the middle of my fourth course."

  Wind whistled as Fisk shook his fist in the air, mumbling curses under his breath before regaining his composure. "Hmm... Disregarding my associate's ineptitude, I am intrigued by your presence. Yes, it's quite strange indeed."

  He tucked his hands back into his pockets and took a single step toward me, eyes narrowed. "Did you kill them?"

  "No."

  "Escaping only to come back here was unwise," he said.

  Of course it wasn't a good idea, but logic faltered in the midst of unbridled rage fueled by years of suppressed trauma.

  "What a conundrum." Fisk shrugged. "Leader would capture you for the sake of the organization's reputation. Yet, then I would be responsible for rewarding incompetence. Hmm... Reputation can be recovered, but incompetence leads to utter ruin."

  On the surface, Fisk looked like he was lost in thought, but I noticed the subtle flicker of his gaze. He was baiting an opening by taking his eyes off me.

  I planned on using Shadow Weave to inflict a mortal blow, but only once he initiated his attack, when he'd be the most vulnerable.

  "Leader insisted I exercise more discretion." Fisk glanced up at the sky like he was in search of divine guidance.

  An explosion reverberated through the thicket and a brilliant cerulean light pierced the dense canopy.

  Abyssal Shield.

  I awaited the impact of whatever spell he launched, but nothing happened. Fisk just stood there, staring into the light.

  "Looks like Black Diamond's second battalion found the bodies. Expect reinforcements."

  I blinked and Fisk was gone.

  Dagger Step.

  I abandoned the horse, teleporting myself behind a massive log in the thick of the woods.

  Invisibility.

  Hidden from the path, I stood still, uncertain if Fisk was serious about letting me go or if it was simply a ruse.

  Insects buzzed and a gentle breeze swept leaves across the forest floor, but there was no sign of the assassin. His sudden disappearance was almost as disturbing as his ability to silently slay people who crossed a line in the dirt.

  While Invisibility ticked down, I continued uphill through the woods with my head on a swivel, confident Karma's Gaze would reveal anyone in the area. Once the spell wore off, I was certain Fisk was long gone and concentrated my efforts on rushing to the top.

  With a burst of speed, I dashed through the woods, my feet barely touching the ground as I glided over the underbrush, harnessing the fullest extent of my agility. Leaves scattered in my wake and the trees seemed to bow and bend as the slope's gradient did nothing to slow my momentum.

  The shack loomed closer with every stride. Finally, its silhouette appeared, sharpening itself against the night sky. Flames wicked off torches held by a group of mercenaries posted up outside of the shack. I counted 13 mercenaries, all between levels four and five, with more in the process of securing the perimeter.

  Half of them were anxiously standing by a horse with Xodoven hogtied on its back, his wrists and ankles bound in heavy iron shackles. Considering his reputation as Grimspark, I was thoroughly unimpressed. He was clearly out of it, still completely under the poison's effect.

  Karma's Gaze easily identified their squad leader, Nelson, a level six with -355 karma. He sat atop of the horse, clad in plate armor that shimmered in the dim light. A bronze medallion hung around his neck, featuring a crudely etched snake with a geometrically disproportionate diamond in its mouth.

  "Remain vigilant, Aquarius is en-route," Nelson barked.

  A long-buried sickness churned in the pit of my stomach as the elf's absence frayed the last threads of my patience. As I stepped out of the thicket a cascade of dry leaves rustled and I emerged from the shadows into the torchlight.

  "Where is she?" I asked, surprised by the blaze of emotion within my voice.

  The mercenaries drew their arms and shuffled forward, addressing my sudden appearance with caution. Nelson pressed the edge of his blade against Xodoven's neck. "Surrender before I cut your comrade's throat."

  I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted, "Viessa!"

  "Stand down, fool. You're unarmed and vastly outnumbered," Nelson shouted.

  With a frozen glare, I marked them each for death. "Dreadshade."

  A flood of murky shadows swirled out from beneath my feet and shot across the ground, rising up like a tidal wave before it surged over their torches, smothering the flames with a dread-inducing crack.

  Terror-stricken, the mercenaries advanced with uncertainty and I threw myself into their front line. The sheer speed in which I appeared before them sent a clear and resounding message: You're all fucked.

  An axe came floating by my side as I borrowed a dagger from a nearby mercenary's sheathe and swiftly dragged the blade through the night like I was writing my name with a sparkler.

  Crimson rain wet the dirt as I glided through their ranks, relentlessly stabbing and slashing my way through their advance. A burly swordsman charged toward me, his massive blade aimed directly at my chest while three of his comrades stabbed at me from the sides.

  I spun and they fell back, wobbling and collapsing due to their freshly severed throats. The heavy swordsman's eyes darkened with regret for committing to his charge. I slammed the tip of my dagger through the top of his skull.

  The tip of my dagger snapped off in the bone and I stopped to reassess the situation after getting lost in a torrent of bloodshed. Only a few seconds had passed and ten bodies were splayed out on the ground.

  Meanwhile Nelson viciously spurred his horse, but the animal remained frozen in place like a statue. Had he completely abandoned his duties as their unit's commander?

  Several survivors banded together in a tight-knit mob, furiously backpedaling away from my position, putting their backs against the shack's faulty wooden frame.

  "Is anyone ready to answer my questions?"

  Once Nelson realized his horse was on strike, he reverted to threatening Xodoven, drawing blood as he forced the sword against his neck.

  Nelson's started up again, voice wavering, "I'll—"

  But I interjected, "Let's both do what we deem necessary."

  Dagger Step.

  I teleported behind Nelson, joining him on his horse. Before he knew where I went, I twisted his wrist, rotating it inward until his bones splintered. His sword fell, slicing through Xodoven's cheek as I threw Nelson off the horse.

  Nelson landed hard on his back amidst the arrangement of corpses, squealing like a stuck pig. I dropped off the horse and calmly approached the line of surviving mercenaries who were in the process of throwing their weapons to the ground.

  Shadow Weave

  I ripped a shadow out from the shack's walls, forming a flat straight razor before I whipped my hand to the side. The shadow tore from right to left, seamlessly slicing through their waists. They fell like dominoes and I turned my attention toward Nelson.

  "Unbelievable," I said. "Nobody can answer a simple question. What did you do to Vicky?"

  Nelson squirmed on his back, mouth agape like he wanted to scream, but no sound came out. He whimpered, shaking his head.

  "Please, I don't know who Vicky is. We only captured Grimspark," Nelson blubbered.

  Hearing her name repeated back sank my heart. "What did you say?"

  "I don't know Vicky," Nelson cried.

  "Don't say her fucking name!" I lunged atop Nelson and grabbed his neck. "She's dead, you asshole! They killed her and buried her underneath the birch tree in the backyard."

  His vertebrae crumbled under the force of my grip, eyes bulging as I squeezed tighter and tighter until I realized I was the one who had misspoke.

  +575 XP

  +170 Karma