The last pair—the two who had been watching the horses—trudged toward camp, oblivious that they’d been marked as the hunter’s first kills.

  Half of the mercenaries were asleep, the other half? Standing Guard.

  Then, like clockwork, the waking shift roused their replacements. No challenges. No passcodes. Just slapped shoulders and grumbled curses as they traded places.

  Vincent was taking note of their actions and looking for the order in which they did them. It did not take him long to notice that they would change shifts once every three hours, and that their weapons were as good as broken.

  *Best group in the entire nation and thats the condition of their armaments?* Vincent was shocked, and rightfully so. He expected them to be the cream of the crop. But it appeared that they were barely alive.

  *Limited rations, limited numbers, and shitty weapons. Are they really the diamond Fiends?* Vincent thought to himself

  Vincent decided to wait until another shift change was close, then get in, kill the tired guards, kill the sleeping guards, and get away.

  *It's definitely not going to go smoothly. I need a Plan B.*

  ***

  In the suffocating darkness of midnight,two mercenaries stood watch over the horses—one leaning on a chipped spear, the other slumped on a rotting log. Their voices barely rose above the wind.

  "You think we should ditch this crew after the job?" the spearman asked

  The seated man didn’t look up."We should" He then looked around. "Just looking at our pathetic state should be enough reason for us to do."

  "Fair enough,let's continue this tomorrow. I need to sleep"

  "Same, let's wake the next shift."the seated man got up, signaled the rest of the shit, then went to change shifts.

  At the signal, the rest of the mercenaries standing guard scrambled to swap posts—no hellos, no handoffs, just tired men trading places in the dark.

  Unaware that death waited for this exact moment.

  Tired. Hungry. Paranoia gnawing at their nerves.

  *Something wasn’t right.*

  "Hey, do you—"

  The unarmed mercenary cut him off, eyes locked ahead. "Yes. We are." A whisper, razor-sharp: "Run and yell when I say."

  *Shhk thud* *shhk thud* ,one footstep after the other, they acted naturally, trying to get close enough to be able to alert their allies.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  ...A faint ***krrrik*** whispered through the darkness as a tree branch bowed unnaturally.****

  With that sound, the spearman flinched,the movement was little. But it was still enough to tell the hunter that his presence was known.

  "RUN BASTARD!" the unarmed mercenary practically yelled.

  But they were too late... Because just a moment after the started running, The earth gronched as the soil reared up in serrated spikes.

  *SHVVT!*

  The first mercenary *lifted off his feet*, a stone spear *protruding* from his sternum with a *CRUNCH* of shattered breastplate. His dying *HHK!* was drowned by his partner’s *AAAGH—* cut short as a second spike *punched* through his jaw with a *CLACK-THLOMP* of splintering molars.

  Silence.

  Then—*drip... drip...*—as the spikes retracted, leaving two bodies to slump like discarded puppets.

  "And here I was hoping to be able to interrogate one of them... *Sigh*" Vincent's disappointment was more than obvious "I'll have to be more careful with the next ones". He then rushed towards the camp,while trying to come up with another plan.

  Once he got close enough to the camp, he stalked toward the isolated tent, its canvas walls trembling slightly with each wet snore from within.

  *No guards. No patrols.* Just the hiss of a dying torch and the reek of unwashed bodies.

  His hand found the hilt of his short-sword . These men would die first. Not because they deserved it most, but because they’d be the first to notice the silence where there should’ve been footsteps.

  One flick of the blade. That’s all it would take to turn their dreams into choking blood.

  Vincent slipped inside the tent.

  Two men slept within—oblivious, slack-jawed, their breath reeking of cheap ale. The first lay on a rickety plank barely worthy of being called a bed, his head propped on a mold-stained rucksack.The other sprawled on the dirt floor, wrapped in a threadbare cloak that’d long since given up keeping out the cold.

  No last words. No final dreams.

  Vincent’s short sword punched through the first mercenary’s throat with a wet *thuk* . Before the body could twitch, his free hand jerked upward—a jagged icicle erupted from the second man’s neck, glinting crimson as it burst through his Adam’s apple.

  *Silence.*

  Only the drip of blood on leather betrayed the silence.

  *Four gone, no more than eight remain*

  Vincent looked around him. The blood disgusted him. He didn't have want to be here. But yet he was. He didn't want to be here. But yet he was.

  *Now's not the time to think...*

  He got out of the tent and looked around.

  *One... two torches.*

  The first flickered near a pair of mercenaries, deep in conversation. The second burned beside a lone sentry, vigilant but isolated.

  *Four—maybe fewer—are still asleep. I’ve already killed four.*

  After a moment’s hesitation, he made his choice. The sleeping ones first.

  He sneaked towards the closest tent, this one had two mercenaries inside. He decided to go for the same approach he did for the previous tent.

  Moments after he entered the tent, blood splattered on the sides of the tent, which was visible enough to make this tent stand out like a sore thumb.

  Vincent looked at the tent from outside, clearly annoyed that this attempt was a lot messier *Even more reason to hurry up*

  He looked at the last tent he had to take care of before going for the waking mercenaries. He pondered for a moment.

  *Maybe, I'm already past being careful.

  Maybe, I should try to be as quick as possible.* he then looked around, after remembering that no mercenaries would check the tents, he decided to keep up the stealthy approach.

  He approached the last tent which was significantly smaller than the other two tents. After reaching the entrance of the tent. He got inside without checking if anyone was awake.

  What awaited him, was a man sitting on a chair, knife in hand, infront of a small mirror and a dimly lit candle.

  He was trimming his beard.