A man with a shimmering sword stands in front of me. He’d blocked my lightning; now that same crackling light ripples over the metal, being swallowed whole—like a Void crystal, except this blade is forged from some alloy with the same hunger.

  He has pitch-black, close-cropped hair and green eyes. Scars carve across his face; he looks twice my age— and he looks furious.

  He shifts from a defensive guard to an outright attack posture but speaks first.

  “What’s your purpose here? You don’t look like one of the scum.”

  “Hmm. I might not be on their side, but you both will die by my hand,” I say, trying to sound badass—and cringe a little at myself.

  His expression curdles.

  “Fine… what is your name? I’ll behead you.”

  I laugh at the idea. ’Maybe I’ve grown arrogant, but honestly, nothing here has really been a threat. Maybe this guy will—he certainly seems confident.‘

  “Kaizer. And yours?”

  He squares his shoulders; I stay relaxed. How strong can he be?

  “Fior. Prepare.”

  The final vowel has barely left his lips before he’s on me—fast, but not faster than I am.

  He lunges—a stab so fast and powerful the air and earth quake. I dodge narrowly, still underestimating him. I clamp onto the blade with a mana-coated hand and try to yank him closer, but he’s faster; he twists the sword before I can secure my grip, shattering the section of my shield around my hand—yet I knit it back together in an instant. Lightning flares from my other hand; he retracts and blocks. I press in. He chops downward; I absorb the blow, pivot, charge my leg with lightning, and kick for his side. He blocks again. I leap back to make space.

  I grin from ear to ear—‘Finally, a challenge.’

  I settle into a more serious posture.

  All the while, the mundane soldiers keep pelting me with bullets; a few are still charging.

  Since they insist on interrupting, I decide to be a bit despicable: one man lunges, I grab him, and hurl him at Fior. I actually chuckle—it strikes me as hilarious.

  Fior doesn’t catch the man—he slices him in half, spraying even more blood across the field. Ruthless. These people have no care for their own.

  Fior, in fact, looks enraged—at my actions and at my grin.

  I jokingly say,

  “You can’t blame me—they’re interrupting.”

  He doesn’t buy it. Snarling, he rushes me.

  I keep hurling bodies at him; he turns into a blender, slicing up his own comrades. I start cackling like I’m playing fruit ninja with people. ’I’m actually starting to scare myself—focus. Deal with the moral fallout later.‘

  His blood-soaked sword crashes down at my chest, trying to bisect me. I pivot clear, but his hand snaps forward, and I’m too close—white light flares, blinding me. Eyes shut, I switch to the sphere, weaving between his slashes. Shockwaves carve bystanders; the ground splits wherever his blade passes.

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  He slips beyond my sphere’s range. I give chase—something whistles toward me, too fast to react. His sword. He threw it. I twist, flood my abdomen with mana, and brace. The shield shatters; the blade punches through. I grunt at the pain—’Not fatal. Desperate move, dumbass.‘

  Vision returns. I yank the weapon free and seal the wound with mana.

  The metal hums in my grip—like a Void crystal. ’This might make a decent conduit.‘

  I glare at him; he’s already drawn a shorter backup blade, ready for more.

  I flood the blade with lightning-infused mana. It glows but doesn’t buckle like ordinary metal.

  Satisfied, I swing, sending an arc of lightning into the soldiers charging toward us.

  Fior looks worried now—his gambit failed, and I’ve just claimed his weapon.

  Playfully, I say,

  “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Shut up!” he shouts.

  This time I charge, slicing through anyone in my path. Beneath the chaos Fior tries a sneak attack, but my sphere spots him first. I knock the man between us aside; Fior lunges for my heart, his cover blown. I twist away and drive my blade through his shoulder.

  He leaps back, but I don’t relent. Lightning forks from each swing. He blocks; I slip my blade under his guard, charring his leg—painful but not disabling. I press on: stab, slash, pivot, slash again. Cracks spider across his sword. I hammer that weak point—slash, dodge, slash—until the blade shatters.

  He’s stunned. I capitalize, thrusting my weapon through his chest and flooding him with current. Lightning spills from his eyes and mouth, cooking him from the inside.

  Now that was fun. ’Imagine if he’d been stronger.’

  I scan the field. Some soldiers are still firing and charging, but others are already fleeing—their morale shattered. I finish cleaning up and stride into the main camp, heading straight for the largest tent—their H.Q.

  Inside, a lone officer slumps with a bottle of spirits dangling from one hand. Defeat hangs on him like a weight. He looks up and rasps, “How did the scum create a monster like you?”

  I stay silent. ’Yeah, I just wandered in because of an uncle, a father, and a shadow’s promise. Not even sure it’s in my best interest—but curiosity and a good fight are hard to resist.’

  “Kill me,” he mutters. “It’s over. I’ll be executed anyway. Make it quick.” He drains the bottle, and as it lowers, so does his head—right off his shoulders.

  He wanted to die; who am I to refuse?

  Koln appears behind me. “Good work.”

  I turn to him.

  “Where were you?”

  “Observing.”

  “…Nice. So should I go deal with the other side now?”

  “No, not yet—wait until nightfall.”

  “Okay—then I’m just gonna ask again: why are we—why am I—killing these parties?”

  “It’s simple. We need to.”

  Vague and cryptic as ever.

  I walk over to a crate of spirits beside its former owner’s corpse and pick up a bottle. I haven’t had a drink in a while.

  “Wanna drink?” I ask, but when I turn around Koln is gone again. Nifty trick. Is he hiding in my shadows? I doubt it; I still feel Voi clinging to me.

  I drop into a nearby chair, pop the cork, and take a long pull.

  “Aahh, that’s the good stuff.”

  I lower the bottle and mull over what I’ve done.

  ’I killed countless people—many of them defenseless. They were trying to kill me, but I was ruthless… enjoyed it, even. No, what I enjoyed was the triumph. I don’t feel an urge to murder innocents, and I didn’t relish killing the officer—though I didn’t hesitate, either. If you choose to fight, you accept the rules of the strong. Still, laughing like a maniac? That unsettles me. Maybe they were conscripts, but if they hadn’t charged me, they’d still be alive.‘

  I finish the bottle, toss it aside, and head for the opposite front.

  ***

  I wait nearby. Night has fallen—showtime.

  I sneak forward, but without any real stealth technique a few sentries spot me almost immediately, rousing the rest of the defenders.

  I sprint toward their line. Another barrier stands in my way, but after testing the last one I decide to brute-force it with my new sword. The weapon is medium-length—I’d prefer something with a bit more reach and heft, but it’ll do. I saturate the blade with lightning-infused mana until it glows like a miniature blue sun. Compressing the charge so no arcs leak, I drive the point into the barrier. The surface indents, flexing under the pressure; ripples shimmer across the wall until, with a hard crack, it collapses, the mana stones inside imploding.

  Only then do the soldiers open fire, but the bullets flatten into harmless pellets against my shield. I bear down on the first victims, slashing wide arcs that loose waves of lightning and tear through the packed ranks. There are far more of them here, simply because they held their ground rather than charging unlike the other side.

  I keep sweeping through the crowds—I must be an anomaly; these tactics make no sense against someone like me.

  Finally, I’m interrupted. A man hovers in the sky, robed in white and gold; I can’t make out his face in the darkness. He sends gales of wind toward me, trying to lift me—and I let him.

  Wind chains haul me upward. He charges through the air with a lance of condensed wind, aiming for my heart. Just before he reaches me, I overload the spell holding me with my own wind—an element I’m quite proficient with—sacrificing my sphere in the process. The moment I’m free, the sphere snaps back, and my blade, burning with blue lightning, sweeps down at him. He tries to veer away, but I widen the arc, zapping him out of the sky. We both fall; I land on my feet, and he crashes onto his back.

  I approach. White hair, gold eyes—same as mine. Koln said everyone here is the enemy, so I swing down. At the last instant he vanishes in a flash, leaving only the blood that had spilled.

  Still blinking, I’m attacked by another mage—this one a swordsman with a zweihander. Now that’s more like it. We raise our blades.

  No words. He begins with a downward slash; I block and his blade rebounds. He shifts grip, stabbing close-quarters. I pivot, slide my blade in, and pierce his shoulder. He staggers back; I send an arc of lightning after him, then follow with another thrust that punches through his other shoulder as he blocks the arc. His sword drops. I decapitate him, sheathe my medium blade, and heft the two-hander.

  I keep clearing the camp—maybe a thousand dead here, fifteen hundred on the first front. These soldiers are prouder, more disciplined; they don’t gun down their own to get at me. Three attack mages: the teleporter, the zweihander, and a lightning user like me—overpowered in one strike.

  At their command tent, the brass fight to the last breath—admirable. None flee, except the vanishing man.

  Koln materializes behind me.

  “Good—we’re a step closer.”

  “…So what’s next?”

  “We’re going to capture a fortress.”

  “What?”