Ten bandits. Luke counted them in a heartbeat—four crossbowmen, three archers, two warriors... and a mage.

Damn.

They were prepared.

"You move quiet, kid," one of the warriors said, spinning his axe lazily. His grin didn't reach his eyes.

The mage stepped forward, raising his staff. Orbs of lightning crackled into existence, humming as they floated in lazy, deadly circles.

"Hand over everything," the second warrior added. "We're already pissed. Meant to catch you before you touched the orb."

Luke's eyes scanned the terrain. Every exit was covered.

"It's nightfall," the mage said, voice sharper now. "Midnight Wardens will be out soon. So unless you want to end up tied to a tree as bait..."

Luke didn't have time for this.

Charlie was still sealed in his soul. Summoning her would take seconds—seconds he didn't have. Not against this many ranged weapons.

"If I give you my gear..." Luke's voice stayed level. "You'll let me walk?"

The warrior chuckled. "As long as you don't try anything... yeah. You walk. Now. Empty your inventory."

Crossbows leveled at him. The tips glowed with mana, primed to fire.

Luke raised his hands. Slow. Controlled.

"The kukris. Drop 'em."

He obeyed. Carefully placed both blades on the dirt. His muscles stayed taut. Ready.

The warrior stepped forward, axe in hand. "If he moves, shoot him," he ordered.

Luke's mind raced.

Inventory items can't be stolen. Only traded.

If he died, everything in the inventory would be locked—lost to everyone. That's why they needed him alive. He had to willingly transfer it through the system.

The warrior stooped, scooping up the kukris, testing their weight. "Nice blades." He grinned, then raised his axe. "Now... touch my arm. Transfer. All of it."

Luke stepped forward. Hand extended.

And in the same motion—snapped a throwing knife from his belt and flung it straight at the mage.

The mage's eyes widened. His body twisted, barely dodging as the blade hissed past his cheek.

Luke exploded into motion.

The warrior's axe came down—too slow.

Luke vaulted backward just as a storm of arrows and spells tore through the space he'd been standing in a heartbeat earlier.

A bolt of lightning detonated against stone—ripping it apart in a cascade of light and debris.

Luke twisted midair, landed hard on the broken wall of a collapsed building. His fingers flicked up.

[Magnetic Return]

Both kukris ripped free from the warrior's hands, flying back into Luke's grip.

"What the—?!" the warrior gasped.

But Luke was already gone. A blur of motion diving from the wall into the shadows of the forest.

Chaos erupted behind him.

"GET HIM!"

Footsteps hammered the dirt.

"Light him up!"

Crystals soared through the air—glowing shards that burst midflight into searing spheres of white light, flooding the woods with broken, flickering brightness.

"There! Fire!"

Bolts sliced through branches. Arrows shattered bark. Lightning ripped holes in the ground, sending showers of dirt and roots flying.

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Luke dove over a fallen log, rolled beneath a thornbush, then pivoted hard—slamming into a tangle of vines.

"You're dead, kid!" the warrior roared behind him. "This is OUR territory!"

Luke didn't answer. His mind was already three steps ahead.

Detection arrows flew through the trees, trailing green sigils—probing the dark, scanning for movement.

The glow of tracking crystals bounced through the woods, casting fractured light across slick bark and twisted roots.

Every breath was a risk. Every footstep a calculation.

He had seconds. Maybe less.

Then came the low rumble. Not magic. A storm.

The first drops whispered through the canopy. Gentle. Deceptive. Then a hiss. Then a wall of water— a downpour so dense it drowned sound, blurred sight, and devoured footsteps.

A sharp crack split the dark.

"There!" an archer barked.

Arrows tore through the rain—silent streaks of death.

But they weren't alone.

Knives erupted from the shadows—sleek, spinning, multiplying midair like reflections in broken glass.

"Shit!" a crossbowman screamed as steel punched through his hand.

The forest dissolved into chaos—wet leaves, broken branches, scattered light, and the relentless pulse of rain masking everything.

The lead warrior didn't flinch. His fingers spun the axe lazily. "Come on out, little kitten," he called, voice dripping with arrogance. "Let's see those claws."

Archers answered with another volley of perception arrows—lines of green sigils fanning out into the trees.

"Nothing," one muttered. "He's not running."

The warrior grinned. Greed sharpened his gaze. "I want those blades. Both of them. They're mine."

And then—the line snapped.

A sharp whistle sliced through the storm. One crossbowman staggered back, a black blade buried in his face, blood gushing down as he crumpled into the mud.

The kukri spun midair—caught a flash of lightning—then vanished.

"Where the hell is he?!" someone shouted, breath hitching on panic.

More blades burst from the dark. The mage slammed his staff into the dirt—wind exploded outward, scattering the knives mid-flight.

Lightning lit the world—just for a breath.

And in that breath... they saw him.

A pair of eyes. Faint. Unnatural. Watching from above.

Perched on a branch. A phantom stitched from rain and shadow.

The warrior's heart seized. "No—!"

Too late.

The figure dropped like a guillotine. Pure, merciless velocity.

The black kukri drove straight into the warrior's eye.

A scream ripped the air as the man collapsed, clutching his ruined face, blood streaming through his fingers.

"Kill him! KILL THE BASTARD!"

An archer spun toward footsteps in the mud—loosed an arrow.

But what lunged from the dark wasn't Luke.

It was something worse.

A skeleton.

Eyes burning with spectral green fire. Rain glazed its bones, each step snapping with unnatural force. It slammed into the archer, lifted him clean off the ground, and drove him spine-first into a tree.

The scream barely escaped before steel punched through his chest. Charlie's blade—clean, brutal, final.

Crossbows whipped around—too slow.

A gasp behind them. A gurgle. Flesh dragged into the roots. Gone.

Another tried to turn. A flash of black—his wrist split open, hand crashing to the mud.

He screamed—only for the second blade to punch through his jaw, shearing teeth and shattering bone. The body folded, twitching once, then stilled.

The shadow vanished again.

"There's TWO OF THEM!" the crossbowman shrieked, clutching the stump of his hand. His voice garbled, blood gushing from a ruined mouth.

Silence answered.

Then a blade whispered through the storm—punched clean into the man's skull. His body dropped into the mud, shivered once... then stopped.

"Kill the brat!" the one-eyed warrior bellowed, voice hoarse, dripping rage. Blood sluiced down the ruined side of his face.

The mage slammed his staff down, conjuring ten orbs of searing light, hurling them outward like vengeful stars.

A flash of blue split the storm. For a heartbeat, the forest glowed like midday—banishing every shadow. Just long enough to catch a glimpse. A blur. Fast. Inhumanly fast. Darting between the trees like something unbound by flesh.

"He's here!" an archer shouted, voice cracking.

Blades rained from the canopy—obsidian arcs spinning through the storm. One slammed into a crossbowman's shoulder, punching clean through bone. He folded without a scream. Then came a soft splat—a rock, tossed into the mud.

Instinct ruled. The archers spun. Arrows loosed into empty trees. Nothing. It was bait.

Before anyone could correct, steel collided with steel. The second warrior turned toward the sound, eyes wide, as a figure stepped from the shadows. Tall. Sword drawn. Silver glinting under the downpour.

"Help me!" the warrior screamed, barely raising his axe in time to meet the first strike. Arrows sliced toward them—frantic support.

But elsewhere, a crossbowman never even got the chance to fire. A shadow slipped behind him. Two blades flashed—one severed the throat, the other tore through the ribs. The body crumpled, folding into the mud without a sound.

The mage twisted, staff raised, lightning screaming toward his palm.

Too slow.

A silhouette dropped from the treetops. A streak of motion. A falling star made of flesh and rage. The boy landed—silent. Precise.

The archers panicked. Arrows shot wildly. Luke swatted two from the air mid-flight, kukris slicing them aside like they were nothing but wind.

One archer stumbled. His mouth opened. Breath hitched.

Too late.

Luke surged forward. One heartbeat—he was standing. The next—he was on top of him. A panther closing jaws around prey.

Steel bit through flesh. Again. Again. Again. Merciless. Surgical. Efficient. Every stab painted the dirt red. Every movement peeled skin from muscle, muscle from bone, until there was nothing left but a ruined corpse, twitching once—then still.

The mage screamed. Lightning tore from his staff, ripping through trees in wild arcs. Luke was gone—rolled beneath roots, slipped into the underbrush before the spell detonated. Smoke and ozone filled the air. The archer convulsed once—then didn't move again.

The storm thickened.

The surviving warrior stumbled—mud, blood, and terror dripping from his face. And then... he saw it.

A skeleton.

Its eyes burned green, cutting through the mist. It moved. Fast. Faster than anything undead should be allowed to move.

A fist crashed into his face. The world spun. His feet slipped. The sword came down. Clean. Ruthless. Bone split flesh. The leg tore free, trailing blood in a wide, sickening arc. The warrior collapsed, a raw howl splitting the rain.

The skeleton stepped forward—silent. Unstoppable. The sword lifted once more. Then dropped. A clean line. A clean end. The body twitched. Then didn't.

Now there were three survivors. Two monsters. And nowhere left to run.

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