Vincent burst in, kicking the door down. He rolled into the room in a shower of splintered wood and dust.

  The weight of a life.

  The monsters he had defeated so far had been mere obstacles in his path, like wild animals, but killing a human being was supposed to be different. That there was a weight to it, to ending a person's life, not an animal's. Vincent discovered he was wrong, that he'd been stupid to ever fear he would hesitate, that his hand would even tremble.

  He discovered that Ayame, as usual, was right.

  "What the hell was that?!"

  The first head rolled before that shout was finished. But he didn't kill the person who shouted, of course, but one who was closer. One who saw what was coming with his own eyes and only had time to widen them. A spray of blood, a head with eyes that still seemed to see, rolling on the ground. If so, it surely wouldn't for long.

  There.

  And then the asshole turned the corner and saw it with his own eyes.

  "What the hell was that?"

  Half a dozen armed people surrounded him. Him, a village boy who wasn't even a real knight. A mere student who still had much to learn. The odds weren't great, but the first arrow hit its mark. One of them fell to his knees, clutching his shoulder. Blood seeped, thick, between his trembling hands. He wasn't alone.

  "A fucking archer, get away from the window!" It was a clear, direct, common-sense order.

  Vincent moved back and to the left—that is, closer to the window.

  "So how are you going to kill me?" he challenged them. "Come and get me. Are you that scared? Red Scars. What a big, important-sounding name. But when it comes to it, you're not willing to suffer scars on your own flesh, are you? You'd much rather kidnap schoolgirls from their beds, right?"

  Vincent spoke sincerely. Nothing more, it wasn't a ploy to provoke them. It had that effect anyway.

  One took the bait, lunging forward. The sword shone under the artificial light illuminating the building's interior and also under the moonlight filtering through the window. The second arrow was fired, but it was no use. It just bounced off the shield and was lost, useless.

  The thug, a Red Scar, reached him, stood before him. With a twist of his waist, he executed a strike that could split a poor son of a bitch in half. One, for example, who hadn't wasted time putting on armor like him, but who had the stamina to survive such a blow.

  Anyway, he didn't take it. He dodged at the last second, just in time, and the enemy's axe slammed into the wood right where his head had been.

  Vincent shouted, swung his sword, and another head rolled. Now there were two spreading pools of blood. Soon the floor would be painted red; the dirt, the dust, the straw. All painted a scarlet, almost unnatural red, like a poisonous flower, with a strange beauty, even.

  The third and fourth rushed him. He immediately rolled on the floor, dodging the other. Vincent knew, he knew he wouldn't have time to dodge the next attack, but he didn't care. With a cool head and an even colder heart, he grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it in his eyes. The thug staggered back, complaining, covering his eyes with a forearm. His sword flew, reaping that animal's life, and he felt nothing at all. Of course he didn't—he felt pleasure, but still no kind of weight. It had simply been done. It had happened before his eyes, just another thing, as if it were something he did every day. Better, much better, that it was this easy. He had no time to tremble and vomit and wonder what he'd done. He had to act.

  "Where is the vampiress?" he asked. "Where? Where?"

  Vincent threw himself on the fourth, tackling him to the ground. No one answered him.

  "Where is she?" he insisted. "For fuck's sake! Where is she?"

  His answer was a spear. The answer was a spear thrown in his direction. He saw it out of the corner of his eye. It rose, cutting through the air. He reacted, raising his shield with time to spare, but the impact, perhaps because of his position, perhaps because of the mental imbalance he was in, was stronger than he thought. Consequently, he lost the shield. It fell to the ground and rolled next to the axe.

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  Doesn't matter, he thought. It doesn't matter, as long as they don't hit me, it doesn't matter if I have a shield or not, if I'm wearing armor or not. As long as they don't hit me, everything's fine.

  Although, of course, that was easier said than done. What wasn't? That was the truth.

  Vincent roared and swung his sword with both hands at the guy he had pinned to the ground. He refused to answer, like the others, so why not offer some motivation? The blade cut skin and flesh, but not as cleanly as he would have liked, nor as quickly, nor as decisively. He didn't decapitate the son of a bitch in a single blow. The blade sank into his neck, but he was still very much alive.

  "You fucking bastard!"

  He writhed, howling at the top of his lungs. They would certainly attract the attention of other people, the city guard, whoever. They would certainly attract them, but right now Vincent couldn't give a single flying fuck.

  The guy who threw his spear now threw himself on top of him. He had no other choice, disarmed as he was. He knocked him to the ground, making him bite the dust and pulling him away from his companion. But that wasn't going to get the sword out of his fucking neck. In fact, if he had had time to pull it out, he'd probably be dead already. It was a serious wound. It would take a miracle or a damn skilled healer to save his life. And that's if one arrived right this instant, as if fallen from the sky. In other words, it was a matter of time before he died, and it was better that he suffered. Better. Everyone involved, all of them, deserved to die squealing like that pig.

  Vincent used his free hand to grab the neck of the burly guy on top of him, squeezing, while the man punched him in the face, the chest, with increasing savagery.

  "Where is she?" he demanded again, his voice hoarse, torn.

  The guy didn't seem inclined to start talking, though of course, with his hand on his throat, it would be difficult even if he wanted to. But Vincent didn't relax his grip. They couldn't rest on their laurels.

  He didn't kill him, however. It was Tara, putting an arrow between his eyes.

  Vincent pushed the corpse off him. He rolled to one side, got up as quickly as he could, and jumped just in time to avoid one of the few survivors yanking the spear from the wall and trying to reach him with it, substituting the shield for the spear. It almost grazed his ass, almost, as he vaulted over a fence, a fence they would have to go around to reach him. Only almost, but that in itself was bad enough. He had to end this as soon as possible. Otherwise, the next "almost" could turn into certain death. It was a matter of time.

  Vincent backed away further, his blade scraping the ground, kicking up dust. The place reeked of blood and guts. He was far from the window, he and the remaining enemies. Tara couldn't provide support, not from that position. But Vincent, despite what he lacked in experience, understood that even if she could reposition herself, by the time she did, the fight would be over.

  He was truly alone now. For the first time since he entered the academy's forest, the outcome of a fight depended entirely on him. It wasn't that he hadn't been instrumental in their previous victories, but this was different. This was worse.

  Two bastards rushed him. One with a spear, the spear that had almost pricked his ass, naturally, and the other with a sharp axe already wet with blood. He hadn't really noticed until now. He wondered if they had been doing something before he arrived. Not with Ayame, surely, but maybe it was related. Maybe not. In any case, they should pay for the spilled blood.

  Unless it's the blood of their own companions, then, he thought deliriously. Focus.

  He had been focused so far and everything had gone well. Anger was only the answer, it would only be useful up to a certain point. He blocked the spear's thrusts with his sword, having lost his shield and the chance to easily recover it; it was now on the other side of the room, out of his reach. But as for the axe, which was what mattered, he didn't dodge so easily. In fact, he didn't even dodge. He blocked the blow with his forearm.

  "Agh! For fuck's sake!" he complained.

  But he didn't waste time. He threw himself back, dragging the spearman to the ground with him. Of course, this twisted the axe even deeper into the wound, tearing a silent scream from the back of his throat. But he got over it. He broke the spearman's arm, snatching his weapon, and then broke the weapon itself. One half ended up in the neck of the man with the axe, piercing it from side to side, looking almost like an arrow. And the other piece went to the spearman himself, through an eye, straight to the brain.

  It was all over very quickly.

  Vincent gritted his teeth and tore the axe from his forearm. The blood flowed even faster. He took a step forward, a trembling step toward the last enemy, as he tossed the axe aside. The spear was already on the ground again. He only held his sword.

  "Where is the vampiress?" he asked again, his shoulders shaking. "Last chance."

  The last man standing stared back at him as if he were seeing a demon.

  "Ah! You bitch!"

  And now he recoiled, clutching his neck. There, her fangs had opened a deep wound. Blood spilled, thick, between his fingers, but in the end, it was just a little blood. She had managed to escape before she could drain him. Drink him whole.

  It surely hurt a lot, but the wound wouldn't kill him. In short, unfortunately, she was still screwed. Still, Ayame smiled, triumphant, her mouth full of another man's blood. A person's blood, good or bad. Of course, the rest was already making its way down her throat or on its way to her stomach. She should still feel fear, disgust, and even disappointment, because she had crossed the line again, and this time no one had forced her—not with a hand over her mouth so she couldn't spit it out, at any rate.

  But she simply felt triumphant.

  "I'm weak," she shouted, "but not out of the fight, you stupid son of a bitch!"

  She paid for the act of rebellion immediately, of course. A boot smashed her head against the floor.

  Ayame writhed on the ground. Her ribs and her tits ached where his fingers had dug in, trying to tear her clothes.

  But the smile remained on her face.

  "A worm like you can't dominate me."