Inner Swamp,
Central Province.
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For more than six hours Arthur had been fighting, carving deeper into the swamp with his spirit steed beneath him.
He could no longer hear his men shouting from behind. He’d gone too deep for that.
Thunder roared without pause—louder, brighter, closer than any storm he had ever ridden through.
With each strike he grew stronger.
With each kill, he became faster.
With each surge of lightning along his blade, something inside him unfurled.
Maybe it was anger.
Maybe it was grief.
Maybe it was that hollow, shaking space left behind when Tenha died.
He didn’t even realize that he had burned much more of his mana and stamina than necessary fighting this way.
His mind drifted, half swallowed by the electrified haze. The world narrowed to flashes of white-blue and the wet snap of flesh splitting beneath his sword.
At the same time, he felt a presence just beyond the treeline, deep in the black water and tangling roots, calling him.
He leaned into it without thought, guiding his steed toward the heart of the swampy woods. The trees shuddered at his passing.
A fresh pack of swamp-stalkers burst from the brambles; their legs and hands crawled over mud and root.
He didn’t even faze. Lightning flared along the greatsword’s edge, gathering at the tip in a sharp, trembling sphere of white-blue heat.
With a single sweeping arc, he unleashed it.
The air split.
Bolts tore outward like snapping chains, each one finding a target.
The first stalker was severed cleanly at the waist, its upper half thrown backward in a shower of steaming blood.
Another leapt from a fallen log, only for a whip of lightning to coil around its throat, tightening until the creature’s head popped free in a burst of burning fur.
Two more were struck mid-stride; their bodies convulsed violently, skin blistering as electricity raced through them, leaving nothing but crumpled husks.
His breath grew heavier. Each exhale grew more ragged and steaming in the cold night air.
Maintaining the spectral mount was already draining, but riding it while channeling raw mana through his arms and into the greatsword was a whole different beast.
He couldn’t keep this pace, not when he fought like a mad man and had no men to execute his plan.
With a lazy gesture, he unsummoned the mount.
The spectral form shattered into drifting embers of blue light, fading into the humid air. Arthur dropped to the swamp floor, boots sinking instantly into the sloppy, wet earth.
Arthur leaned against a crooked stump, mud clinging to his armor, his heartbeat still thundering in his ears.
He paused just long enough to breathe.
Times like this… Tenha would’ve been at his side.
Pulling some ridiculous snack from his pouch, dried fruit, spiced nuts, or some meat strips he insisted tasted better “in the field.”
He had always offered it with that stupid half-grin, as if food could fix exhaustion, fear, or the endless grind of their duties. But he was right, it had always helped.
Arthur huffed a laugh. It came out bitter. A sound that sounded painful on the way out.
His throat tightened and his eyes burned.
One day. Not even a full day since Tenha died, and it already felt like some distant, jagged memory carved into his ribs.
He should still be complaining, still making bad jokes, and still handing him snacks he always pretended to refuse.
As if the world had moved on without him, leaving him stranded with the echo of a friend who should still be here.
But he wasn’t.
Arthur shook his head, blinking against the redness gathering at the corners of his eyes.
He straightened, gripping his sword tighter to keep himself upright.
Rustle. Rustle.
Arthur looked.
From behind a curtain of hanging moss, something massive pushed through, a troll, thick-skinned, broad-shouldered, easily three times Arthur’s height.
A troll here?
There shouldn’t have been trolls in swamp territory. Swamp worms, stalkers, Cannabysts, that was the natural order.
Trolls belonged to highlands or deep caves, nowhere near this waterlogged hell.
Again, Tenha would’ve been scribbling notes already, muttering questions about habitats and migration patterns.
The troll roared, lifting a massive tree trunk stripped bare of branches. With a single step, it swung, low, sweeping, and fast.
Arthur leapt, twisting mid-air, a full 360-degree flip that brought him down with his blade aimed for the monster’s shoulder.
He barely clipped it.
Steel scraped its bone as the edge tore through the troll’s outer arm flesh, peeling it off in one brutal slice.
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Dark red blood spewed out. The troll’s scream shook the stagnant air.
It lunged, trying to grab him with its remaining good hand.
Arthur met the grasp with his sword, bracing the flat of the blade against the troll’s palm, forcing it back.
The weight was enormous, enough to crush a horse. But Arthur, he planted his feet, refusing to slide.
The troll pushed harder.
He shifted, sweeping a powerful kick at its calf. The impact sank deep into the thick muscle, buckling the troll’s stance. Its balance faltered.
He stepped in close—too close for the troll to swing the trunk again—and slashed upward, carving across its ribs.
The troll roared, swinging its elbow wildly. Arthur ducked beneath it and drove a lightning-coated punch into its lower gut, sending a shock through its organs.
Arthur pressed the advantage.
A slash to the thigh.
A stab to the hip joint.
Another shockwave sent straight through its kneecap.
The troll dropped to one knee, wheezing, spitting gore.
He raised his sword for the final blow, when the ground trembled.
Another presence, closing the distance at a high speed.
Instinct took over. He turned sharply, sweeping his blade diagonally behind him. Lightning trailed from the arc, illuminating the attacker.
It recoiled mid-pounce, twisting its body to avoid being cleaved in half. It landed three meters to the right, crouched low menacingly, watching and waiting.
He shoved his blade straight down into the troll’s skull, the steel sinking with a wet crack. The troll convulsed once, then went still.
All the while, Arthur kept unbroken eye contact with the newcomer, blood dripping from his blade, lightning pulsing faintly along its edge.
A stalker, but not like the others.
Taller, easily head and shoulders above the standard type. Not bulkier, but stretched, lean, its limbs longer and more defined. It moved with precision rather than the usual skittering crawl.
And… armor?
Plates hung along its shoulders like makeshift pauldrons. It stood upright—on two feet—its posture disturbingly human.
Arthur narrowed his eyes.
By all known criteria, this one should’ve been an Ace-class stalker. But that armor…
That two legged stance…
No, it's something else. Let’s call it Captain-class for now, Arthur thought, leveling his blade.
The Captain attacked first.
It lunged with a dagger-like bone blade extending from its wrist, thrusting with clean, martial precision—far too clean for a swamp-stalker.
No problem. Arthur braced himself to split the thing in half. But the moment he swung, it multiplied.
Three silhouettes blurred outward like shadows splitting off its body. One passed straight through his peripheral vision. Another slipped behind him. The third rushed head-on.
One of the phantom blades scraped across Arthur’s shoulder plate, sparking harmlessly.
There was no damage, but the touch felt real.
Arthur’s eyes widened. A stalker using magic? Is it an illusion or actual duplication?
Either way, it wasn’t good news.
Though he hesitated for a second, he decided that this was a wise time to use his dwindling mana.
Arthur slashed his blade through the air, releasing a massive lightning arc that ripped outward in a violent crescent.
BOOM.
The forest exploded. Steam burst from shattered roots and scorched moss.
When the smoke and dust settled, The Captain-class stalker was gone from Arthur’s line of sight.
Arthur tightened his grip on the greatsword, listening to the crackle of dying lightning on the ruined ground.
From behind the rubble, something clicked twice.
Two bone darts shot out from the shadows, whistling toward Arthur’s head. He raised his blade instantly, the flat of the steel ringing as both darts shattered against it.
Another silhouette lunged. Arthur slashed—nothing but smoke and displaced air. The creature dissolved out of sight, reappearing behind him again and again.
He spun and parried the attack. feeling the shock of bone scraping against metal, it vanished again.
They kept coming.
Three, four, maybe more—flickers of the Captain or its illusions, each one attacking in rapid succession.
Arthur struck at where they’d been seconds before, splintering branches and cleaving mud, but never landing a clean hit.
He deflected, dodged, and parried, but always a step behind the creature’s unnerving speed.
His breath rasped. His arms trembled. Fatigue crept into his entire body.
Sensing the weakened Arthur, from the left, the real Captain surged forward. He could feel it this time, aiming another rushed thrust with its jagged bone blade.
Pathetic, too predictable beast.
Arthur braced, rotating his stance.
He tried to flood his greatsword with lightning again, preparing a wide horizontal sweep to counter any duplication—
But the mana sputtered, a weak crackle flickered along the steel… then died entirely mid-swing.
The Captain leapt, flipping backward in a light, graceful arc to dodge the incomplete slash.
Arthur’s instinct moved.
He adjusted mid-motion, redirecting the momentum upward. The blade hooked beneath the creature’s landing point and sliced clean through both of its lower legs.
The Captain hit the ground. Its high-pitched wail tore through the swamp, raw and animalistic.
Arthur stepped forward to finish it, but even maimed, it wasn’t done.
The bone blade on its wrist grew longer, reforming into a spear-like protrusion. With a desperate forward lunge, it stabbed out.
Arthur jerked his head aside.
The tip grazed his right cheek, slicing a thin, burning line across his skin.
The Captain hissed, then planted both hands into the mud, dragging itself backward.
It crawled with terrifying speed on its arms alone, kicking up muck and broken roots as it fled deeper into the shadows.
Arthur exhaled, more annoyed than shocked, but his chest tightened. So it was truly its main body.
He staggered forward, following the blood trail the Captain left behind.
His vision blurred for a moment.
Light-headed.
Mana-drained.
But he pushed on.
He barely took three more steps before something slammed into him from the side, a blunt, massive force, like being hit by a charging bull.
Arthur’s body snapped sideways, flung through a curtain of wet leaves. His greatsword flew from his grip, vanishing somewhere behind him with a heavy splash.
He blinked, trying to focus. Nothing, he still couldn’t see the attacker. Am I poisoned? or is this still the effect of that creature’s illusion?
But the pain and broken arm were real.
Another impact struck his ribs—smaller, but sharp enough to bruise through the armor.
Before he could regain footing, a third blow cracked against the back of his helm, ringing his skull with a metallic clang.
Pain blossomed.
Real pain.
Pain he couldn’t ignore anymore.
Then, from the left, a final, devastating strike.
It hit him like a falling tree. Arthur felt the sickening snap as he landed.
His left arm folded wrong beneath him. His left leg twisted at an angle no human limb should take. Agony flared up his side, hot and blinding, flooding his body with a shock.
He gasped once before mud splashed as something seized him.
Two unseen forces grabbed his limbs, pulling him upward, stretching him out as if testing how far his body would bend before breaking again.
His armor creaked under the strain.
The swamp filled with sound, laughing, growling, chittering, all around him, but with no visible source.
“Aww… is this the end of the great captain Arthur?”
That girl’s voice in his head again. With a mocking chuckle, she added.
“I can solve your problem right away, if you wish.”
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