One of the white-robed guards lunged first, blade flashing. Myles turned the attack aside with negligent ease, sending the man skidding backward on his heels.
Around them, bodies from the Nethergate Sect already littered the ground, some still, some groaning. The few left standing clutched wounds that bled as fast as their courage.
“At this rate, we’re finished!” someone cried, voice cracking under terror. Rowena’s eyes narrowed. She knew the battlefield’s tide needed turning, now.
An idea flashed, sharp, desperate. She drew a small onyx emerald vial from her sleeve and popped the seal. Acrid fumes surged out, eye-watering and vicious. Myles caught the scent and barked a warning to his followers. “It’s toxic mist! Back away!”
It was too late. Rowena flung the vial. Dark vapors billowed, wrapping the Malevolent Path Hall fighters in a choking shroud. Coughs rattled through the fog. Eyes watered and blurred. Swords wavered as lungs fought for breath.
“Now! Strike!” Rowena shouted. Whip lashing like a lightning bolt, she plunged into the haze, her ten companions close behind, turning venom and twilight into their cruel allies.
Steel scraped against steel as the disciples of the Nethergate Sect, Rowena’s desperate cry still ringing in their ears, surged forward beside Jared, blades gleaming through the churning veil of emerald poison.
For a brief, breath-stealing heartbeat, the toxic haze gave them cover. Swords whistled. Sparks flared. The fighters of Malevolent Path Hall staggered, coughing, half-blind.
Then, Myles planted one boot on the fractured flagstones. Power rippled off his shoulders like a shock wave. His long sword snapped up in a silver arc, severing the poison mist with a single, ruthless slash. The noxious cloud shredded and vanished.
Myles blurred, there one instant, gone the next, reappearing beside Rowena. His blade cracked against her ribs, hurling her across the courtyard as though she weighed nothing at all.
Rowena skidded through gravel, scarlet splattering the ground. She forced herself upright, wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth, and tasted the bitter truth: every trick, every talisman, every last shred of cultivation, they had spent it all, and still could not touch the man who stood laughing in front of them.
Jared watched Rowena wobble to her feet, pain etched across her pale face, and a helpless breath leaked between his teeth.
What is with this Nethergate Sect, anyway?
They strut around like legends, yet the escort they sent for me can’t defeat one swordsman, numbers on their side and still losing… Ridiculous…
Rowena’s shoulders sagged.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, shame clouding her dark eyes. “We failed to keep you safe…”
“Forget it! Leave now!” Jared said, brushing dust from his cuffs with exaggerated nonchalance. “Myles and his killers came for me, not you. They won’t waste time chasing the rest of the sect. Get out while you can.”
Rowena shook her head, midnight hair whipping across her cheeks. “We leave only in death. Our mission is to deliver you to level nine, whatever the cost.”
Jared blew out a long, weary sigh. “Fine. Then let’s die together, shall we?”
Across the courtyard, Myles let out a cold, indulgent laugh. “Jared, call out the hidden master backing you. Do that, and I might consider sparing your life!”
“No master,” Jared replied, voice calm as falling snow.
Myles’ smile twisted. “Liar! Without support, you couldn’t have slaughtered our Grand Elder and even Protector Sovereign Ashcroft. Quit the act!”
“Believe what you want,” Jared answered, stepping forward and baring his throat, the pulse at his jugular beating steadily. “Since you’re convinced, go on! Kill me!”
The invitation rattled Myles. Instinct dragged him backward two full steps.
No one volunteered for execution, unless a blade far sharper waited in the shadows. Unease tightened around his lungs.
Seeing this, Rowena stared, baffled.
Who stretches his own neck beneath a murderer’s sword?
Has he lost his mind, or is he certain some unseen storm will strike the moment Myles lifts that blade?
Jared’s eyebrows rose in mock impatience. “Well? Going to strike me down, or should I be on my way?”
Myles clenched the hilt so hard his knuckles blanched, the sword’s edge hovering inches above Jared’s exposed throat. The blade shook, not from weight but from the tremor running through the man who held it, a silent confession that he could not bring himself to drop the blow.
In the charged hush, even the air seemed to curl away in dread, waiting to see which would give first: steel or resolve.
“Look at you, quaking like a kicked pup,” Jared scoffed, his voice light but laced with contempt. “If you can’t finish me, then do us both a favor and stop getting in my way.”
Jared had already made his calculations. He knew, coldly, calmly, that he was no match for Myles. Better a clean swipe than a slow beating, he decided, and so he gambled on one last variable.
Mr. Sanders won’t let me die. He’s pulled me from worse. If he doesn’t show… Well, one stroke will be faster than being pummeled into paste.
That brutal arithmetic steadied him, but it also left him strangely weightless, as though the outcome, life or death, were no longer in his hands at all.
