Ian saw through their ambush.
Whatever plan they had after the fallen woman's seduction.
It failed, woefully.
He could sll their killing intent from even before he entered the forest, that's how he knew they were real.
Seven shapes erged from the veil of trees, coalescing like ghosts given form. Mist curled around their boots as if reluctant to let them go.
Each figure was ard—not just with steel, but with intent. A silence clung to them like armor, suffocating the space between.
Then the first voice broke it.
"Well, well," a man chuckled, low and bitter. "If it isn't the Demonblade. The Prophet of Death himself."
Another, a broad-shouldered woman with iron rings braided into her hair, spat into the soil.
"Pity. I expected more from the Reaper of Esgard. You've been making mistake after mistake… so much so nobles from the Imperial City finally sent us to clean it all up."
Ian didn't speak for a mont.
The mist shifted around him like it feared his breath.
He turned his gaze toward the speaker, then toward the quiet one in the back—a lean, hooded figure who neither spoke nor moved.
Just watched.
"So you're not church rats," Ian said. "That's refreshing. ans I can look forward to gutting the Sanctum bastards another ti."
The first man smiled.
"Say what you want. But all your tricks end here."
Another stepped forward, twirling a curved glaive.
His arms were inked with ritualistic glyphs that shimred faintly, mana pulsing beneath his skin like coals under flesh.
"We've read the reports," the woman continued.
"Your powers. The daggers. That wretched beast that follows you. How many tis do you plan to dance in the sa fire before it eats you?"
Ian didn't blink.
"I've never understood," he said, "why people who are about to die always talk so much."
They stilled.
A heartbeat passed.
And then—
"Fine," said the glaive-wielder, voice now like cut glass. "No more talk."
The forest exploded.
The man launched forward, a burst of wind-aspected mana erupting beneath his feet.
The glaive spun in an arc ant to carve Ian clean in half.
Ian twisted.
Steel t steel. Sparks scread.
The force sent him skidding backwards.
Another charged from the flank—flas erupting along his gauntlets as he roared, fists like molten hamrs slamming toward Ian's side.
Ian ducked beneath the first, parried the second, and kicked off a root to roll away.
A third attacker, thin and skeletal with glowing silver eyes, murmured a chant—and chains of light erupted from the earth.
Ian barely escaped, shadows licking his heels as he dashed aside. The chain still grazed his leg, leaving a welt of searing agony in its wake.
[Aura of Decay]
The plants beneath his attackers wilted instantly. One staggered back, coughing.
But the others didn't hesitate.
The glaive ca again. Then fla. Then a blast of compressed air that detonated a tree trunk beside him.
Ian weaved through it all, steel and shadow in motion.
His daggers found flesh—he scored a cut across the fire mage's ribs, drew blood from the chain-wielder's cheek. Another tried to flank, only to et Ian's elbow square to the jaw.
For a mont—it was almost even.
Then they shifted tactics.
The woman with the braided rings knelt and slamd her palm to the earth. A barrier do of stone erupted around Ian, boxing him in.
Before he could react, lightning surged from above—striking the do and blasting downward into the enclosure.
Ian groaned.
These were not like the Paladins he slaughtered.
These were trained killers.
His cloak sizzled. His skin burned. The air inside the do turned to white fire.
He slashed the wall, Vowbreaker igniting in Soul Fla, carving a path outward in a burst of black-violet fury.
He erged with blood on his face, steam rising from his coat, a shallow cut above his brow dripping into one eye.
"Still alive?" the glaive-wielder asked.
Ian said nothing.
He charged instead—straight at him.
Their blades clashed again. And again.
But this ti, the man was ready.
He twisted, redirected Ian's strike, and slamd a knee into his gut. Another followed with a concussive blast of sound magic—thwump!—sending Ian sprawling into a thicket.
He rolled. Rose. Spat blood.
More were coming.
He turned to dodge—and a shard of ice pierced his shoulder. He grunted, spinning as another bolt scraped past his ribs.
Pain was starting to blur the edges.
His muscles scread. His breath ca ragged.
Then the silent one—still unmoving in the distance—shifted ever so slightly.
Watching. asuring.
Why haven't you moved?
Who are you?
Ian's thoughts flaring with curiosity even in battle.
His body ached. His hand trembled slightly on Vowbreaker's hilt. He was fast—but they had power. Coordination. Mana disciplines honed through training and purpose.
They weren't improvising like rcenaries.
They were executing.
Ian blocked another strike—barely.
His blade caught a rising gout of fla and redirected it into the trees, where branches erupted in a brief, terrible blaze.
He dashed forward, feinted, and sliced across the glaive-wielder's thigh.
A roar. Blood.
But it cost him.
An explosion of sound detonated beside him, and before he could re-center, a stone javelin struck his side. His ribs cracked. He hit the ground hard, rolling over himself, dirt and blood mixing across his cheek.
The woman advanced now, mana glowing beneath her skin.
"Stop holding back—i know you are more than this, demonblade."
Ian rose to one knee.
The forest swam.
He blinked blood from his eye. His daggers hung low now, tips grazing the grass.
Still… they didn't rush him.
They were enjoying it.
Waiting for the slow collapse.
He chuckled. It ca out broken.
"Done?" he rasped.
Another javelin materialized in the air behind the woman, aid for his chest.
He didn't flinch.
Instead, he whispered a single word.
Not to them.
But to the dark.
"Ashvaleth."
The air shifted.
The temperature plumted.
The mist thickened like smoke spilling from a broken tomb.
And then—
Sothing moved in the shadows behind Ian.
Sothing tall.
And growling.
And hungry.
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