CHAPTER 116: WELCOME BACK TO BLACKTHORN [2]

The next guard came at him with a wild overhead swing.

Alaric sidestepped the clumsy attack, seized the man’s wrist in an iron grip, and wrenched the blade free in one fluid motion.

Before the disarmed guard could react, Alaric drove his boot into the man’s stomach with brutal efficiency.

The guard doubled over and crashed across the cobblestones, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.

The remaining guards, eight of them now, formed a loose circle around Alaric and Fredrick.

Professional caution replaced their earlier swagger as they realized these weren’t helpless merchants they could bully.

Alaric hefted the blade, testing its weight and balance.

Decent steel, if unremarkable.

It would do.

He sank into a low stance, the weapon angled across his body at chest level.

His crimson eyes swept over the encircling guards, reading their positions, their hesitation, the way fear was beginning to creep into their movements.

Six months ago, one of these bastards would have put me on my back, he thought, memory flashing to those first humiliating battles he might had utterly lost if not for the system.

Now...

"Scorchblade Arts," he whispered, the words barely audible over the crowd’s nervous murmur.

The blade shuddered in his grip.

Heat rippled along its edge like a living thing, metal warming until a faint red glow bled from the steel like caged fire seeking release.

"Third Form."

The guards lunged forward as one, thinking numbers would overwhelm him.

But...

They were wrong.

Alaric moved like liquid lightning.

His slash carved through the air in a perfect arc, leaving behind a trail of searing light that hung for just a moment, long enough for phantom echoes to follow in its wake.

[Blazing Mirage!]

Fiery afterimages erupted from the blade’s path, each one striking with the force of the original blow.

What should have been one attack became five, six, seven overlapping strikes that caught the guards completely off guard.

Two men screamed as ghostly flames bit into their sword arms.

A third stumbled backward, clutching a chest that bore no visible wound but burned like he’d been branded.

Damn, Alaric thought, even as he pressed his advantage.

When did I get this good?

The remaining guards tried to regroup, but Alaric was already moving.

"First Form"

[Flame Blade!]

His stolen sword erupted into brilliant fire, the metal itself becoming a conduit for destructive heat.

He slashed into their ranks like a force of nature, each strike precise and devastating.

Block, riposte, advance. Duck under a wild swing, drive the burning blade into an exposed side.

The guard’s leather armor might as well have been parchment.

"Burst Step!"

Essence flooded into his legs, and suddenly he was behind their formation. The technique that had once left him dizzy and disoriented now felt as natural as breathing.

"Second Form"

[Flame Slash!]

The crescent of fire that erupted from his swing caught three guards at once.

They went down hard, weapons clattering away as they clutched burns that would leave permanent scars.

From the sidelines, Lord Risvolk, still bleeding from his broken nose, snarled at his personal guards. "What are you waiting for? Kill them both!"

The blonde woman pointed at Alaric with a trembling finger. "That commoner is using Essence in public! That’s not a fair fight! It’s illegal"

"Nothing about this is fair," Alaric agreed, his voice carrying across the square with cold amusement.

"For you."

The four guards that had been engaged with Fredrick separated, two of them flanked toward Alaric, their movements coordinated and deadly.

Behind them, crossbow bolts whistled through the air.

"Down!" Fredrick shouted.

Alaric ducked as a quarrel buzzed past his ear, close enough to feel the fletching.

He rolled left as another bolt sparked off cobblestones where he’d been standing.

Three crossbowmen on rooftops, reloading with mechanical efficiency.

The nobles had come prepared for trouble.

"Kill the old man first!" Risvolk screamed, blood still streaming from his broken nose. "Then the commoner!"

One of the personal guards broke off from Fredrick’s fight, rushing toward Alaric with a war hammer that could crush skulls.

His partner followed, curved blade gleaming.

Shit. Now Alaric faced three opponents while crossbow bolts rained down from above.

The hammer wielder reached him first, bringing his weapon down in an overhead smash that would have caved in Alaric’s chest.

Alaric twisted aside, the hammer’s head cracking cobblestones, and drove his flaming blade toward the man’s ribs.

Steel rang against steel as the swordsman intercepted, his curved blade deflecting the strike.

The third guard, one of the original watchmen who’d found courage again, lunged with a spear thrust aimed at Alaric’s back.

Alaric spun, his burning sword carving a defensive circle that forced all three back.

But he couldn’t keep this up forever. Sweat already ran down his face, and his breathing was growing labored.

Another crossbow bolt punched into the ground inches from his feet.

Time to end this fast.

[Burst Step!]

He appeared behind the spearman, driving his knee into the man’s kidney.

As the guard folded, Alaric grabbed the spear and spun it in a wide arc that caught the hammer wielder across the face.

Crack!

Bone crunched.

The curved sword whistled toward his neck.

Alaric brought up the spear shaft just in time, the blade biting deep into wood but stopping short of flesh.

"Second Form"

[Flame Slash!]

The crescent of fire that erupted from the spear’s tip caught the swordsman center mass, burning through his leather jerkin like paper.

He screamed and stumbled backward, clutching charred ribs.

Across the square, Fredrick was holding his own against the professional killers, but barely.

The old knight’s breathing was harsh, and blood seeped from a cut on his sword arm. He couldn’t maintain this pace much longer.

A crossbow bolt sprouted from the cobblestones near Alaric’s left foot. Too close.

The marksmen were finding their range.

The hammer wielder, face a mask of blood from his broken nose, roared and charged again.

Alaric sidestepped, grabbed the man’s extended arm, and used his momentum to send him crashing into a market stall.

Crash!

Wood splintered.

And the guard didn’t get up.

That left the spearman, who’d recovered enough to thrust wildly at Alaric’s chest.

Though Alaric caught the weapon’s shaft, twisted it from the man’s grip, and reversed it in one fluid motion. The bronze point punched through the guard’s shoulder, pinning him to a wooden post.

Another bolt whispered past his ear.

Those crossbowmen are getting annoying.

"Third Form"

[Blazing Mirage!]

Alaric’s slash sent ghostly flames racing upward toward the nearest rooftop.

The crossbowman screamed as phantom fire bit into his arms, his weapon clattering as he scrambled for cover.

The other two marksmen hesitated, suddenly aware that their elevated position wasn’t as safe as they’d thought.

But the distraction cost him.

Pain exploded across his back as the curved-sword guard, still fighting despite his burns, managed a glancing strike. Blood began to seep through Alaric’s shirt.

"You bastard," the guard gasped, raising his weapon for another strike.

Alaric spun, his flaming blade meeting the curved sword in a shower of sparks.

Steel locked against steel for a moment before Alaric twisted his wrist, sending the other weapon spinning away.

His pommel strike to the man’s temple ended the fight.

Fredrick’s opponents were wavering now.

The old knight had taken more punishment, cuts on his arms, a gash across his forehead that painted half his face red, but his technique remained flawless. One of his attackers was already down, clutching a sword wound in his thigh.

The other backed away, pride warring with survival instinct.