The Last Jackrabbit

The first monster died without ceremony.

Ray barely noticed it.

He stood in the ruins of a collapsed temple,
deep underground,
boots sinking into moss and filth.

His breath misted in the stale, cold air.

The creature — a bloated, eyeless wolf-thing — collapsed in a pool of black blood,
twitching weakly before falling still.

Ray didn't even look at it.

The battered sword he wielded — a hunk of cracked steel with no beauty left — floated lazily in the air beside him.

He hadn't swung a weapon properly in weeks.
He didn't need to.

He gripped the time around the blade itself,
freezing it for fractions of seconds,
dragging it through space with brutal precision.

The sword became an extension of his rage —
an unseen hand that tore through everything in his path.

The next monster — a howling, skeletal panther — lunged from the shadows.

Ray didn’t blink.

He seized a loose stone from the floor with his magic —
froze it in time —
then accelerated it like a bullet into the beast's skull.

The panther crumpled mid-leap, snapping in half with a wet crunch.

Ray moved forward without pausing.
He was a shell.

A hunger.

A weapon sharpening itself through pain and endless repetition.

He didn’t heal every wound.
Didn't waste the energy.

He let himself bleed,
let his body scream.

The pain was a tether —
a reminder that he still existed.

He trained for hours, days —
time lost meaning.

Each monster that fell before him was another piece of the broken boy he used to be,
stripped away and left in the dirt.

In the dark, Ray whispered to himself between battles.

"I stayed for you."

No one answered.
They never did.

Weeks later — or maybe longer —
he felt it.

A hum.
A pull.
A Totem.
Somewhere ahead.

Ray drifted deeper into the dungeon tunnels,
his tattered cloak dragging behind him.

Until voices echoed from around a corner —
and light.

He turned into a wide chamber lit by flickering blue torches.

There, gathered in a loose semi-circle, were fifteen figures —
cloaked warriors in white, trimmed with silver.

Their backs were emblazoned with the same symbol:

Two hands shaking over a stylized Earth.
The mark of the Republic.

Ray slowed, observing.

Their armor was worn but well-kept.
Their staves and blades glinted with quiet promise.

Real soldiers.

Not jackrabbits.

And at their center — standing casually on a broken pillar, arms folded — was a man Ray immediately understood.

Short, silver hair,
eyes sharp and laughing,
his cloak slung carelessly off one shoulder.

There was a cockiness to him —
the kind that said I've earned every scar.

Electricity crackled faintly along his fingertips —
not blue, like Marsden’s magic —
but silver.

A sharper, cleaner light.
The man noticed Ray instantly.

He grinned —
not a sneer, not a smirk.

Something warmer.
Curious.
Alive.

Weapons were drawn in a flash —
bows aimed, blades raised, spells burning in palms.

But the silver-haired man simply raised a hand, waving them down.

"Easy, boys," he said, his voice a lazy drawl.
"This one doesn't look like trouble."

He tilted his head, his blue eyes studying Ray.

"You solo?" he asked, grin widening.

Ray nodded once.
The squad burst out laughing.

"A fucking solo jackrabbit?"
someone cackled.

"They're all dead!"

Ray stayed still.
Expressionless.
Sword still floating quietly beside him, waiting.

The silver-haired man stepped closer, hands tucked into his belt.

"You serious?" he asked, half-amused, half-impressed.

"You survived all this time... alone?"

Ray shrugged.

"Had nothing better to do."

There was a pause.

Then the man barked a genuine laugh —
sharp and bright.

"Well, shit," he said.
"You've got bigger balls than most of the captains back home."

He stuck out a hand without hesitation.

"Name's Thomas," he said.
"Captain of the White Company.
Pleasure to meet a legend."

Ray hesitated.
Then took his hand.

Thomas’ grip was firm, electric with static energy.
There was no judgment.
No pity.

Just respect.

Something loosened in Ray's chest.
Something he hadn’t realized was wound so tight it was choking him.

"Ray," he said simply.

Thomas clapped him on the back like they’d known each other for years.

"Well, Ray," he said, silver lightning dancing over Ray's shoulders,
"we're tracking a pretty nasty bitch down here."
He grinned wickedly.
"Join us. You get the kill; we get the prize. Everyone wins."

Ray smirked — a small, sharp thing.
"Fine."
He tilted his head at the floating sword beside him.
"But don't expect a knight."

Thomas laughed again — deeper this time, throwing his head back.

"Brother," he said, slinging his whole arm around Ray’s shoulders,
"after the shit I've seen down here...
you’re exactly what we need."

The squad lowered their weapons reluctantly.

Ray followed them into the tunnels.

The silver lightning of Thomas' laughter echoing behind them like a crack of hope.