The Human Threat

“AAAH!” Corvin screamed as he was thrown forward, hitting the dirt hard and tumbling across the grass. He rolled forward eventually coming to a stop with his back towards the door, He instinctively turned back just in time to see two masked figures rush him. “AAAHH!” he roared, swinging his axe wildly. The figures ducked under the blow in perfect sync, their hoods and cloaks trailing like smoke behind them as they rolled past—one to each side.

Corvin turned agiain, axe in both hands, facing the twin attackers. “Great. Ninjas. I hate ninjas.”

The hooded enemies moved like reflections, drawing twin short swords with a practiced flourish. Corvin charged, swinging in a wide arc. One each of their blade met his axe mid-swing with it sounded with a clang, as their swords hit the sides of the axe as they dodged, sliding in with precision.

They were fast—too fast. In perfect timing, both plant twin shin-kicks into his stomach. The wind left his lungs, he would have stumbled backwards if his axe didn’t get stuck in the ground.

further away in front of him, a larger group loomed in the distance—figures in black, silently observing, along with a crowd further away. At the center of the black dressed figures stood a man, upright and poised, leaning on a katana stabbed into the earth like a walking stick. Something about him screamed control.

“What the hell is this?” Corvin wheezed.

Before he could recover, the attackers swept behind him again, each planting a kick behind one of each his knees. Corvin dropped fully, bracing himself with his axe, now stuck into the soft soil. He panted heavily, sweat ran down, both from stress and exhaustion form swinging the axe too much.

He felt it before he saw it, the cold steel of two blades placed flat against his shoulders—then both slid up, ready to cut. They pressed against his neck, cushioned only by his collar.

Corvin swallowed hard. He didn’t move. He didn’t dare.

Suddenly, the loud slam of a door opening broke the tension.

One of the blades vanished. Corvin jerked his head away, ducking under the second blade still hovering near. He lunged at the attacker on his right, wrapping his arms around them as they dropped their swords.

From the mill, Mira stood in the doorway, bow in hand, an arrow already loosed—embedding into the shoulder of the second attacker. Behind her, Sai and Eira rushed out, blades drawn.

Sai moved quickly, stepping next to the wounded attacker and planting a foot on their back, sword aimed toward their neck. “Now,” Sai said calmly, “how about a civil conversation?”

Corvin, still grappling the attacker in his arms, scoffed. “Conversation?! These lunatics tried to kill me!”

“Corvin, just—”

“You disappoint me,” the older man interrupted, stepping forward from the observing group. He removed his katana from the earth and tapped it gently against his shoulder. “Shadow Four. Shadow Five. That performance was… lacking.”

The one in Corvin’s arms began to struggle harder.

“Keep still!” Corvin barked, tightening his grip.

“Best listen to him,” Sai added, pressing his foot down harder. But he failed to notice his captive’s eye snap open.

In a flash, the figure slammed a boot up into the back of Sai’s knee, toppling him off balance. The attacker rolled free. At the same moment, the woman in Corvin’s grip pressed her mask against his arm, dislodging it, and bit down hard on his exposed forearm.

“OW! You little—” Corvin yelped, loosening his grip just enough for her to slip free. She spun low, slamming two elbows into his ribs before rolling to safety.

The two attackers reunited near the older man. Corvin clutched his ribs. “Seriously?! I lost to a woman?”

“Corvin,” Mira said flatly, “you’re also in my line of sight.”

“NOT THE TIME NOR PLACE, MIRA!”

“Focus!” Sai snapped, raising his sword again.

The older man looked unbothered as he pulled the arrow out. “Better. Still not good enough,” he said, turning the arrow in his fingers. “Shadows One through Three—engage.”

Two more masked figures stepped forward. Mira loosed another volley of arrows. one dodged effortlessly, the other sliced an arrow in half mid-flight as he dodged it.

Sai, Corvin, and Eira stood their ground.

“You good?” Sai asked Corvin.

“It was my ego that got bruised, not my bones.”

Eira held her weapon tightly, eyes scanning. “Wait… didn’t he say one through three?”

Sai and Corvin turned towards her confused.

“There are only two in front of us,” Eira muttered.

Thud.

A figure landed behind them, dropping from the mill’s roof. Mira whipped around, trying to use an arrow as a knife—too slow. The figure smacked it away and drove a knee into her stomach. She gasped, lifted off the ground from the impact, and was thrown hard against the mill’s wooden wall. She crumpled, unmoving.

“Mira!” Eira called out, spinning.

Too late.

Three attackers now faced them—one for each. They moved in simultaneously.

Eira stabbed forward, her naginata slicing the air, but her opponent ducked and twisted the weapon aside with a kick, it hit the wall of the mill. Corvin swung high—blocked. A blade slid between the axe’s head and handle, twisting it away. Another blade found its way to his throat once more.

Sai held his ground longer, blocking one strike overhead, turning to deflect another—before a high kick took him in the side. He stumbled and hit the ground.

Eira was pulled into a choke hold. She was turned around to face the man, as she was she threw a look at the empty trees.

The man clapped once.

“That’s how it’s done, Shadows One through Three.” He turned to the woman who had bit Corvin. “Shadow Four, collect the archer.”

The woman moved quickly over to the group, pulling Mira to her feet with a blade to her throat.

The older man along with the wounded shadow approached Sai slowly, but kept his distance. “So,” he said with a smirk, “what was that about a calm conversation, young swordsman?”

The girl jolted backward. A black scythe dragged across her stomach—then an elbow slammed into the back of her head. She crumpled. Silent. Done.

Her blade clattered to the grassy ground.

The older man turned, startled.

The scythe’s curved blade pressed against his throat.

“I’m not really a fan of conversations,” Reith growled, standing behind him, his voice cold and calm.

The older man stared forward, eyes narrowing with amusement. “A scythe user, huh?”