8 Pest Control (1/2)

Drosso surged towards the knight encampment. A horde of bandits followed behind him, their many torches flickering in the dark of night. Dozens of pairs of boots crunched the forest grass underfoot as they followed him. He knew from scouts he had sent that the knights did not expect much of a fight. Many of them were still at camp, probably getting drunk off of wine. They believed they were just here to execute some common criminal rabble.

Drosso smirked as he barreled through the forest, sometimes slamming straight through trees if they stood in his way and shattering them apart with brute force alone. After absorbing the ranger, her mage, and warrior companion, he had grown far, far stronger. None of these knights knew what they were in for. They would all be food for Zagan, and the demon, as per their contract, would grant him strength.

”Onwards, brothers!” roared Drosso as he slammed into another tree, reducing it into a shower of splinters.

The bandits behind him carried his cry, galvanized by the overwhelming power he showed.

But there was something wrong. Drosso felt that their cries were quieter than usual. He was no fool: he knew some of them followed him out of fear, but still, things were too quiet. Then the footsteps around him began to disappear.

Drosso stopped. A cold sweat had formed on his back. This was instinct telling him something was wrong. He turned around.

Complete darkness. He strained his eyes for any stray torchlights and his ears for the footsteps of his brothers.

Nothing. Just the dark of the forest looking back at him, the gnarled trunks haunting in their expressions.

If was as if his bandits, a formidable force numbering fifty, had simply ceased to exist. There were no traces of them, no stray boots, no leftover torches, no bloodstains, just complete and utter nothingness.

Drosso immediately took up a battle stance, his sword out in front of him as he slowly circled around, trying to make sense of what was happening. Perhaps he was under the effects of an illusion?

”Great Zagan,” said Drosso. ”Do you sense any foul magic upon us?”

Zagan's voice resonated from his arm as a throaty growl. ”No such thing, my subject. But have no fear, for the power I have vested within you eclipses any that mere mortals of flesh and blood can muster.”

Drosso squinted as he tried to peer into the dark of the forest. With Zagan empowering him, he had always felt secure in the darkness because he knew that he was the one to fear in the dark. But now, that old, familiar, human sensation – the fear of the unknown – came back to his icy heart, and it made him sweat.

But he was no green boy. He knew battle. When he was a knight, he had fought against forest elves and watched as his compatriots were dropped seemingly out of nowhere by arrows that fell like rain among the trees. His training kicked in and he immediately rushed to a clearing in the forest.

In a clearing, any hidden opponents had to make their presence known, and if they used bows or magic, then the direction of their attack became more obvious.

The clearing was nice and spacious. Easily forty paces across with grass growing low so as to maximize visibility. The moon shone high and bright, illuminating the clearing like a stagelight. He stood at the center of this theater of nature, watching the ring of trees around him for an unwelcome audience.

Though he believed he had long since discarded his humanity for demonic power, he still felt very real, very primal, very human instincts telling him the forest around him was a prison, the ring of trees walls to enclose him in for slaughter. His skin crawled and his muscles shivered.

Dead silence hung in the air. Not even insects chirped. The grasses themselves felt unwelcome, picking at his feet, hungry to devour his corpse.

A figure emerged from the trees. It walked slowly and leisurely. Drosso could make it out as human. Tall with a slender build, but with shoulders broad enough to make it obvious it was a man. Without any hesitation, he used the palm of his non-sword hand to gather wind.

The winds whistled as they swirled and coalesced around a single point above his palm, condensing into an almost solid sphere.

Drosso willed the sphere into a sickle-shaped blade and cast [Wind Blade], ejecting the deadly projectile towards the figure. He breathed hard as his vision shook a little. He was a warrior by class and death knight by specialty, so his mana reserves weren't up to par. The stolen spell taxed him heavily, but it was a deadly one. No knight, regardless of the thickness of his armor, would ever stand up to it.

The blade of condensed wind whistled forwards, howling as it crashed into the figure. The condensed wind blew apart as it collided with the figure, fizzling out into gentle winds.

Drosso grunted. His battle-worn mind worked quickly. He deduced that this man held some form of magic resistance. Perhaps a ring or amulet as mere magic resistant robes were not enough to withstand an offensive Celesium-rank spell.

No matter. He preferred beating and hacking his enemies to death. Made it more personal. He grinned, swallowing down instincts that screamed at him to run and instead rousing himself into a battling rage. He grasped his longsword in both hands and charged.

The figure did not do anything but walk forwards. Did not pick up his pace, tense up, get into guard, cast a spell – nothing. As the figure came into closer view, Drosso did not understand why he felt such fear. Dirt-caked boots, worn leather trousers, tattered linen shirt, and roughly hewn hood were the only things on this man. Nothing of worth.

Drosso wondered for just a second whether this was some unlucky peasant who had entered the woods in some delirium of drunkenness. No matter. He brought his blade straight down on the figure's head, aiming to cleave the unlucky sod in two down the middle.