Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
“Deal,” I call back.
Brutus grins, the act transforming his scarred face into something genuinely terrifying. He makes another hand signal, and suddenly every Crow in the forest steps into view. They’re not carrying guns anymore—just blades. The message is clear: They’re going to carve us apart piece by piece.
“Gentlemen,” I say quietly to Hans and Ash, “it’s been an honor.”
“Likewise, Boss,” Hans replies, testing the weight of his sword.
“Save the eulogies for after we’re dead,” Ash suggests, flipping his knife to a reverse grip. “We might surprise them.”
The first Crow charges across the clearing, screaming like a banshee and swinging a machete in wild arcs that would be impressive if they weren’t completely uncontrolled. I step inside his reach and bury my axe in his sternum. The metal punches through bone and gristle, and when I wrench it free, blood arcs across the glowing mushrooms like abstract art.
Then all hell breaks loose.
They come at us from every direction, a wave of black-clad killers with steel in their hands and murder in their eyes. Hans meets the first one with his sword, the clash of metal on metal ringing across the clearing. Ash moves like liquid shadow, his knife finding throats and hearts. He’s done this dance many times before.
I lose myself in the rhythm of violence. Duck under a sword thrust, pivot, axe through a neck. Sidestep a machete swing, reverse grip, axe between ribs. Forward, back, spin, chop. Each movement flows into the next with muscle memory built over fifteen years of killing.
A Crow with intricate facial tattoos comes at me with paired knives, spinning them in complex patterns that look impressive but leave his center exposed. I take his head off with a horizontal swing that sends blood spraying across three nearby mushrooms.
Another one tries to flank me from the left, machete raised high for an overhead chop. I catch his wrist with my free hand, twist until something snaps, then drive my axe through his ribs. He goes down gurgling, clutching at the wound like he can hold his life inside.
The clearing has become a charnel house. Bodies in tactical gear sprawl between the glowing fungi, their blood mixing with phosphorescent spores to create patterns that would be beautiful if they weren’t so horrifying. The air reeks of copper and shit and the ozone smell that comes from violence done efficiently.
Hans is holding his own near the musicians’ platform, his sword work clean and economical. Every strike finds its target, every movement serves a purpose. He’s cut down four Crows already, and his chainmail has turned aside two blade strikes that should have opened him to the spine.
Ash fights like he was born to do it, which maybe he was. The knife in his hand moves like an extension of his will, opening arteries and puncturing lungs. He’s taken down three Crows without taking a scratch, dancing between their attacks like death wearing linen.
For a moment, I actually think we might survive this.
We’re outnumbered six to one, but we’re not going down easy. Ash moves like he never left this life behind. Bodies drop around me, blood feeding the glowing mushrooms until the clearing looks like an abattoir lit by fairy lights.
But they keep coming.
For every Crow we drop, another takes his place. They’re coordinated, patient, willing to take losses to wear us down. Professional killers who understand that numbers always win in the end.
Ash appears beside me, breathing hard. “We’re making a dent.”
“Not big enough,” I reply.
He’s right though. The clearing is littered with Crow bodies. We’ve cut their numbers in half, but there are still too many. And we’re getting tired.
Time to end this.
I start moving toward Brutus, cutting through the chaos with single-minded purpose. A Crow tries to block my path with twin blades. I take his arm off at the elbow with one swing, then split his skull with the return stroke.
Another one comes at me from the side, machete raised for a killing blow. I pivot, catch his wrist, and drive my knee into his elbow. The joint bends backward with a wet snap, and he drops his weapon. My axe opens his throat before he can scream.
Brutus sees me coming and grins, raising his machete in salute. “Blue! Ready for the main event?”
But I can see the fear behind his bravado, the way his eyes dart to the bodies scattered around me. And fucking good. He should be afraid.
“Let’s dance.”
We circle each other through the carnage, stepping over bodies and around the glowing mushrooms that continue their eternal pulse of ethereal light. Blood steams in the cool night air, and somewhere in the distance I can hear the clash of steel on steel as the battle rages on.
Brutus moves faster than his size should allow, the machete whistling through the air in patterns designed to take limbs rather than just wound. I give ground, letting him commit to his attacks while I read his rhythm.