Hézo
Five Iblis on his tail.
Hézo cursed under his breath. He should have waited. He should never have offered his blood as an invitation.
He ran flat out, lungs burning, legs on fire. But he knew he couldn't keep this up. Not like this.
He skidded to a halt and turned around. He'd sought them out, and he'd found them. Running no longer made sense.
He had to fight.
The first demon lunged. His blade sliced through the air in a clean, elegant arc, striking straight at its neck.
The blow stopped dead.
The Iblis didn't even flinch.
Just a shallow cut, pathetic.
Disbelief flashed across Hézo's face. That strike would have cleanly severed a human head. Not here. Not against these things.
The monster's fist came crashing down. Hézo leapt aside. But before he even landed, another one slammed into his chest, sending him rolling across the dirt, gasping for air.
Barely back on his feet, he dodged again as two clawed hands struck where his head had been a second earlier.
A backward roll, another dodge, just in time. A brutal kick grazed the back of his neck.
Standing, panting, surrounded. Five Iblis. Circling, hunting, patient.
Then, suddenly, one fell.
Then another.
Hézo's eyes widened. What the…?
A third collapsed, a bluish arrow lodged in its head.
He followed the shot's direction. An archer dressed in black, cloak fastened with a gleaming clasp.
And then, another figure burst out of the shadows, sword shining with pale light, cutting through the remaining Iblis with impossible grace.
Hézo stood frozen, breathless.
On their capes, the lunar insignia.
Black Warriors.
They looked barely older than him, twenty, maybe less.
In seconds, they finished off the demons and crushed their cores. The monstrous bodies disintegrated into black ash.
— I swear, there's always some idiot wandering around during Cursed Nights, the swordsman scoffed.
— Seriously, the archer replied, sheathing his bow. Next time, we should just let them get their death wish.
They both laughed.
— Alright, kid, the swordsman said. Where do you live? We'll walk you back.
— Actually… you're the ones I was looking for, Hézo said.
The two exchanged a confused look, pointing at themselves.
— Us?
— Yeah. I wanted to meet Black Warriors.
They burst out laughing again, then struck mock-heroic poses.
— You're in luck, the archer grinned. You've just met the best team in all of Rada.
Hézo hesitated for a second, then spoke:
— I want to join you. I want to fight the Iblis. I want to grow stronger.
— Join us? the archer repeated, surprised. That's not how it works, kid. You've gotta go through the Academy. They form the teams there. We don't take outsiders.
— The Academy doesn't have to know. I just want to learn… from real Black Warriors.
— Hold on, the swordsman interrupted. Where's your insignia?
— I don't have one. I'm not initiated. I'm not… Gifted.
They froze and then burst out laughing again.
Hézo didn't move. He didn't care what they thought.
— You've got no idea what you're saying, the archer said, folding his arms. You're not Gifted. You don't stand a chance against occult beings.
— Did you see how you got wrecked? You didn't last two minutes. Do yourself a favor and go home.
They laughed again.
But the laughter stopped cold.
Hézo's blade sang through the air. He slashed his own palm, leapt behind them, and in a single, fluid motion, cleaved through an Iblis that had crept up silently behind.
Under the moonlight, his bloodied sword shimmered. The demon collapsed.
A gust of wind lifted the warriors' hair as they turned, stunned.
— How the hell did you do that?! the swordsman shouted. You said you weren't Gifted! And… your eyes? They just changed color!
The archer blinked in disbelief.
— He moved like you, Kayodé…
Hézo, meanwhile, was trying to piece together what had just happened. It was too fast. Like his fight against Jahia. The same trance, the same surge of raw, blinding power. His eyes had changed, his body had tightened like a drawn bow ready to snap.
He didn't understand where it came from, or how it worked, but he did know this. If it wasn't just a fluke, it was the key to something vast.
Something he had to learn to control.
— Hey! Kid! We're talking to you! the swordsman barked, snapping him out of it.
Hézo flinched.
— I saw the Iblis about to strike, he said quickly. Didn't have time to think. I guessed that my blood might hurt it, unlike an ordinary blade. And… I remembered how you moved earlier, when you killed yours. I copied you.
A silence, then a low whistle.
— That's insane…
Hézo glanced at his left hand, blood still glistening. The pain was fading already. The wound was closing.
— Maybe I'm not Gifted, he said quietly, but I intend to become one. And I learn fast.
— Oh, here we go, the archer groaned, rolling his eyes. Don't get cocky. That thing was just a scout, a low-level Iblis. You just got lucky.
— Idan's right, added the swordsman. You don't become Gifted. You're born that way. That's just how it is.
Hézo clenched his jaw. He'd heard that line too many times. He sheathed his sword and turned away. If they wouldn't help him, he'd find another way.
But before he could leave, the archer spoke again.
— All missions go through the Black Warrior Academies. They assign, they train, they command.
Then, after a pause:
— But there are missions… let's say, less official ones.
Hézo stopped in his tracks. That could change everything.
— Less official? Tell me more.
— Idan, what the hell are you doing? Kayodé snapped.
Idan ignored him.
— I'm talking about the Hunter Guilds. Anyone can join: Gifted, outborn, soldiers, assassins, thieves… and worse. They only care about one thing: money. Laws don't mean much to them.
— I thought you hunted them? Hézo asked, frowning.
— We do. Some go rogue. But not all are bad. They've got two things in common: they're powerful… and they love gold.
— Where can I find them?
— That… I don't know. Their locations are kept secret. If fate puts a Hunter in your path, maybe they'll take you there. Maybe not.
Hézo nodded slowly, thoughtful. He thanked them sincerely then walked away without looking back.
***
Kayodé stared at Idan, jaw tight.
— Why'd you tell him all that? We're not supposed to throw outborn kids into the arms of the underworld.
— So what? Idan shrugged. That kid's a dreamer. Wanting to become Gifted? Ridiculous. He copied your stance by sheer luck. A profane stays profane, no matter how many flashes of genius he gets.
He smirked.
— I'll bet you anything, the next time we see him, it'll be to hunt him down. Just another lowlife criminal.