Tuka skidded to a halt.
The rogues were wounded animals—dangerous and desperate. One was hobbled, an arrow jutting from his thigh like a splinter; the other was a charred wreck of padded armor, locked in a lethal clash with the old man.
"Don't get close!" the short-haired scout barked. His eyes were sharp, fixed on the wounded man. "Caltrops on the floor. Stay back—wait for the opening!"
Tuka nodded. He dropped into the low, coiled stance the old man had drilled into his bones. He waited for the stumble. Behind him, The archer's string creaked. The mage stood ready, his staff humming with suppressed heat.
The limping rogue knew the end was coming. He snarled, his hand clawing at the cavern floor and flung a fistful of grime toward them.
[Sand Dust]
BOOM.
A magical shroud of grit exploded. The tunnel vanished in a grey, choking haze.
"Gah! Filthy rat's trick!"
The scout's growl was cut short. The rogue lunged through the dust toward the short-haired scout, a blur of desperate motion.
STAB.
A blade buried itself in the scout's forearm. Then another.
STAB.
The scout didn't retreat. He didn't even scream. He turned his agony into a trap. With a guttural roar, he slammed his bleeding arms together, clamping the rogue's wrists against his chest in a bone-crushing vice.
"NOW!" The scout shouted.
Tuka's eyes stung with the dust, but he saw the silhouette through the haze. He surged forward, his sword leveled for the kill. But the rogue was different from Tuka, a veteran is a veteran, even when trapped.
The rogue's boot lashed out, a heavy, desperate kick that caught Tuka square in the solar plexus. The world turned upside down. Air left Tuka's lungs in a wheeze as he was thrown backward, his spine cracking against the cold stone.
The distraction, however, was enough.
The other scout bypassed the struggle. His daggers sang as they dived into the rogue's exposed chest.
STAB.
The rogue's eyes went wide. He gurgled a mouthful of dark blood, his knees hitting the stone with a dull thud. With a final, wet curse hissed through red-stained teeth, his head slumped forward and he was gone.
Tuka pushed himself up, a low groan escaping his lips, his head spinning.
Noticing the first rogue had died, Tuka felt a wave of shame. He had charged blindly befitting a true novice. He hadn't landed a hit. Worse, he'd been tossed like a ragdoll right into the path of the last rogue—the one dancing with his "teacher".
Shame. It burned hotter than the adrenaline. No more, he swore.
He picked up his sword. He moved to the old man's side, settling into a cautious stance.
The old man spared him a sidelong glance. "Careful," he warned, his blade never stopping. "The steel is poisoned."
The old man launched a lethal thrust aimed at the rogue's gut. The rogue pivoted on a hair's breadth, dodging the blade by a fraction of an inch. His daggers were a blur of double-strikes, efficient and deadly.
Tuka jumped into the fray, swinging whenever the rogue focused on the old man. He tried to stay out of reach—he didn't want to die of poison on his first day—but the rogue was very slippery; he slid between their attacks as if he were ice-skating on the tunnel floor, his movements impossibly fluid.
Then, the distance disappeared.
Tuka didn't know if he had stepped in too deep or he'd been baited. Suddenly, a calloused hand gripped Tuka's sword-arm. With a brutal, practiced twist, the rogue stripped the sword from his grasp, clattering uselessly against the stone. The rogue flipped his dagger into a reverse grip.
A flash of silver.
A hot, searing line of fire carved across Tuka's cheek.
"ARGH!"
The copper taste of his own blood filled his mouth.
"Tuka!" The old man roared.
He swung his blade in a massive bone-shattering arc. The air screamed as the steel forced the rogue to leap back, releasing Tuka's arm. As the rogue stepped back, he flicked a heavy stone with his boot, aiming for Tuka's eyes; fortunately It caught him square in the temple instead.
Thud.
"Ugh—fuck!" Tuka hissed.
Warm, sticky red ran down Tuka's face. He clutched his head, wiping the smear away with a trembling hand. The realization hit him harder than the stone: he wasn't just "inexperienced." He was outclassed. But the thought didn't break him. It set his blood on fire.
If I'm no match for them now, he thought, his vision narrowing into a lethal point. then I'll just keep swinging until the world changes.
Ignoring the old man's warning, he snatched his sword from the dirt and charged.
The rogue's lips curled into a predatory grin. He slid forward, a snake ready to swallow a hatchling.
Tuka went wild.
Frantic slash, thrust and swing; primal and desperate. He was obsessed with erasing that smug expression. The rogue lured him in again, reaching out to grab Tuka's wrist for a final execution—but he had forgotten someone.
The old man was already slid behind him. He spun on his heel, momentum flowing into a heavy, rotating slash. The rogue gasped. His daggers were toothpicks against that heavy blow.
He leaped.
[Double Strafe]
Two arrows hissed through the gloom.
THUD. THUD.
They buried themselves in the rogue's chest mid-air. He hit the ground in a stumble, lungs seizing gasping for air. The old man was already a shadow behind him, he unleashed a second rotating strike. The rogue tried to slide back, but the old man had shifted his blade.
"GUARGH!"
The rogue's hand hit the stone with a wet, heavy thud. Before the scream could leave his throat, The old man's sword drove home.
Straight through the heart.
"Hehe... you really... got me..."
The rogue wheezed, a final, dark irony in his eyes.
THUMP.
The body went still.
The old man flicked the blood from his blade. He crouched over the corpse, rooting through its pockets until he pulled out a vial of murky, swamp-colored liquid.
"Drink. It's the antidote."
Tuka caught it and thanked him. It tasted like concentrated vomit and old copper, but the effect was instant; the gray haze in his vision vanished, and the cold numbness in his veins evaporated.
"WATCH OUT!"
Swooooosh!
A massive shockwave of heat and pulverized stone tore through the tunnel.
The giant was back.
He had been pushed by another [Seismic Bash], his boots carving deep furrows into the ground. His skin was a bruised, angry purple. The red [Berserk] aura rolled off him like steam from a boiling engine.
The claymore swordsman was on his knees. His heavy armor was shorn and warped; his breathing was a ragged, bloody rattle. Nearby, the acolyte leaned against the wall; her flail had shattered, and her white robes were splattered with a dark, sickening crimson of her own.
Her eyes, wild and desperate, locked onto them.
"CHARGE!" The archer screamed.
They moved as one.
Arrows hissed. Firebolts streaked through the air, detonating against the giant's red aura with sharp, metallic cracks. The scouts vanished into the shadows, circling around the giant. The swordsman who had regained their consciousness braced their blades.
The final, bloody push had begun.
"He's weakening! Strike now!"
The old man's voice was a whip.
Tuka charged. Strangely, the paralyzing terror was receding. He didn't know if it was The old man's presence or the fact that he had already tasted his own blood. The worst had already happened. Or so he thought.
The old man lunged—a silver streak aiming for the giant's skull.
CLANK.
The giant didn't even flinch. He swatted his vambraced arm like he was brushing away a fly, sending The old man reeling. Tuka saw the gap. He stepped in, putting every ounce of his weight into a heavy slash at the giant's chest.
Ting.
The blade bounced off the thick plate armor. A faint, pathetic scratch was all he left behind.
"What are you doing?!" the spearman roared, surging past him. "Go for the joints! The gaps!"
Tuka's face burned. It wasn't the spearman's shout that stung—it was his own stupidity. He was a child playing at war, failing at the simplest logic.
Why couldn't I think of it?
The party closed in. A desperate semi-circle of steel. The scouts danced, their daggers flashing like lightning to draw the giant's ire—It worked. The giant swung his massive blade in a blind, furious arc, leaving his lower body exposed.
The spearman and the short-swordsman leaped.
Tuka, desperate to redeem his stupidity, followed their lead attacks.
The giant's head snapped toward them, his eyes glowing with a crimson madness. With a speed that shouldn't have been possible for his size, he swiped his arm, deflecting all three attacks in a single, bone-jarring parry.
Tuka stumbled, his grip nearly failing.
But the short-swordsman was different, he was a veteran. He dropped his blade, caught it mid-air in a reverse grip, and drove it deep into the giant's left eye. Simultaneously, the spearman rolled under the swing and buried his tip into the gap of the giant's greave.
"GRUUAA!"
The roar shattered the air. The giant raised his uninjured foot high and slammed it down—hard.
CRACK.
The tunnel floor buckled. A massive cloud of pulverized stone erupted, throwing Tuka to his knees. Someone screamed a warning—Run!—but it was too late.