The smell of blood attracts the hunting dogs - 1.3

They were in terrible danger.

Yet the applicants who until a moment ago had been running with him went on as if nothing had happened. And would they listen to him, even if he shouted the truth?

He made a quick decision.

No, they would not. They would interpret it as too obvious, too stupid a strategy, and many would only realize the truth when it was too late. Then only a painfully slow or quick death would await them, but just as terrible, because it was dying, after all.

But he had already let die that boy he didn't even know, that he would never know.

He couldn't let anyone else die.

That bastard was within his grasp. And he would die, he would kill him like a dog, without him being able to escape. He didn't care about his reasons, a fair trial or any of that nonsense.

He would fill his mouth with the gun and pull the trigger. In his mind's eye, he saw that scene so clearly that his lips curved into a smile.

He shot out. Towards the sniper, hidden in the dense forest.

Desmond's legs were filled with explosive power. He was going so fast he could barely see his surroundings; he would only know what had hit him when he collided with it. It was inevitable that he would crash, and he did, three times in about the same number of seconds.

But he didn't care.

Winning and losing wasn't what was on his mind right now. As far as he was concerned, he had already lost.

He had struggled, sweating blood, just to get to the same place.

However, I'm not helpless like I was back then. I don't need anyone to save me, and I won't let you litter the forest with corpses.

I will kill you.

I will kill you; I will kill you; I will kill you; I will kill you....

Desmond unloaded the explosive force he had gathered in his legs, soaring into the air, and continued as he had been doing until the bullet knocked him down. Through the branches, sliding through and between the trees.

He was closer than he had thought, shocked by the boy's death.

Or maybe he had run that fast, faster than ever, making it look like the enemy was closer than they actually were. In any case, fine. Very good.

Soon he would catch him. Soon he'd get his hands around his neck.

Strangle him, make him eat a bullet. So many possibilities floating through his mind.

He would decide when he got to him.

Or wouldn't have to decide. He could do a bit of everything, as long as it wasn't anything that would kill him outright.

Without realizing it, without knowing how or why, Desmond triggered a trap. Darts launched from behind him, each and every one of them hitting their target, one even penetrating his skin and flesh, grazing his bone.

He was familiar with pain. He had suffered far more than this.

Still, the nature of this kind of pain, one he had not experienced until now, took him by surprise and affected him more than it should have.

But he didn't fall again.

He came close, but managed to grab hold of a branch, spun around it several times, gathering momentum, and leapt forward. He landed on the ground, rolled off and kept running smoothly, without a pause between standing and running.

Another shot.

He lunged forward, sprawling on the ground. The bullet passed only inches from his own head. Not because the sniper had aimed at his leg, seeking to neutralize rather than kill him, but because he had fired in anticipation of the move.

Very clever, the bastard. If he had been a little slower, the bullet would have hit him in the head.

He would not have suffered the same fate as that poor boy.

The bullet would have simply marked a thick line of blood along his skin, at worst.

What was more likely was that it would have simply bounced off, without hurting him.

That was with the first shot. The second shot, if shortly after the impact, would have killed him. No doubt about it. Physical reinforcement didn't make him inhuman. Immune to harm. He simply had a harder time dying than others, even compared to the other mages of Albion, his kingdom. And his head couldn't take nearly as much damage as the rest of his body.

Desmond unsheathed the knife, which was placed next to the sword, that is, on his back, using a reverse grip. He knew how to handle knives.

The second shot would have erased him from this world. But even the first shot hadn't hit him. And the enemy had missed his chance. Firing again and again, missing incessantly, as it closed in on him, more because of his blinding speed that through his skill.

Now, Desmond would reach him or her before they had time to reload the weapon.

It was all over.

Or perhaps more accurately, it had all just begun?

He stepped through the undergrowth, knife in hand.

His last thought before making contact with the enemy was that he was grateful that the test had taken place in the forest, away from any mirrors. For surely his face now looked hideous, far from humanity.

Approaching the sniper, he brandished the knife, stabbing.

No one could stand up to him in a hand-to-hand fight, due to his magic. Under normal circumstances. But these were not normal circumstances. He had concentrated most of his efforts on his legs, to get here as quickly as possible, leaving his sword attack, supported mainly by the strength of his arms and the swing of his hips, as 'weak' as that of any human who could pick up a knife.

Weak didn't mean it really was, but it was weak enough for the enemy to be able to parry the blow with the sniper rifle, pushing it against his weapon as if it were a sword.

The blade should have cut clean through the rifle, severing the barrel and rendering it unusable, but no.

It was tough enough to withstand at least one hit.

The sniper put distance between them, finished reloading, and fired.

Not before Desmond drew his pistol and did the same.

The bullets met in the air, destroying each other.

-How the fuck...?

He lunged at that man. Finally he lunged at him.

But he wasn't going to grant him a quick death. Desmond slit his wrists, both of them, preventing him from holding the rifle, from holding anything for the rest of his short life. The gun fell from his trembling hands, and he kicked it without looking, sending it spinning away.

The man fell backwards, on his ass, in front of him. His face was exposed and reflected horror.

He was cold-blooded enough to murder a child without him even seeing it coming. Yet, now that his death was near, he was looking at him as if he were a demon out of hell.

Looking at him and also at the blood that trickled down his own wrists, over his palms, between his fingers, to the floor, as if this was the first time he'd ever heard that someone like him could bleed.

"Wait a minute."

He wasn't going to wait.

As he'd said, he didn't give a damn about his reasons. He might even convince him that he believed he had done the right thing, that at least he believed it, even if it wasn't true.

But that wouldn't change the outcome. His hands were stained with the blood of a boy not much younger than himself. The man... he was a man, yes, but I'd say he was twenty-five at most.

He didn't want to hear anything he had to say to him. Besides, a person staring death in the face, was capable of saying or doing anything to avoid it.

Sell their mother, renounce their god, or start praying to one in case it heard their prayer.

Desmond corrected himself. He didn't want to hear any words from him, indeed.

But the sound of the enemy drowning in his own blood, ah, he wouldn't mind hearing that at all.

He didn't even bother to holster his pistol, to make sure he didn't lose it.

He dropped it.

Grasping the knife in both hands, straddling the enemy, he pushed it down into his chest. Not right over the heart. He didn't want him to die so quickly. He had to suffer for what he had done. That was what justice was all about, wasn't it?

The enemy grabbed the knife by the edge, cutting his palms in the process; it was not the ideal position to exert force, he was destined to lose this fight in other words.

On the other hand, the alternative was to allow him to plunge the knife into his chest. Again and again. Again and again.

Without overdoing it, so he could end this by passing the knife across his neck.

Human beings were animals who clung to their lives with everything they had. As rational as they were supposed to be, that included when they realized that regardless of what they did they couldn't avoid it.

He redirected the magical energy flowing through his body, concentrating it in his arms, especially his hands. And with that he won the fight. He would have won it anyway, but it was quicker that way.

Not only did he get the knife back, but he broke his wrists in the process.

The bone made a dry, unpleasant, loud popping sound. It was one of those sounds that would always stick in his mind. It wasn't a special sound per se, but well, despite the hardships he'd been through, despite his training...

What? This was not the first person he would kill. How was this any different from the first time he had stained his hands with the blood of one of his own? Or the first time he had seen someone die, for that matter?

That question lacked weight, as he barely remembered that moment, and what that moment had been was a bit fuzzy, in any case. Technically it was his family, all the members of his family, but they had died buried under the rubble of his home.

He hadn't seen them die. When he regained consciousness, they had already been dead and he had been left all alone.

In the rubble, in the flames.

Among the blood and parts separated from the rest of the body.

Then he had got up and walked through that hell. But, as he had said, he didn't remember it well. What he remembered in detail was the woman who had pulled him out of the that hell..

Not the horror. Not the pain. Not how it felt to have his hands stained with someone else's blood.

He plunged the knife into the enemy's chest.

Yes, enemy. This is not a person, he reminded himself. This is nothing but a loathsome murderer who deserved to die. He had to die before he killed someone else. For example, him. He had been this close to succeeding on too many occasions.

Feelings had nothing to do with it. As a soldier, he had to do his duty.

That was all.

He heard his gasp of pain. The disbelief in his voice. He hadn't even imagined things could go this wrong for him. He began to wonder what he had intended to achieve by this. What had driven him to pull the trigger, though he didn't care, though he shouldn't care.

"Animals like you shouldn't exist," Desmond growled through his teeth. This is what you deserve!"

The enemy opened his mouth and closed it several times. As if trying to explain himself, as if he still believed there was hope of getting out of this, fooling him or whatever. As if he wasn't already dead. What came out of his throat was not words.

It was blood, as he had wished, but sooner. Of course it was. From so much thrusting the knife in and out, unceremoniously, in a frenzy.

Should he feel guilty, because he was able to go so far, because he was enjoying it?

His dilemma didn't last long.

He imagined the family of that nameless, faceless boy (for him) standing beside him. They would surely praise him. They would encourage him to be more savage, more cruel, if you could call it that, when all he was doing was giving back what this human waste had no problem dishing out.

Misery, pain and death.

The man would die cursing him on the inside. That was more than he had given to that boy, which had died without even knowing he was dying.

Some would say that was the best kind of death, not knowing, not suffering.

He had other ideas. What could be more horrifying than to exist one moment and not the next, with no continuity in your own consciousness? What else was the perfect example of the banality and arbitrariness of life?

No, for him it was not in question. The boy's death had been far more horrible than the one he was giving to this enemy.

As if he was taking pity on him.

However, Desmond couldn't kill him without him behind aware, because the sniper had been the one who had suddenly appeared, giving them all a surprise. So he was doing the best he could do. If he couldn't snuff out his miserable life that meant nothing in one breath, the least he could do was make him suffer, make him acutely aware of how little he had.

And how close he was to losing it all.

Letting out a scream as if he were the one being stabbed, and as if anyone in such a state could make such sounds, he slit his enemy's throat.

Slowly, he watched him die, drowning in his own blood.

Slowly, but perhaps not as slowly as he would have liked. He couldn't tell. His head was a mess. And so was his sense of time.

For some reason, he had the dizzying feeling that he had appeared here, in the middle of the forest, with a knife dripping hot blood in his hand and what would soon be a corpse at his feet, without knowing how or why. He had the feeling that... he had just gotten out of bed, ready for the day, and what he was seeing was inexplicable.

Life flickered out of the man's eyes, at last. Like a shimmering fire.

Breathing heavily, Desmond put two fingers on the open wound on the neck, which was still bleeding.

And spread the blood across his cheeks, his eyes closed.

Drawing marks on himself that he had seen in some ancient history book, or so he believed. He didn't think about it. It wasn't a conscious decision. It just came to him, instinctively.

His instinct told him that he was whole now. As if it was the last piece of the puzzle called "me".

The death, the blood and the marks.

He took a deep breath.

He rubbed his cheeks with the back of his hand, smudging the drawn marks, turning them into mere bloodstains.

He didn't live in his own world, however, he shared it with others, and this attack couldn't have been a coincidence. A personal grudge? If that was true, then why had he chosen precisely this day, this place?

No, it didn't make sense. It didn't make sense at all.

If it was personal, whether it was on the boy or his family, there were much easier ways to deal with the poor kid. A bullet in the head, like now, while he was sleeping peacefully in his own house, from window to window, for example.

Surely, he could have disappeared before anyone even realized that the boy was dead, let alone that a shot had been fired.

Doing so, here, was unnecessarily complicated.

If this was someone taking the law into their own hands, and it was clear that it was not. There was something else. It wasn't a possibility worth considering in the first place, for the mysterious sniper had shot at him too, quite intentionally, and not to buy time to make his escape.

He had had plenty of time, it was clear to him now, to disappear. But he had chosen to stay. To fight.

Desmond considered himself a person of above-average intelligence. Not because he was born special, but because cunning was not a survival mechanism for everyone. For him it was, he had been forced to develop it.

Still, even after so much thought, he let the most obvious explanation pass him by like an idiot.

"We are under attack!" The voice of that woman, professor Isabella, echoed through the air, through the forest. "This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill. We are under attack by soldiers of the Empire. Leave the forest and head back to the academy, to find refuge and resist."

Desmond froze.

Slowly, and after a while, he stood over the corpse. He jerked away as if it burned. He was shocked. Part of him didn't believe what he had heard. It wasn't that he didn't want to believe, he just couldn't. The other part of him licked its lips, which tasted of blood. His own? The enemy's blood?

This was what he had been waiting for so long, in a way. A chance to fight. To make a difference.

No, to change everything, like the response he'd given to the headmaster's speech.

This was the beginning of that.

His first act as a soldier.

May it not be my last, he told himself.

He returned the knife to its place, after wiping it on his trousers, then drew his sword, retrieved the pistol from the ground. And he retraced his steps. On the way back to the academy.

■

Amy found herself surrounded by a man and three women.

They were not in uniform, but they weren't strangers. They had coordinated to surround her, after all. They were looking at her as if she were a wild animal. And they were carrying firearms. So this was one of those other details that the teacher had talked about.

Very well. She hadn't prepared for this, but she could handle it. This wasn't a real fight.

She couldn't kill them and move on, and she couldn't fake kill them either, they didn't have one of those three green circles, representing their remaining life. Even if they had arranged it that way, it would have been impractical to fight them in these conditions. Three hits each, in a limited, narrow space, was too many hits.

She wouldn't risk it like that. It was better to run. And very carefully.

If she was shot, maybe she would escape, maybe she wouldn't lose her circles, but surely she wouldn't make it to the other side of the forest, completing the test. That would disqualify her, with or without the circles.

They fired at the same time, but she was already on the move. It took her less than a second to process and act.

Running to the side. She didn't draw her sword because she had already done that and it had been very useful against traps, deflecting or cutting them. She did the same now. She dodged most of the bullets, one by ducking, another by getting behind one of the numerous trees.

The other... well, dodge was saying too much. The bullet simply missed.

It was more the shooter's fault than something that happened by virtue of her skills, in this case.

And the last bullet. That one she cut.

Up and down, in the air, just inches from her chest. She'd never done that before. She hadn't practiced it, as she had said, she hadn't expected something like this, that they would use the enemy's weapons to teach them a lesson.

Still, she had tried it because it was worth the risk.

She wouldn't die, they wouldn't let her die, and sacrificing one of the circles for the chance to look good was worth it. It wasn't enough to get to the finish line.

She didn't want to simply win, she wanted to impress. To blow them away. Prove she was good at this.

She broke into a sprint, running away.

Bullets chased close behind her. On her heels, almost literally.

Then her luck changed.

Next thing she knew, she was on the ground. Bleeding, full of pain. The bullet had hit her... in the neck, shattering everything in its path. There was so much blood. She couldn't move her head satisfactorily.

Even the rest of her body was as if blocked by the pain. Still, she was strong enough to bring a hand to the wound, squeezing it.

As if that could do anything to save her.

Not her life. As she had said, she was in no danger. She meant, of course, her precious chance. While she got to her feet, she'd be pumped full of lead and goodbye, she'd have to go home with her tail between her legs, she'd have to bow her head in front of Harry... and... Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

But things were even worse than she thought in reality.

"I repeat, this is not a drill. We are under attack by soldiers of the Empire."

No. Fuck, no. Damn it.

Too late for regrets. With great effort, she rolled over, as she lay face down on the ground. That was as far as the remnants of strength that remained in her body would go.

Perhaps it was the fear as paralyzing, if not more so, than the sharp pain coursing through her body, but she didn't think she could do anything else. Resist, to keep fighting.

She heard them approaching, she felt them.

Yes, there was no point in trembling with fear. Nor was there any point in getting angry at her sad fate. None of that would stop what was about to happen. Her imminent death.

More than fear, what she felt was frustration. It was as simple as that.

If the warning had come a few seconds earlier, those four would be the ones lying on the ground, bleeding to death. With her throat in this state, he couldn't even curse them as he died. At least she could see the sky.

She would have hated to die in a dark, damp place, far from any source of light.

She had already spent too much time in the dark.

And now she would return to it. For good. Because that was what it meant to die. She struggled desperately to breathe, even though a quarter of her neck was gone, shattered by the bullet. Even though the only thing keeping her from drowning in her own blood was the hole through which it kept pouring out.

I don't want to die, a part of her screamed, despite everything. Not at all, but especially not in a place like this.

She could see the sky. But it was too soon to die. Not because she was young, but because she had not yet done a single one of the things she dreamed of.

This was supposed to be the beginning of her journey. Not the end.

"She's alive," said a man who appeared above her, blocking out the sunlight, turning into a living shadow. She couldn't see his face clearly.

Not even her eyes, which were two burning white-hot pools of fire, the light at the end of the tunnel, which kept moving, widening and narrowing.

This wasn't remotely normal and had to do with the loss of blood and the subsequent loss of oxygen, which was affecting her.

That was why she was seeing a humanoid monster looming over her, promising death, when all there was was a person like any other.

Except for the fact that he would be her executioner.

Or not. Instead of shooting, he had spoken, and there was hesitation in his voice.

"Then kill her," said the only woman in the group, without the slightest trace of mercy. "We can't waste time. We have work to do."

The man raised his gun. A rifle.

■

Christina closed the book.

Her hands were shaking. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes amidst the stillness of the forest. Yes, the stillness. Although a moment ago it had been full of noise, now not a soul could be heard. No animals, no people fighting for their lives.

That was partly because the traps had been deactivated after the warning.

They might have been useful, they posed a threat to the enemies, not just to them, but she supposed they thought they had enough on their hands with their first battle.

Christina opened her eyes again, sighed heavily, as if there was a heavy weight on her shoulders, pushing her down.

She turned and looked around.

All around, everything was covered in blood. The ground, the grass, the tree trunks. Some splashes had reached even the highest branches, had painted their leaves, mixing green with a deep red like the last rose in the whole world might have.

And there were body parts among the blood, scattered about. However, they were in such a condition that, if someone came across this gruesome scene, they wouldn't be able to tell whether a slaughter of humans or animals had taken place here.

Well, the two are one and the same thing, after all.

What was happening, here and now, was the perfect example that humans were no better than animals. Not when it counted.

She wiped the blood staining her face with the back of her hand.

She left with cold, empty eyes, as if nothing had happened there.

And it hadn't, really. Nothing remarkable, at least.

■

He raised the gun, the rifle, to kill her.

But, at the moment of truth, he hesitated. She didn't show him the same compassion. She plunged the sword into his heart without a second thought. In her state, it was a greater effort than it should have been, but, at the same time, it was surprisingly easy.

The act of swinging the sword and the act of killing a person. It was the first time she had taken someone's life.

She had been told that this was something no amount of training could prepare you for. That, although military training did what it could, nothing was enough.

But she felt nothing.

Not when she heard him gasp in pain, not when she saw his mouth fill with blood. Nor at the look he gave her.

As if she had stabbed him in the back. As if they weren't, sorry, they hadn't been enemies who would inevitably end up killing each other. She didn't even feel the adrenaline rush that came with the feeling of victory.

Because this wasn't a victory, it was, at best, the beginning.

She had made it this far without being forced to use her magic. She had dodged the traps or pushed them out of the way with her sword. Now it was time to show what she could do. Show them why they couldn't win this war.

She used the corpse of the enemy as a human shield. If he wasn't already dead, then the bullets of his comrades were what killed him.

In any case, at least he was dead weight. And, as such, she continued to make use of him.

Amy created ice under her feet, throwing herself forward, sliding at great speed along a path of ice being created by her as she went along. Doing that was relatively simple. Doing it at that speed, without failing? That was another story.

She continued to use the corpse as a human shield. But quite briefly.

Instead of continuing to lift it in front of her until it was so full of holes that it would be useless as a defense, she threw it like a head of trash on top of the woman who had calmly ordered her execution.

She trapped her beneath the corpse. While she tried to shake it off, Amy dealt with the only remaining enemy.

First, she froze the weapon he carried, of the same type as the others, with a blast of ice. Then she cut him open like a pig. She turned away, not bothering to finish him off. To put him out of his misery. She had no time to waste.

When the woman got free, she was already there.

Taking a knee in front of her, she drove her sword into her chin and pulled it out the other side, passing first, of course, through her mouth. Blood flew. Her teeth flew, along with fragments of the shattered skull.

Along with the grey matter that had been released, spilling out like blood.

Forming a 'puddle' on the floor.

Amy took a deep breath, unnecessarily. She felt the urge to concentrate on getting rid of the blood that stained her sword and, more importantly, all her clothes. Her stockings, her legs...

Only her face was spared. Still, she couldn't get it out of her head that she was stained with blood from head to toe.

She could still hear that dying man agonizing, so no wonder, that was a living reminder that up until a few seconds ago, she had literally been engaged in a fight for her life.

But even when the sounds stopped, she couldn't shake this feeling that was pressing down on her. It stole her breath away.

It was like having insects under her skin, crawling around.

Taking over everything. Leaving everything they touched unrecognizable. The illusion of having insects inside her, flowing through her veins even, was so real that every inch of her exposed skin stung. And, at the same time, the blood that made contact with her skin burned.

An unbearable itch, a torturous burning.

But those words were like metaphors for something else, something she couldn't quite understand.

A garbled message from her mind, that she couldn't process what she needed to process.

If this went on for too long, she would lose her mind. Amy hugged herself, falling to her knees amidst the corpses and blood.

No one could bear to live like this.

Feeling as if... As if her body was turning against her. As if something that was brewing inside her would soon come out, killing her in the process.

It was an unnecessary waste of magical power. Still, she used it instead of reserving it for more important things. Because, suddenly, it had become the highest priority at the moment. Preserving her sanity was paramount, after all.

The blood disappeared from her body.

Without a trace. She checked it two or three times, examining her own body as if this was the first time she had ever seen it.

Still, while looking away, or with closed eyes, she could easily imagine that she was mistaken.

That the blood was still there.

Because that slimy, absolutely disgusting feeling hadn't left with it.

Because the bugs were still moving under her skin. Devouring her.

I have to stay calm, she told herself.

Was that what was happening? Had she lost her cool?

No, that wasn't the right word. Her reaction was perfectly natural. Only a nutcase would like to be bathed in blood. These sensations, this smell even, would stay with her for at least a week.

It didn't seem like an exaggeration to her. On the contrary. Was that an indication that she was hysterical? Another indication?

The madness was staying here. Shivering, thinking.

They were under attack. They were at war already, again. Well, they always had been. The last few years had been spent in a truce, but it had been a false, hollow peace that only hid murderous intentions.

That only hid this. The monsters of the Empire, of course, had been the first to strike.

Drawing first blood.

The last would be theirs, however. Amy swore to herself that she would be there to see it, no, that she would do it with her own hands. She rose to her feet, resting her hand on a log slippery with blood. Her neck hadn't stopped bleeding.

If she wasn't so exceptional, she would have had no chance of making it out of this forest, much less saving herself or contributing to the battle for the academy.

But she was.

She put her free hand over the other, the one she had against the wound on her neck, squeezed with both. Her hands were enveloped in a bluish glow. Minutes later, when she withdrew them, all that remained of the shot she had received was a cut on his neck that was in the process of closing.

And the blood, of course. She had removed the blood from herself and the sword with an incantation.

However, her neck hadn't stopped bleeding because of that, and she had stained herself quite a bit again before healing herself. Amy took a staggering step forward.

The forest was dark and deep. Its shadows, as if they had come to life, seemed to be pouncing on her.

Her wound had healed, but she had lost too much blood. She still felt dizzy, on the verge of fainting, her vision still streaked with black spots. Too much blood and too much oxygen, at the same time.

No, not too much lost. She could go on, she could fight on. Well, even if she wasn't capable of that, it's not like she had any choice in the matter.

Life was a war.

Even those who had never and would never set foot in a military compound were soldiers fighting an eternal war.

Holding the sword in her right hand, which was not her dominant hand, and with the other hand on her neck, as if the wound was still there, she moved forward. Despite her fear, despite the pain, with her head held high.

Her vision was wavering more than she was. Partly because of her own shaky movements, partly because her vision was moving on its own, like a spinning plate.

Alternately spinning smoothly and spinning slowly and sharply, as if it would fall over at any moment.

It didn't take long to find more soldiers.

Even in her state, where she could clearly see only a few meters ahead of her, it wasn't hard to notice that. She was grateful that not all the people of Albion were so pragmatic as to bring firearms into battle. That is, that Desmond doing so for example could be considered pragmatism, and not just common sense. Made things much easier.

If I get out of this, I'll get a gun, she thought. No, a fucking shotgun.

They weren't wandering alone in the woods. The soldiers were engaged in a battle with two students.

Decent ones, she supposed, but they were outnumbered. No matter how good they were, if no one did anything they'd get killed, sooner or later.

Amy approached from behind, intending to catch them by surprise. Finish them off before they even realized one more had arrived. She thought it would be easy. She didn't know what mistake she had made, when she had made it, but three of them immediately turned and opened fire on her.

Luckily, she knew how to react. She hadn't prepared herself for firearms, not today.

But mages could fight from a distance, without the Empire's machines, but by casting spells. It wasn't so different, after all, the things that could save her from a stream of fire, for example, and a hail of bullets.

She coated the air in front of her with ice, made it float in the air, move with her, as if they were bound by an invisible chain.

It came out big enough quickly enough.

After each impact, cracks spread across the ice like a pane of glass, but it didn't explode.

Amy stopped, threw her hands forward.

She didn't touch the wall of ice, but it didn't matter. That move sent it flying. Most of the enemies dodged, rolling on the ground, diving to the side. One was caught, the wall breaking upon impact all over him.

Even if that hadn't killed him outright, after that at least he wouldn't give her any trouble.

And, when this fight was over, Amy could put him out of his misery as well. Or simply move on.

No. It was a tempting idea, she had to admit. Just the thought of how many of his people had died and how many would die made his blood boil. But she didn't have the stomach to let someone die a slow and excruciatingly painful death, if she could help it.

A problem she had to rectify, if she was to get anywhere on her path as a soldier.

She couldn't care about the enemy.

But, in this case at least, and surely in many cases hereafter, it would be something justified. To not risk the enemy would survive, kill more people, or even escape to fight another day, all just to satisfy a need for sadism. The perverse sense of satisfaction it would make her feel would not even last long, and would be replaced with thick guilt, no matter how unreasonable it might be.

She immediately lunged for the others.

As she swung her sword, she allowed herself a moment to regret having gotten rid of the blood.

But well, it sucked, but it all seemed clearer when you looked back.

She didn't lose her composure. Amy killed them coldly and methodically, advancing against a barrage of bullets with the same trick as before. Why fix what wasn't broken? Aware that she would carry out a slaughter in a matter of seconds if they made the fatal mistake of reloading at the same time, having no one shooting, they were being careful.

They fired in turns, in short bursts, trying to surround and distract her, giving the others time to reload.

It would have been an effective strategy, if only for the numerical advantage, except for the fact that she wasn't fighting alone. They were still outnumbered, it wasn't enough to kill one to balance the scales, but at least she had help.

They came dangerously close to being more of a hindrance than of use, once.

When Amy instinctively threw herself to the ground, dodging a stream of fire that flew over her, very, very close, even burning some hairs on the back of her neck.

At first, she thought one of the enemies, perhaps one who had heard the fight and had approached, cutting through the underbrush, had come here with a fucking flamethrower on hand. A crude way to replicate fire magic, but a way.

But no. It was one of her allies who had nearly burned her alive.

They had never fought together before, she supposed she couldn't blame him because they couldn't coordinate too well. Still, be more fucking careful. Dipshits.

Her allies weren't able to get rid of her. Neither could the enemies.

And she killed them coldly and methodically. Soon there was only one left on the ground, howling as he clutched the stump of his right hand, blood spurting out. He crawled backwards, running away from her. In vain, of course.

She followed him unhurriedly. Step by step, not running. They went on like this until the back of an enemy met resistance.

The enemy gasped in shock, acted as if he had been grazed in the neck with the point of a sword.

But it was only a tree trunk, in reality.

She, too, had lost her cool in the previous encounter. Because she hadn't been able to handle having been so close to death, that was the bad thing about being talented, about overcoming obstacles with ease, that when you encountered one, when you faced the possibility of your own death for the first time....

It hurt.

But no more than the weight of the lives she had taken, something she hadn't been able to bear.

Now she did, however.

Now she looked at herself and saw that she was okay.

Amy came to a conclusion.

"If it's war you want," She said, placing the point of her sword against the forehead of the enemy soldier, "that's what I'll give you."

And she thrust, piercing his skull.

The nauseating crunch of the skull echoed in his ears. And its echo would continue for a long, long time, she suspected.