Hello world! (4)

The forest was unnaturally still, the air heavy with tension. Gavin crouched low, his sharp ears tuned to every faint rustle and snap around him. He twirled the needle between his fingers, the purplish-black substance coating its surface glinting faintly in the dim light filtering through the thick canopy above.

"Ten of them, huh?" he muttered, his voice dripping with amusement. "This might actually be fun."

A sudden, high-pitched whistle sliced through the air, followed by the unmistakable hum of an arrow. Gavin twisted to the side, the projectile missing him by mere inches and embedding itself in the tree behind him.

"Not bad," he called out, his voice echoing mockingly through the forest. "But if you're going to ambush someone, you might want to aim for where they're actually standing."

A figure in a red robe stepped out from the shadows, their hood drawn low over their face. They were armed with a long staff adorned with glowing runes, and their stance radiated a cold, calculating menace.

"You talk too much," the robed figure growled, signaling with a sharp gesture.

From the shadows, more robed figures emerged, surrounding Gavin in a loose circle. Each carried a weapon-a mix of swords, staves, and crossbows-aimed directly at him.

"You're outnumbered, Gavin," the leader sneered, taking a step closer. "Surrender now, and we might spare you a quick death."

Gavin let out a low chuckle, rising to his full height. His dull eyes locked onto the leader's, and for a moment, the forest seemed to grow colder.

"Outnumbered?" he repeated, his tone laced with mockery. "I think you have that backwards."

The leader's brow furrowed, but before he could respond, Gavin flicked his wrist, sending the needle hurtling through the air. It struck the nearest robed figure in the neck, the purplish-black substance on its tip glowing as it spread through the man's veins. He crumpled to the ground with a gurgled cry, convulsing violently before going still.

"One down," Gavin said casually, catching the needle as it reappeared in his hand with a faint shimmer of light. "Nine to go."

The remaining zealots hesitated, their confidence faltering.

"Kill him!" the leader barked.

Chaos erupted.

Two crossbowmen fired simultaneously, but Gavin was already in motion, darting to the side with inhuman speed.

The bolts buried themselves in the dirt where he had stood a moment earlier.

With a graceful spin, he hurled the needle again, striking one of the crossbowmen in the chest. The man dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

A swordsman lunged at him from the side, his blade aimed for Gavin's ribs.

Gavin sidestepped effortlessly, catching the man's wrist and twisting it until the sword clattered to the ground. A sharp jab with the needle ended the encounter, and the swordsman fell with a pained grunt.

"Three," Gavin counted aloud, his voice calm and almost bored.

The remaining zealots exchanged nervous glances.

"Don't just stand there!" the leader roared, channeling magic through his staff. A bolt of fiery energy shot toward Gavin, lighting up the forest with a brilliant flash.

Gavin smirked, raising his hand. The bolt of fire fizzled out inches from his palm, the purplish-black energy around him absorbing it completely.

"Nice try," he said, his tone almost patronizing "But if you're going to use magic, at least make it interesting."

With a flick of his wrist, Gavin sent a wave of the same purplish-black energy rippling outward. It slammed into two of the zealots, knocking them off their feet and pinning them against nearby trees. They struggled briefly before slumping unconscious.

"Five," Gavin mused.

The remaining zealots were visibly shaken now, their earlier bravado replaced by fear.

"Enough!" the leader shouted, stepping forward and slamming his staff into the ground. A shockwave of energy radiated outward, causing the ground to tremble and the air to hum with power.

Gavin stumbled slightly, his smirk faltering for the first time. "Well, that's new," he muttered, regaining his balance.

The leader advanced, his staff crackling with energy. "You think you're untouchable, Gavin? Let's see how you deal with this!"

He raised the staff, and a massive orb of fire began forming above it, growing larger with each passing second. The heat was intense, and even Gavin felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple.

Gavin rolled his eyes, a weary smirk tugging at his lips. "Okay," he drawled.

In a swift motion, he took a step forward and launched the needle toward the leader's face while using his back leg to propel himself onto a low nearby branch.

The leader gritted his teeth and tilted his head, barely avoiding the needle as it sped past him. His eyes widened as the needle veered off course, burying itself in the skull of the zealot beside him.

The zealot crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath him. The remaining zealots stood frozen, their faces contorted with a mix of shock and fear. This was the quickest death Gavin had granted any of them since the fight began.

The needle reappeared swiftly in Gavin's hands. He ran his fingers down its length, this time coating it with a black, tar-like liquid. Beaming at the paralyzed zealots, he held up the needle and quipped, "That's six."

"Gavin! You lowlife bastard!" the leader roared. He yanked down the sleeve of his red cloak, revealing an arm marred with cuts and slices. With a grimace, he made a fresh cut, and thick crimson blood flowed from the wound.

The blood twisted through the air, swirling around the orb of fire above his staff. The orb doubled in size, its flames surging ten times hotter than before. He hadn't wanted to use this much mana. At first, he intended to scare Gavin with a mere display of his lesser spells, but he couldn't take chances anymore.

Here's the continuation of your story:

The flames above the leader's staff raged, casting monstrous shadows against the twisted trees. The surrounding air shimmered with heat, and the ground beneath their feet cracked and smoldered. Gavin's expression shifted, his amusement giving way to a more calculated calm.

"Finally," he murmured, "something interesting."

The leader's arm trembled under the weight of the fire orb, the blood swirling around it darkening as the spell drew deeper from his life force. His eyes were bloodshot, his breathing ragged. "You should have run when you had the chance, Gavin!"

Gavin remained still, his body relaxed. "Run? I've been waiting for you to do something worth my time."

The leader roared, thrusting his staff forward. The massive orb shot toward Gavin, the heat blistering the bark off trees as it barreled through the forest. Birds took to the sky, fleeing the devastation.

Gavin's pupils dilated, and the purplish-black energy around him flared, forming a translucent barrier just as the fire collided with him. The impact sent shockwaves rippling through the forest, uprooting trees and shattering rocks.

For a moment, all was fire and smoke. The leader panted, his staff digging into the ground as he struggled to remain standing. His remaining zealots stared, wide-eyed and trembling, hope flaring in their desperate gazes.

Then, as the flames began to recede, a figure stood in the smoldering clearing.

Gavin.

A protective dome of his dark energy cracked and dissolved around him, revealing his singed but unharmed form. His clothes were charred at the edges, and a streak of ash smudged his cheek, but his eyes shone with unbridled excitement.

"That was cute," he said, brushing a bit of ash from his shoulder. "My turn."

In a blur, he moved. The needle in his hand thrummed with energy, the black tar-like substance on its surface hissing as it reacted to the heat.

The zealots barely had time to draw breath before Gavin was among them. His movements were a dance—fluid, effortless. The needle flashed, and with each strike, a body fell. The black substance seeped into their wounds, spreading darkness through their veins and leaving them lifeless in moments.

"Seven." He counted as he struck another down.

The remaining zealots stumbled back, fear overtaking them. One, a young swordsman barely in his twenties and the other, a woman with silver tattoos winding up her arms, both dropped to thier knees. The woman's' staff clattered to the ground as she clasped her hands in front of her. "Mercy," she breathed, her voice choked with terror. "Please."

Gavin's eyes narrowed as the remaining zealots whimpered for mercy, their voices weak and fractured, like a choir of very bad glass harmonicas.

The clearing lay shrouded in a heavy mist, the kind that made everything look creepier and also a bit like an old black-and-white horror film. Their pleas hung in the air—a desperate chorus of "Please don't kill us!" and "I have a family!" and the classic "I'm too young to die!" All things considered, not their best work.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Gavin raised his hand. His fingers curled, and dark energy began to coil around them like a particularly malevolent snake. It pulsed ominously, the kind of dark magic that came with a "Don't Touch" sign. The ground trembled, pebbles doing a little jig, and his voice cut through the air, low and merciless:

"Your end is here."

The zealots recoiled as if he'd just announced a pop quiz. They shrank back, fear turning their faces into abstract art—eyes wide, mouths hanging open, possibly reconsidering every life choice that led them to this moment. Their leader, the last bastion of misplaced bravery, clung to his staff as if it might sprout wings and fly him out of there. Blood and sweat mixed on his marred arm, creating a sort of grim tie-dye effect. His breathing turned into a steam engine impression, each puff a sad little cloud of resignation.

Time seemed to freeze, a single suspended heartbeat where the universe just sat back, sipped its tea, and watched. Gavin's lips curled into a smirk—a smirk that could probably curdle milk. The dark energy around his hand built to a dramatic crescendo, arcs of black lightning snapping in the air like a goth-themed firework display. And then... nothing.

He vanished.

The clearing fell into a silence so absolute it felt like the world had hit the mute button. The unstable magic fizzled out, leaving the ground scorched and steaming, like an overcooked casserole. When the smoke cleared, a message remained, burned into the earth with all the subtlety of a bad breakup text:

  "Cowards. Pathetic, worthless – get lost."

The flames around the letters crackled softly, a soundtrack of contempt. The zealots stared at the glowing script, expressions frozen in what might have been shock or possibly a stroke. The silence deepened, broken only by the wheezy breathing of their leader, whose eyes now smoldered with a fresh, searing humiliation. Somewhere deep inside, the embers of hatred caught flame, though with his luck, it'd probably burn him too.

Far from the chaos, deep in the woods where the shadows had shadows, Gavin leaned against a gnarled oak. His back pressed into the bark, the tree offering all the comfort of an unpaid intern. He exhaled, a sound laced with disdain, and let out a laugh—dry and bitter, the kind of laugh you might hear from a villain at the end of a very bad date.

"Stupid fools," he muttered, his voice barely more than a breath. "So eager to die, yet too much for their own weak hearts." He shook his head as if the zealots were a particularly disappointing episode of a reality show.

His gaze drifted into the distance, his mind wandering to a different face. Nazryth. The kid with eyes like he'd seen the end of the world and decided it was boring. The memory sent a shiver through him, a prickling under his skin that might have been something important—or possibly heartburn.

Gavin straightened, the lethargy of victory peeling away like an old coat. He glanced back toward the smoldering clearing, his lips curling in a look that bordered on pity.

"Time to move," he whispered to the woods, as if they cared. "I've got a little someone waiting."

And with that, he slipped into the shadows, vanishing with the smoothness of a practiced escape artist. The woods swallowed him, the night knitting itself back together in his wake. All that remained was the echo of dark magic, the hiss of scorched earth, and the lingering scent of singed egos.