Ch 100: The First Move

The air was thick with the scent of salt and oil, the distant sounds of waves crashing against the docks barely masking the footsteps of armed men moving through the streets.

The mercenaries had arrived.

Kael and Mira crouched in the shadows of a half-collapsed building overlooking the warehouse—their battleground. The flickering light of torches and oil lamps revealed the approaching force, at least twenty men, moving in tight formation.

"More than expected," Mira muttered.

Kael's gaze swept across the approaching mercenaries, noting their gear, the way they moved—not disciplined enough to be true soldiers, but experienced enough not to be taken lightly.

"They brought the real fighters this time," he murmured. "No more cannon fodder."

Mira tightened her gloves. "Then let's make this count."

Kael adjusted the dial on his wrist-mounted igniter, his fingers brushing against the row of throwing knives strapped across his chest. "Let them come."

The lead mercenaries reached the outer perimeter of the warehouse, blades drawn, crossbows at the ready.

One of them raised a hand, signaling a halt.

Something wasn't right.

The air was too still.

Then, a faint click.

The first trap activated.

A metal wire, stretched taut across the alley, snapped free, triggering a small burst of compressed gas and resin—a sticky, rapidly hardening substance coating their boots and lower legs.

"Trap!" one of them shouted, but it was too late.

From above, Kael dropped a flask.

A sharp shatter.

A sudden hiss.

Thick, choking smoke filled the alley, cutting off vision, burning at their eyes and lungs.

Mira struck first, darting out of the shadows, her gauntlet slamming into the first blinded mercenary's throat. A second later, she spun, twisting under a wild sword swing, and slammed her elbow into another's temple.

Kael moved with precision.

A flick of his wrist—a throwing knife buried itself into an exposed neck. Another step forward, a blade in his left hand, cutting low—severing a tendon before twisting upward, finding the heart.

Screams filled the night.

And the real battle began.

The mercenaries pushed forward despite the chaos, their leader, Derrik Iron-Fang, cutting through the smoke, barking orders.

"Don't panic! Spread out! Light the place up!"

Torches were hurled forward, igniting patches of oil-soaked wood. Shadows danced against the burning light, and the warehouse became a war zone.

Kael pulled a small pressure-activated bomb from his belt—a crude but effective incendiary mix—and tossed it toward the cluster of approaching men.

Boom.

A sharp explosion sent flames licking up the walls, forcing the enemy to split up.

Mira took advantage of the chaos, slipping behind a group of mercenaries and smashing a flask against the ground—a chemical reaction sending up a flash of blinding white light.

Disoriented men stumbled. A blade flashed.

Kael moved through them like a ghost, his curved weapon cutting cleanly through armor and flesh.

One.

Two.

Three men fell before they could even register his presence.

Derrik wasn't a fool.

He saw the way his men were being cut down. How the traps, the smoke, the precise strikes were turning the tide against them.

He growled, lifting his massive war axe, its edge already stained with blood from past battles.

"This ends NOW!"

With a roar, he charged.

Kael barely dodged the first swing, the force of it shattering a wooden support beam behind him.

"Big guy's angry," Mira called, ducking beneath an incoming spear.

Kael didn't answer. He was already moving.

Derrik swung again. Faster than expected.

Kael barely had time to twist his body, the axe grazing his side, the pain sharp but not deep.

Mira took her chance.

She hurled a vial at Derrik's feet, the contents bursting into a thick, tar-like substance, slowing his movements.

But it wasn't enough.

Derrik ripped free, lunging at Kael again, his strength undeniable.

Kael dropped low, kicking off against the debris and sliding under the massive swing. He came up behind the mercenary leader, his sword aiming for the exposed gap beneath his arm.

A solid hit—but not a killing one.

Derrik spun, his fist slamming into Kael's ribs, sending him stumbling back.

"You think you're something special?" Derrik growled, advancing. "Just another dead man who doesn't know it yet."

Kael wiped blood from his lip.

"Funny," he muttered, adjusting his stance. "I was thinking the same about you."

The fight was far from over.