Chapter 26: Outta There

"Get back here!" Marcelo's shout ricocheted off the dark stone walls. His fancy-ass boots for the Royal Guard slid on the wet floor like a drunk on ice. He stumbled, cursed loud, but hauled himself to the stairwell. 

Too late. Arwyn was already tearing butt toward the west exit, lungs on fire.

Level 1's west keep was a dead-straight hall, and side paths jagged off to cells stuffed with Runar's losers. Pickpockets, loiterers, guys who looked at a guard funny. The west coast didn't care, same as the rest of this shithole kingdom.

Arwyn wasn't here for the sob stories. 

Marcelo was on his tail, for god's sake.

He flicked a glance back, and a torchlight bobbed, gaining fast. "How fast is this fucker?!" he hissed, legs screaming at him to quit. He whipped his head forward.

Dawn's light leaked through the exit. Freedom? Yeah, right. 

Guards stood before it. Spears up, eyes cold, ready to pin him like a bug. How many guards were there, you may ask?

Around… ten of them.

No Passion Energy. No time to flip through his precious Diary or Codex. He was tapped out—magic wasn't saving him today. But then his hand brushed something at his hip: the katana. He'd damn near forgotten it was there, glinting like it was begging for action. The guards tightened their line, closing in. What choice did he have?

Shing! 

The blade slid free, catching the dim light. "I'm gonna cut you with the… uh…" Arwyn stalled, brain scrambling for something badass. "The Cataclysm of Earth!" He swung it high, trying to sell the bluff, hoping they'd buy it and scatter. "Dream-forged, and… uhm… enchanted by the ancestors of Delacroix!"

They didn't. One guard, a grizzled bastard with a scar splitting his brow, snorted. "That's some nice fantasy, kid. Do better." He lunged, spear jabbing for Arwyn's chest. Arwyn twisted, the tip slicing his tunic and grazing skin, hot pain flaring. 

His blood landed on the katana's blade, and it let out a faint purple aura for a second. He swung the katana wild, metal clanging against the spear's shaft. The spear's blade cracked slightly, and the guard's eyes widened.

"WHAT THE–"

Arwyn lunged, katana slashing in a messy arc. The blade caught the guard's arm, slicing through leather and drawing a spray of blood.

Gshhh! 

"GAHHH—! MY A–ARM!" The guy howled, dropping what was left of his weapon and tripping into the guard next to him.

"Move, damn it!" Arwyn roared, shoving forward through the gap. His lungs burned, his side stung where the spear had grazed him, and his arms felt like lead. Ten guards—nine now, with Scarface down—still blocked the west exit. Dawn's light taunted him through the doorway, so close but swarming with spears.

He didn't wait for them to lunge at him.

The katana glowed faintly purple again, the aura pulsing where his blood smeared the steel. It wasn't some epic power-up, and Arwyn definitely wasn't suddenly a sword master. But the blade felt sharper, like it was itching to cut something. 

He didn't have time to figure it out. Marcelo's torchlight bounced closer behind him, and the guards ahead were already moving.

Two spears thrust at him in unison. Arwyn ducked, pure instinct kicking in, and swung the katana low. The glowing blade sheared through one spear's shaft, sending the tip clattering to the stone floor.

The second grazed his shoulder, tearing fabric and skin. He hissed through clenched teeth but kept charging, slamming his shoulder into the guard with the broken spear. The guy staggered, and Arwyn slashed again. Wild, sloppy, desperate.

Trrrrrk! 

The katana bit into the guard's thigh, clean yet gory. The guard crumpled with a scream.

"Stop him!" a guard yelled, but the narrow hall worked in Arwyn's favor. They couldn't surround him easily, with their long spears tangling as they tried to close ranks. He swung the katana in wide, reckless arcs, more to keep them back than to land clean hits. Metal clanged against metal, sparks flying. 

One guard caught the flat of the blade on his spear and shoved back, nearly knocking Arwyn off balance.

He stumbled, caught himself, and threw a glance at the exit. Five yards. Four guards still stood between him and freedom, with their spears leveled. Behind him, Marcelo's voice cut through the chaos.

"You're mine, Delacroix!" The Royal Guard was closing fast, boots pounding the stone.

Arwyn's heart hammered. No Passion Energy, no tricks up his sleeve—just a weird sword and a prayer. He gripped the katana tighter, the purple glow flickering like a dying candle. Come on, you bastard, do something, he thought, and charged.

He aimed for the smallest guard in the line—a wiry guy with a patchy beard—and swung hard. The guard parried with his spear, but the katana's edge, sharpened by whatever his blood had done, cracked the wood.

Arwyn didn't stop; he barreled into the guy, shoulder first, and before the man could even sprawl to the ground, Arwyn had already readied his katana.

Slash!

Both of their single heads went down in a heap, spears skittering across the floor. The hall was a full slaughterhouse.

Two left. One thrust a spear at his chest; Arwyn twisted, the tip scraping his ribs, and hacked down with the katana. The blade cleaved through the spear's head, leaving the guard holding a useless stick.

The other swung at his legs, but Arwyn jumped—barely—and brought the katana down on the guy's shoulder. It didn't cut deep, but it was just enough to make him drop the spear and clutch the wound.

The door was right there. Arwyn sprinted, blood dripping from his side, his shoulder, his ragged breaths echoing in his ears. He burst into the dawn light, the cool air hitting him like a slap. The execution stage loomed in the distance, a dark silhouette against the rising sun. He wasn't safe. Not with Marcelo and the guards on his tail. 

But he was out of that hellhole, needing a new plan.

Arwyn burst out of the keep, katana gripped tight, the dawn air biting at his sweat-drenched skin. Marcelo, that relentless Royal Guard bastard, was right behind him with his boots pounding, voice already barking orders. "Spread out! Check the alleys, the roofs! Find him!" 

Arwyn's side throbbed from a spear graze, blood soaking his shirt, but he couldn't stop. Not yet. Marcelo's men would swarm the streets of Runar's west coast soon, and he'd be a dead man if he didn't disappear fast.

He veered into a narrow alley, the stench of rot and piss hitting him hard. His legs screamed, but he pushed on, scanning for a hideout. Crates stacked by a door? Too obvious. A drainpipe up a wall? Too slow. 

Then he saw it. A tight gap between two crumbling houses, barely a sliver. Perfect.

He wedged himself in, the rough stone clawing his arms, and held his breath. Marcelo's torchlight swept the alley's entrance, slow and deliberate. 

"Come on, Arwyn, don't make me drag you out," Marcelo taunted, voice smooth as poison. The light lingered, then moved on, boots fading. Arwyn exhaled, shaky, and slipped out the other side.

The street was quiet, fog curling around the cobblestones, but he needed more than a breather.

He needed time. His watch was busted, useless since the keep, and noon was the deadline to save Nathaniel and Santina. 

He crept along the shadows, spotting a faint glow through a cracked window. Some rundown house. He edged closer, peering through the filthy glass. A clock hung inside, ticking steady: 4 a.m. He let out a ragged sigh. Eight hours left, which is plenty of time to plan, or find Nathaniel, if he could stay alive.

He checked his map once again. The execution stage shouldn't be that far, right?

The thing is though, the West Coast was as thrice as big as the South, which was where they entered. There was a reason why Runar was called a continent. All Arwyn could do is to curse himself and huff in frustration.

But he couldn't stay. Standing here was a risk. Marcelo's men were still out there, and daylight would strip his cover. Across the street, a sign creaked in the breeze: The Crooked Mug. 

A tavern, different from the other one. It would probably empty this early. "Good enough." 

So he darted over. As he pushed the door open with a groan, he wondered why the door was still unlocked. 

In any case, the place was indeed dead. Stools were up, mugs stacked, air thick with stale ale. He ducked behind the bar, found a trapdoor, and yanked it open. The hinges squealed, but he dropped into the cellar anyway, landing hard in the damp dark.

Down there, it was cool and musty, barrels lining the walls under a flickering lantern. Arwyn slumped against one, with his katana across his lap, and let his head tip back. Marcelo was still hunting, his men scouring every corner, but for now, Arwyn was a ghost. 

Eight hours till noon. Eight hours to figure out how to outsmart a Royal Guard and save his crew from the execution stage. He'd start here, in the muck, and claw his way out.