The Warborn Strikes

Kyle's grip on the Fallen King's Blade tightened, his pulse steady despite the pounding rush of adrenaline. The mercenaries were closing in, their movements careful but quick, their weapons drawn with practiced efficiency. These weren't simple raiders or wandering bandits—these were trained killers, men who had likely fought and killed for years. Their armor was mismatched but well-kept, their weapons sharp, their eyes filled with the cold calculation of men who knew how to deal death.

Kyle had fought monsters. He had faced ghosts and wraiths, survived The Land's brutal trials. But this was different. These weren't creatures acting on instinct or ancient curses. These were men—hunters, here for him.

And that made them more dangerous.

The first mercenary spotted him, his helmeted head snapping toward Kyle as his stance shifted. "He's here!"

The words barely left his lips before Kyle moved.

With a burst of speed, he lunged forward, his body ignoring the lingering ache from his previous wounds. The moment of hesitation on the mercenary's face was enough. Kyle's blade sliced through the air, the sheer force of his swing crashing against the man's raised shield. The impact splintered the wood, sending him stumbling backward with a curse.

Kyle didn't stop.

He followed up with a brutal kick, driving his boot into the mercenary's chest, knocking him onto his back. The man gasped, but before he could recover, Kyle's blade was already descending in a deadly arc.

The mercenary barely had time to scream before steel met flesh.

Blood splattered across the broken stone.

The other mercenaries reacted immediately. Two of them rushed in, one wielding a polearm, the other with twin short swords.

Kyle twisted, just in time to duck beneath the first strike, the spearhead narrowly missing his ribs. The second mercenary came in fast, his twin blades flashing toward Kyle's side.

Kyle blocked one of the strikes, catching the sword against the flat of his blade, but the second slipped through his guard, slicing across his forearm.

A pulse of pain shot through him, hot and sharp.

A notification flared in his vision.

---

Health Reduced by 10%. Minor Bleeding.

Blood Reclamation Active. Absorbing energy… Partial wound recovery.

---

Kyle barely registered it. The pain was already fading, his body adjusting, adapting. He had no time to hesitate.

The polearm mercenary lunged again, the long reach of his weapon keeping Kyle on the defensive. The tip of the spear whistled through the air, stabbing forward with deadly precision.

Kyle sidestepped, moving just out of range. The moment the spear extended too far, Kyle saw his opening.

With a burst of explosive force, he grabbed the wooden shaft, yanking it forward. The mercenary's stance faltered, thrown off balance—exactly what Kyle wanted.

Before the man could recover, Kyle drove his knee into the mercenary's gut.

The breath left the man's lungs in a ragged gasp. Kyle followed up immediately, ripping the spear from his hands and ramming the butt of it into his throat.

The mercenary collapsed, choking, clutching at his throat.

Kyle didn't stop.

He turned sharply, parrying another incoming attack from the twin-blade mercenary. The man was faster than the others, his footwork light, his slashes relentless. He struck again and again, each blow coming within inches of cutting deep.

But Kyle had fought faster opponents. He had fought stronger opponents.

This man was nothing compared to the First Marked.

Kyle watched the mercenary's movements carefully, letting Phantom Reflex kick in, his body memorizing the pattern of the attacks, predicting the next strike.

The man lunged—

Kyle moved first.

He ducked beneath the blades, twisting his body with the motion, and drove his elbow into the mercenary's ribs. The sudden impact made the man falter.

That was all Kyle needed.

He swung his sword upward, his strength enhanced by Blood Reclamation, and slashed straight through the man's chest.

The mercenary stumbled, his breath gurgling as blood soaked his armor. His weapons slipped from his hands, clattering against the stone.

Kyle watched without hesitation as the man collapsed, motionless.

Another down.

The remaining mercenaries hesitated now. They had started this fight confident, assured in their numbers and training.

Now, they weren't so sure.

Kyle stood among their fallen comrades, his breath even, his blade dripping red. He was outnumbered, but the look in his eyes made it clear—he wasn't outmatched.

A new voice cut through the battlefield.

"That's enough."

Kyle turned sharply.

The leader of the group—a towering man clad in reinforced plate, an executioner's axe strapped to his back—stepped forward slowly.

The air shifted.

This man was different. Stronger. He carried himself with experience, with authority.

Kyle's instincts screamed that this wasn't just another mercenary.

This was a commander.

His voice was low, measured. "You fight like a war dog."

Kyle didn't respond.

The leader tilted his head slightly, studying him. Then, he smirked. "They didn't tell us you'd be this much trouble."

Kyle narrowed his eyes. "Who sent you?"

The leader chuckled. "You'll find out soon enough."

Then, with a sharp motion, he raised his hand.

The surviving mercenaries immediately backed away, falling into formation behind him.

They weren't retreating.

They were leaving.

Kyle didn't move. He didn't trust this, but he also wasn't stupid enough to chase an enemy who wasn't running in fear—only waiting for a better moment.

The leader turned away, but his voice carried over his shoulder. "The Hunt has started, Warborn. You're worth more alive than dead."

Kyle's grip tightened, but he didn't respond.

He stood there, watching as the mercenaries disappeared into the ruins, their presence fading into the shifting dust and shadows of the fallen city.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy.

Rin stepped up beside him, arms crossed tightly. "That… was weird."

Kyle let out a slow breath, his instincts still on edge. "They weren't here to kill me."

Rin frowned. "They attacked first."

Kyle shook his head. "They were testing me."

Rin gave him a skeptical look. "For what?"

Kyle glanced down at the Fallen King's Blade, the weapon still thrumming faintly in his grip, as if it too was waiting for something.

"For whoever hired them."

A new notification flickered.

---

The Hunt Continues.

Factions are taking interest. Some will seek you out. Some will send others to claim you. Choose your allies carefully.

The Warborn is no longer unknown.

---

Kyle exhaled, his gaze shifting toward the distant horizon, where the ashen city met the darkened sky.