Blood on the Wind

The night was alive with chaos, but Njuwa could only hear his own ragged breathing.

His feet pounded against the dirt as he ran, weaving through the remains of the battlefield. Every muscle in his body screamed for rest, but he couldn't stop—not now.

Behind him, the camp was still burning.

Screams of dying men mingled with the clash of steel, the scent of blood thick in the air. Warriors fought and fell, some for their cause, others for their lives.

But Njuwa only had one goal—escape.

Nyoka was beside him, her expression sharp with focus. Jengo, though wounded, kept pace, his breaths labored but steady. The former prisoner gritted his teeth, running as though demons chased them.

And in a way, they did.

That masked cultivator—whoever he was—wasn't human.

Njuwa had never seen anyone move like that. One moment there, the next gone, like a phantom in the dark.

And the way he caught that dagger with his bare hands…

Njuwa shuddered.

He had always known cultivators were different—stronger, faster, untouchable.

But that masked man…he was something else.

And if he came after them again—

Njuwa clenched his fists. He had to be ready.

The Chase

The trees were a blur as they raced into the forest. The distant glow of the campfires faded behind them, swallowed by the night.

But the sense of danger remained.

"We need to keep moving," Nyoka said, barely winded. "They won't just let us go."

Jengo wiped sweat from his forehead. "We're running blind. We need—"

A sharp whistle cut through the air.

Njuwa's instincts screamed.

Move!

He ducked.

An arrow shot past where his head had been.

Before he could react, another whistled toward them—

Nyoka twisted, deflecting it with a quick flick of her dagger.

More figures emerged from the trees—dark silhouettes moving with deadly precision.

Hunters.

"Damn it," Nyoka hissed. "They were waiting for us."

Njuwa spun, scanning the darkness. Five—no, six—men, dressed in light armor, their weapons drawn. They weren't part of the Baron's army. Mercenaries, maybe?

No time to think.

One of them lunged.

Njuwa barely dodged as a blade slashed past his ribs. He countered, swinging his stolen sword in a sharp arc—

Clang!

The mercenary blocked, twisting his blade and driving forward.

Too fast.

Njuwa wasn't a seasoned fighter. He had trained under the Baron's men, but this was different—these men knew how to kill.

Another came from the side.

Nyoka intercepted him, her movements swift and deadly. Steel met flesh, and a choked scream followed.

Jengo swung wildly, barely fending off an attacker.

The former prisoner was holding his own, but he was still weak from his wounds.

And then—

Njuwa made a mistake.

His foot slipped on loose soil.

His stance wavered.

The mercenary seized the chance.

A dagger flashed toward his throat.

Njuwa's heart slammed against his ribs.

Then—

A gust of wind howled through the trees.

And suddenly—

The mercenary was gone.

One second, he had been standing there, blade poised to strike.

The next, his body vanished into the darkness, as if snatched by the night itself.

Silence.

Then—a scream.

Distant. Fading.

Like someone falling far, far away.

The remaining mercenaries froze.

A presence settled over them, thick and suffocating.

And then—he appeared.

The Masked Man.

The Phantom's Arrival

He stood at the edge of the clearing, his black mask gleaming under the moonlight.

Not a single trace of emotion came from him.

But the air shivered.

Njuwa's blood ran cold.

He wasn't here for the mercenaries.

He was here for them.

The mercenaries turned, blades raised.

The masked man tilted his head slightly.

Then he moved.

No—vanished.

Njuwa barely saw it. One moment, he was there—the next, he was among them.

The first mercenary collapsed. His throat sliced open before he could even scream.

The second swung his sword—missed—then died as a hand plunged through his chest.

The third tried to run.

The masked man raised a hand.

The fleeing mercenary froze mid-step—his body lifted into the air as if gripped by an unseen force.

He let out a strangled gasp—

Then his bones snapped all at once.

He fell, lifeless.

Njuwa couldn't move.

This wasn't just power.

This was something else.

Something unnatural.

The masked man slowly turned his head toward them.

A single step forward.

And in that moment, Njuwa knew—

They were next.

Desperate Measures

Nyoka acted first.

Without hesitation, she grabbed a small pouch from her belt and threw it.

The pouch burst mid-air—releasing a cloud of thick, black smoke.

"Run!" she shouted.

Njuwa didn't need to be told twice.

He turned and sprinted.

Jengo stumbled after him, coughing.

The former prisoner grabbed his side, blood soaking through his shirt—but he ran anyway.

They tore through the trees, hearts pounding.

Behind them, the air hummed—like something powerful was stirring.

The masked man wasn't chasing them.

Not yet.

But Njuwa knew this wasn't over.

Not by a long shot.

The Forest's Edge

After what felt like forever, they broke through the trees.

The forest gave way to an open clearing, bathed in moonlight.

A river cut through the land, its waters dark and swift.

Njuwa barely stopped himself before stumbling into it.

Panting, he turned back.

No sign of pursuit.

But that didn't mean they were safe.

Nyoka wiped sweat from her brow. "That smoke won't hold him for long."

Jengo collapsed onto the grass, clutching his wounds. "We…need a plan."

The prisoner looked grim. "If that man follows us again, we're dead."

Njuwa's fists clenched.

He hated running.

He hated being powerless.

But right now, they had no choice.

For now, they had survived.

But the masked man had seen them.

And something told Njuwa…

He would not forget.