Chapter 2: Blood And Iron

Chapter 2: Blood and Iron

"You didn't tell us we'd be fighting a fucking mage!" One of the men immediately cried out, starting to turn and run the moment he saw Vince stand up. 

"Don't you fucking dare! I will have the heads of your entire family if you take one more step you imbecile!" The man in velvet—Sylvester Blackthorn, the heir of the Blackthorn Trading Company— Screamed at the retreating man, a hint of fear hidden behind his enraged expression. And just like that, the cowardly guard stopped in his tracks, turning back to face Vince with shaking hands. He, along with the other man, who had a cold expression pulled out cheap daggers from their sides.

Sylvester turned back to Vince, before glancing at one of the cages nearest to him, it housing a small girl, who couldn't be more than 8, she had platinum eyes, and crimson red hair, her small, malnourished body was trembling slightly, her eyes closed shut.

Sylvester raised his pistol towards the girl and pressed the trigger, and in a feat of inhuman speed, Vince dashed towards Sylvester tackling him to the ground. But then, Vince felt a sharp pain in his lower abdomen, he looked down to see an elegant dagger, with strange carvings in it lodged into his side.

Normally, he would brush off a wound like this, but this time was different. He felt his blood boiling, the force of Hundreds of blood vessels bursting simultaneously caused the wound near the knife to explode in an array of blood and flesh. This stunned Vince for a few moments, enough time for Sylvester to pull the revolver to Vince's brow and pull the trigger, sending Vince flying back a couple feet.

Vince hit the ground hard, the thunderous crack of the revolver still echoing in the room. Blood splattered in a grotesque arc behind him. For a second, the room went still—dead still.

Then his fingers twitched.

"NOW!" Sylvester roared, eyes wide in disbelief and terror. "Don't let him stand!"

The cold-eyed man surged forward without hesitation, dagger raised high. The coward hesitated for a breath, but fear of the consequences overrode it, and he followed with a shaky cry.

But Vince was already moving.

He twisted sharply, rolling just as Sylvester dove in with his ornate, glimmering blade. The enchanted dagger missed by inches, scraping against the stone floor with a hiss. The two others slashed wildly, but Vince had already pushed off the ground, favoring his side as he stumbled toward the front door.

He clutched his abdomen—the skin around the wound boiling, trying desperately to knit itself together. Slower than normal. Way slower. Whatever the dagger did to him was still fighting him from the inside, rupturing veins and unraveling flesh almost as fast as it healed.

He needed time, and space. Especially away from the children

The cold-eyed man was right behind him, raising the dagger above his head.

Vince didn't stop. He slammed his shoulder into the door and burst into the open air of the alleyway.

The cold-eyed man followed a heartbeat later—just in time to catch a rusted door hinge hurled straight at his face.

CLANG. The metal cracked against his temple. He staggered.

BANG.

Vince's revolver barked once.

 both him, and the now vandalized door falling lifelessly to the ground.

Vince exhaled, chest heaving. He ejected the spent casing, which was still wet from his blood.

Click.

He stared at the cylinder.

Empty.

"Great," he muttered bitterly, holstering the revolver as he leaned against the wall for support. Blood was still running thick down his side. The pain was duller now, but that worried him more—it meant the nerves were damaged too. The enchantment on that dagger was quite insidious, Vince briefly thought about commissioning a weapon from the Mage who made such a tool, but soon gave up on that idea, fearing what the original creator would do if they found out what i did to the buyer of a surely pricey item.

The knife's enchantment was destroying his flesh quickly, not not nearly fast enough to outpace his potent regeneration abilities.

A minute. Maybe less now, until he'd be fully recovered.

Vince looked up.

Footsteps.

Shouts.

The coward burst through the doorway, followed by Sylvester—his face pale, twisted in fury, that wretched dagger still clutched tight in his white-knuckled hand, it seems like he abandoned his Pistol, either out of a lack of ammo, or the realization that Vince would just shrug off any shots anyways.

Vince didn't move as the two remaining men rushed into the alley. The coward still gripped his dagger with both hands like it might turn him into a real fighter. Sylvester lagged behind, gasping for breath, face slick with sweat, dagger gleaming ominously in the moonlight.

They didn't give him time to think.

The coward lunged with a desperate scream, swinging low and wild. Vince leaned back, letting the blade pass just beneath his ribs before driving his elbow into the man's throat. The coward gagged, stumbled—and Vince snatched the dagger from his hand, flipped it in one motion, and buried it into the man's gut. He crumpled, choking on blood.

"Shame, he seemed like a good kid. I hope he'll choose a better job in the next life." Vince talked out loud, an angry expression on his face. The wound on his side was still bleeding profusely, but he seemed to ignore it as he stared at Sylvester with a dangerous look in his deep, black eyes.

"One left."

Sylvester hesitated now. All the confidence he'd had minutes ago was gone. His grip on the dagger tightened, but his feet didn't move.

"You're just a stuck up rich bastard," Vince said, voice low, cold. "You think a fancy weapon like that makes you dangerous?"

Sylvester's lip trembled, but his pride kept him from backing down. "Y-you're dying," he spat. "That wound—it's not healing right, is it?"

Vince took one slow step forward, his body hunched slightly from the pain, but his gaze locked and unwavering. "You're right," he said. "It's not."

Another step.

Sylvester swung wildly. Vince batted the dagger aside with his forearm, hissing as the blade tore a shallow gash across his flesh, causing the flesh near to boil and then explode, but he didn't stop. He stepped into the nobleman's guard and drove his fist into Sylvester's nose with a crunch like snapping twigs. Blood sprayed. Sylvester shrieked, stumbling back.

The nobleman lunged again, screaming, his strikes erratic and frenzied. Vince blocked a wild jab, slipped inside his reach again, and hammered three punches into his ribs. The last blow lifted Sylvester off his feet and slammed him against the alley wall. He crumpled, coughing blood.

Chest heaving, the elegant dagger trembling in his grasp, Sylvester spat red on the ground. "Y-you don't get it! I was chosen by God!"

"Bull. Shit. you and i both know you're too lousy to be 'chosen' by anything," Vince mocked.

Sylvester lunged to the side, gathering his energy and rushing at Vince again, they clashed again.

Sylvester fought like a cornered animal, desperation and tiredness evident in his attacks. Vince, even in his pained, bloody mess of a state, was faster, sharper. He took another cut to the thigh, gritted through the exploding wound, then buried his fist into Sylvester's gut hard enough to make him vomit.

Every strike Vince landed came heavier than the last, fueled by rage, and a bit of pettiness. The wound in his side had stopped gushing. His blood was finally clotting, healing. The haze of pain lifted, replaced with burning clarity.

"Huh, Guess I should end it here."

Vince grabbed Sylvester by the arm, twisted it back with a crunch, and drove a knee into his gut. The nobleman let out a strangled gasp, collapsing to his knees, wheezing and bloody.

"Give up," Vince sighed, eyes looking down at Sylvester like a hunter gazing upon a freshly killed boar. "You're not walking out of here."

Sylvester spat blood, trembling. His eyes darted to the alley's edge. Nowhere to run.

Then—his fingers moved.

Vince lunged forward, but he was half a second too slow.

With a manic cry, Sylvester yanked the dagger upwards and plunged it into his own chest.

"The hell?!" Vince shouted, reaching for him.

It was already too late.

A pulse of crimson energy erupted outward in a deafening shockwave, blasting Vince off his feet and slamming him against the far alley wall. The air rippled. The stones groaned.

Sylvester's body went rigid, arms spread wide. His veins turned black instantly, bulging and writhing beneath his skin. His scream choked off into a low, gurgling growl as his muscles spasmed.

Tearing.

His body began to change—horribly. Limbs snapped and stretched into grotesque, gangly forms. Bones burst through skin. His velvet coat split down the back as his spine extended, arching unnaturally. Fingers split open into dripping claws. His jaw unhinged, splitting wide enough to crack the corners of his mouth.

His eyes boiled into pale orbs, then burst.

The stench of rot and iron filled the alley.

Vince rolled to his knees, coughing, blinking the dust from his vision.

And then he saw it.

Sylvester was no longer human. A twisted, pulsating beast loomed in the moonlight—eight feet tall, all jagged limbs and warped flesh, blood dripping from its misshapen body.

With a sickening hiss, the creature raised one arm—bloated veins pulsing—and fired.

A jet of pressurized blood screamed toward Vince.

He dove left—not wanting to find out whatever the hell that was.

The blast slammed into the wall where he'd been, melting through stone with a corrosive hiss. Liquid hissed and bubbled in the impact crater, eating away at brick and mortar like acid.

Vince landed hard, skidding on the blood-slick ground.

He stared up at the monster, breathing heavily.

"...Huh.. somehow you're more bearable to look at now?"

The creature turned its head slowly, bone cracking, joints grinding.

It didn't answer, just charging forward, straight at vince.