Chapter Thirteen: Shadows in the Forest
Eli couldn't sleep.
Something about the forest outside felt… wrong. It wasn't just quiet—it was the kind of silence that pressed against your skin, sinking under it like cold water.
He sat on the edge of his bed for a long moment before standing, grabbing his staff from where it leaned against the wall. His body ached from the day's training, but that feeling was familiar now. The unease in the air wasn't.
The door creaked softly as he stepped outside. The night was thick, moonlight spilling in broken lines between the trees. The air was too still. No crickets. No rustle of branches. Not even the faint wind the forest usually carried.
Every step into the trees seemed to pull him deeper into something unseen.
His grip on the staff tightened. The further he went, the colder it felt—not in temperature, but in weight, like the forest itself was holding its breath.
Then, without warning—
Shhk!
A blur shot from the darkness. Eli swung instinctively. The end of his staff slammed against metal, the sharp ring echoing through the trees. Sparks flared, just enough for him to catch a glimpse of his attacker.
Black. Head to toe. Face hidden. Movements silent.
The figure didn't speak. Didn't hesitate. A low step forward, blade snapping upward toward Eli's chest.
He sidestepped, staff twisting down to knock the blade away. The figure's weight shifted instantly, knee driving toward Eli's ribs. Eli blocked, but the impact rattled through him.
The man's style was a storm in miniature—fast, tight, controlled violence. Every strike carried intent to kill.
A cut aimed for the neck. Block. A lunge for the stomach. Parry. A sudden pivot, elbow flashing toward his temple. Eli ducked, breath sharp.
His own counters were clumsy compared to the man's precision. He jabbed forward, feinted, tried to use reach to keep the enemy back.
The man didn't take the bait. He slid under the swing, palm striking Eli's chin in a quick, snapping motion. The hit was light, but it disrupted his rhythm.
Too fast. Too sharp.
Eli forced himself to shift into the patterns Bram had drilled into him. Close the gap. Break the momentum. Strike in threes.
He pressed forward with a series of blows, the staff cracking against the man's side once before being caught mid-swing. The man's head tilted slightly, as if evaluating.
Then he moved.
A single step in followed by A turn of the hip.
The kick hit Eli's stomach like a battering ram.
Air fled his lungs. His body folded, the ground rushing up to meet him. Dirt filled his vision. His staff rolled from his grip.
Every breath was agony, his ribs aching.
The man crouched beside him, gloved fingers reaching for his neck. The killing intent was cold, clinical.
"…Hmm," the man murmured, voice muffled beneath the mask. "I didn't expect him to be this good. I wonder what his trait is."
The hand rose his dagger glinting in the pale moonlight, ready to finish the job—
---
Elsewhere in the forest in a small clearing a man wearing a black coat stood his purple hair fluttering in the night wind the hem of his coat flapping lightly in the wind,
His amethyst eyes glistened under the pale radiance of the moon.
Around him, ten figures—dressed in the same black attire as Eli's attacker—spread out in a half-circle. Blades in hand, knees bent, their breathing controlled.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to. The intent was already there, heavy and tangible.
Monroe's gaze moved lazily from one to the next.
He smirked. "I thought I sent a proper message last time."
No one responded. His lips curled upwards.
"Guess I'll have to repeat myself"
A single step crunched against the dirt to his right. Another figure adjusted their grip on their sword.
The tension was absolute.
Monroe's hands slipped from his pockets, one foot shifting forward in a barely visible motion.
And in the dark, the forest waited for the first move.
—