Chapter Fourteen – The Hunt in the Trees
The first of the attackers lunged at Monroe his blade filled with killing intent.
Monroe didn't even blink. A slight tilt of his head and the blade passed clean through empty air. His hand shot out lazily, gripping the man's wrist before twisting. A yelp followed, the sword clattering to the forest floor.
He shoved the man backward into another attacker without breaking stride.
"Really?" Monroe's voice was quiet, almost amused.
The rest came in fast, boots pounding against the dirt. The night filled with the rhythm of metal scraping and leaves rustling.
Monroe stepped back, letting the first slash graze the hem of his coat. His eyes flicked upward.
He jumped.
In an instant, he was among the branches. The attackers followed, their movements sharp and coordinated. Bark splintered under boots, leaves raining down with every landing.
One came from above, blade angling for his shoulder. Monroe bent low, letting the swing miss, then drove his foot upward into the man's chest. The body crashed through a branch before hitting the ground below.
Another came in from the left, spinning mid-air to strike. Monroe caught the attack on his forearm, redirected the momentum, and shoved the attacker off balance. A quick kick to the back sent him tumbling into the undergrowth.
He kept moving—branch to branch, tree to tree. The black shapes trailed behind, shadows weaving through the canopy.
Three landed ahead of him, forming a tight triangle.
"Got him!" one of them barked.
Monroe didn't stop. His coat fluttered as he sprinted forward. At the last second, he vaulted over the one in the middle, landing behind them. His hand snapped up, two fingers striking the pressure point in the nearest man's neck.
The man crumpled instantly.
"You'll have to try harder," Monroe said over his shoulder, smirking.
The other two rushed in. He weaved between their attacks with minimal movement, the slashes missing by inches. A sweep of his leg knocked both of them off their perches, sending them crashing to the forest floor.
He didn't chase.
Another group approached from behind. Monroe stepped sideways onto a higher branch, forcing them to adjust their path. He flicked a small rock from his pocket. It hit the first attacker's mask with pinpoint accuracy, staggering him long enough for Monroe to close the distance and elbow him in the jaw.
"Seven left," Monroe muttered, almost to himself.
The rest seemed to realize direct charges weren't working. They fanned out, circling him in the canopy.
A blade whistled toward his back. Monroe leaned forward, letting gravity take him. He dropped to the lower branches, twisting mid-fall to grab a hanging vine. He swung up again, meeting an incoming attacker mid-air. Their bodies collided, Monroe's knee slamming into the man's stomach before he let him drop.
The battle shifted downward. Monroe landed softly, barely disturbing the leaves underfoot.
They came at him from both sides this time. His hands moved in small, precise motions—redirecting strikes, deflecting kicks, shoving bodies into one another. Each exchange ended with someone on the ground, groaning or unconscious.
The fight was loud now—branches snapping, boots thudding, muffled grunts. But Monroe remained calm, never rushing, always choosing the most efficient movement.
One attacker tried a high slash while another went for his legs. Monroe stepped between them, catching the high strike with his forearm and using his free hand to grab the low attacker by the collar. He spun, letting the two collide head-first. Both dropped instantly.
"That's nine," he said casually, scanning the treeline.
The last one hung back, moving silently. Monroe pretended not to notice, turning his back just enough to bait the attack.
Sure enough, a blade darted toward his ribs. Monroe spun at the last moment, catching the arm mid-thrust. A twist, a pull, and the man was slammed against the nearest tree trunk. The sound of the impact echoed through the quiet forest.
Monroe stepped back, letting the man slide to the ground.
Only one figure remained standing—slightly taller than the others, posture straighter, presence heavier.
The leader didn't move right away. He studied Monroe, eyes narrowing behind the mask.
"…How?" the man finally asked.
Monroe tilted his head. "Hm?"
The leader's thoughts churned. He's Rank 3. I'm Rank 3. Everyone else here is Rank 2. By the numbers, this should've been enough to overwhelm him.
But the reality was different. The others had been dismantled one by one, not even able to slow him down.
It wasn't raw strength—it was control. Every step, every shift of weight, every attack had been calculated. Monroe had dictated the pace from the start, forcing them to move exactly how he wanted.
The leader's grip on his weapon tightened. If I go in now, I'm walking into his rhythm. If I wait, he'll—
His thoughts cut off as Monroe smiled, small and almost friendly.
"Your turn."
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