Chapter 51 — The Mercenaries Who Knew Too Much
Shadeblade POV
They didn't rush us.
That was the first mistake I noticed—and the first thing that made my spine tighten instead of relax.
Six mercenaries stood in the clearing, spread just wide enough to deny us a clean line, just close enough to close in fast. Not monsters. Not bandits. Professionals. The kind who didn't shout threats or posture for courage.
The one who spoke had his helmet tucked under his arm, scar cutting through his eyebrow like someone had tried to erase him once and failed.
"Shadeblade," he said again, calmly. "Tier-2. Sword-only. Masked. Clumsy reputation. Reliable kill count."
My fingers tightened around the hilt.
That information wasn't public.
Beside me, Lysara shifted her weight—subtle, controlled. Mana stirred around her like a held breath. She hadn't drawn attention to it, but I felt it. A quiet pressure, like the air before rain.
"You've got the wrong skeleton," Selia called from behind, voice light. "This one trips a lot. You want the scary one."
Bran snorted. "Yeah, this guy? Terrifying only to furniture."
Good. They were behind me. Together.
Korran stepped half a pace forward, calm as ever. "You know his name. That means someone paid you."
The scarred merc smiled. "Someone paid us well."
No emblem. No guild markings. Clean gear, but not new. This wasn't a faction hit.
This was hunting.
I exhaled slowly, grounding myself.
No magic.
No aura flare.
Just steel.
"Lysara," I said quietly, not looking at her. "Left flank. Two with light footing."
"I see them," she replied just as softly.
"Selia—"
"Already bored," she said. "I'll fix that."
Bran cracked his neck. "I get to hit someone, right?"
Korran didn't speak. He didn't need to.
The merc leader sighed. "Shame. Was hoping you'd surrender."
I tilted my head. "I don't do that."
He shrugged.
And the clearing exploded.
They moved first—but not toward me.
Three of them lunged for Selia and Bran, blades flashing low and fast. Feint strikes. Disruption.
The other three came for me.
Good.
I stepped forward instead of back.
Steel met steel with a sharp crack that rang through my arms. The first merc was fast—faster than Tier-2 average—but predictable. Overcommitted shoulder. Wide follow-through.
I slipped inside the arc and struck his wrist.
He screamed. Blade dropped.
I didn't kill him.
The second came in from the right, short sword aimed for my ribs. I pivoted—did not trip—and let the blade glance off my armor. My counter was ugly, inefficient, and perfectly timed. Pommel to jaw. He went down hard.
"Two already?" Selia shouted, vaulting over a fallen log. "Skeleton, you're improving! I'm almost proud!"
"Almost," I muttered, ducking as a crossbow bolt shaved past my mask.
The third merc was smarter. He hung back, spear leveled, eyes sharp. He wasn't looking at my sword.
He was looking at my feet.
Clever.
I advanced anyway.
He jabbed—not to hit, but to force a stumble. I felt the terrain shift underfoot, roots and loose soil conspiring against me.
I let myself fall.
On purpose.
The spear thrust sailed over me as I slid low, scissoring his legs. He hit the ground hard, air exploding from his lungs. Before he could recover, I drove my blade down—stopping a breath from his throat.
"Yield," I said.
His eyes were wide. He nodded frantically.
I rose.
Three down.
But the fight wasn't mine alone.
Lysara moved like a quiet storm.
Mana wrapped her arms in faint sigils, her strikes precise, controlled. She didn't overextend. Didn't show off. One merc tried to rush her, thinking her a caster who needed space.
He learned otherwise.
She shattered his knee with a mana-reinforced kick and followed with a clean, efficient blade strike that dropped him bleeding but alive.
"Stay down," she said calmly.
He did.
Bran roared somewhere to my right, laughter booming as he bulldozed through another attacker. "You call that a swing? My grandmother hits harder—and she's dead!"
Selia danced between shadows, knives flashing, voice constant. "Left! No, your other left! Gods, you people never listen!"
Korran held the line like a wall. Not flashy. Not loud. Just unbreakable. Every strike he made was deliberate. Every movement conserved.
Then something changed.
The merc leader hadn't joined the fight.
He was watching.
Calculating.
And then—he ran.
"Runner!" I shouted.
He bolted toward the treeline, moving fast, light, already disappearing between trunks.
I chased.
Branches whipped past as I pushed harder than I should've, breath burning, legs screaming. He was good. Fast. Trained to flee as well as fight.
But he underestimated one thing.
I was used to falling.
I took a risk, cutting across uneven ground, letting momentum carry me downhill. I slipped—controlled—and used the slide to gain speed, blade low.
He glanced back once.
That was enough.
I threw.
The sword spun end over end—not to kill.
It struck his calf.
He went down hard, crashing through brush, screaming.
By the time I reached him, the others were already there.
Korran's blade rested at the man's throat.
"Talk," Korran said.
The merc spat blood and laughed weakly. "Too late."
"What do you know?" I asked.
He looked at me—not at my sword.
At my mask.
"Worth more than you think," he said. "And worth more dead than alive."
Then he bit down.
Foam hit his lips.
Poison.
He was gone before Lysara could reach him.
Silence fell over the forest.
We regrouped slowly.
Six mercenaries. Five alive. One dead.
One escaped death—but not consequences.
Selia wiped her blades clean. "Well. That was rude."
Bran frowned. "They knew too much."
"Yes," Korran said quietly. "And now they know we won't die easily."
Lysara looked at me. "You moved differently."
I nodded. "I'm learning."
I looked down at my sword—recovered, nicked, real.
Someone had paid to hunt me.
Not because I was weak.
But because I was becoming something worth fearing.
And that meant one thing.
This journey was no longer just about survival.
It was about who would still be standing when trust finally ran out.