NOVEL NEXT Chapter 401: Another Ross
Ren's boots scraped across the ground as he came into view again, stepping into the open street before the battered remains of the district office.
The soldiers that were still standing, the ones who hadn't chased him into the alleys earlier, froze at the sight.
They hadn't heard anything, as the silence was blanketing everything. All they knew was that they'd seen their comrades vanish one wave at a time. But they hadn't expected him to come back.
Instead, there was the same person in front of them, covered in the blood of their comrades.
This time, there was no eagerness to chase him. Only grim, wary silence. They tightened their ranks, shields coming up, spears lowering.
Ren rolled his shoulders, the tattered remains of his cloak shifting against his back, his hands tightening on the hilts of his swords.
He could feel the ache in every bone, his regeneration straining under the relentless punishment. Still, he grinned, a showing of teeth that contained no traces of humor, and took a step forward.
The soldiers didn't wait for him to close the distance. They surged forward in a coordinated push, shields locking together as the first rank stabbed for his chest.
Ren surged forwards, deflecting one spear, and twisting to let the second scrape along his ribs. Taking advantage of the opening in the spears he'd created, he slammed his shoulder into the shield wall, breaking the formation just enough to slip inside.
His right blade plunged into one soldier's stomach, his left slicing across another's faceplate, splitting flesh underneath it.
Pain flared along his back as a third soldier's sword bit deep. It severed his spine, and he flopped to the ground as his legs immediately stopped working.
His hand shot out, dropping one of his swords to catch himself. In that same instant, his spine reattached, the rest of his wound still bleeding.
He pushed himself off the ground, now that his feet were back under him, using the momentum to slash the attacker's thigh open.
Before he could do more, the second rank moved in, swords hammering at him from every angle.
He caught two strikes on his blades, but a third came from his blind side, biting into his forearm and nearly severing it. He kicked the man away, letting the arm hang useless for a moment before the tendons began to stitch themselves back together.
Blood poured down his side, his vision narrowing, but his attacks stayed relentless, parrying high, slashing low, and using every narrow opening to carve through their armor.
He couldn't let himself stop, because stopping could mean losing. He had too much at stake to lose.
One soldier, a massive man in full plate, stepped in and swung his greatsword in a horizontal arc. Ren ducked under it, but the soldier followed up with a brutal kick to his chest.
The impact lifted him off his feet, and before he could recover, another sword swept in from the side.
He barely registered the moment his head left his shoulders. The world spun, his perspective flipping as his body collapsed to its knees and his head rolled across the blood-slick street.
For a heartbeat, everything was black.
Then, the connection snapped back, his flesh and bone pulling together with sickening speed. His vision steadied as his head fused back to his neck, and he stood again, his grin now feral.
The soldiers took an unconscious step back as they realized just what they were fighting.
And Ren charged.
His swords flashed like streaks of silver, cutting through armor straps, hamstrings, and exposed throats.
Every blow they landed on him, splitting his ribs and puncturing his organs, was answered with a kill.
They stabbed him through the chest, and he ripped the weapon free, driving it back through the wielder's visor.
They slashed his abdomen open, and he stepped into the strike, twisting his blade up under their chin.
One by one, they fell, the street filling with the stench of iron, until the last soldier collapsed, clutching at the gash in his neck.
He dropped to his knees in the center of the carnage, swords hanging limp in his hands, his breath ragged.
His body ached from the constant regenerations, and for the first time in what felt like hours, there was no enemy trying to kill him.
The silence that remained felt heavy. At least until it was broken.
The sound of slow footsteps filled the air, echoing from the battered entrance of the district office.
In the silence that had been created by the Shard of Oblivion, the sound stood out like a stain on a clean shirt. Anybody that can create noise in this silence would be a core servant of the Choir.
Ren lifted his head just in time to see her walk out of the district office's ruined archway, her armor catching the muted light that still clung to the street despite the silence of the Choir.
Her gait was steady, unhurried, the kind of walk that belonged to someone absolutely certain of their dominance.
Her face came into view as she stopped several paces from him. A beautiful face framed by short, brown hair, and cold blue eyes.
The insignia on her breastplate glinted faintly, the sigil of Carthage's lawkeepers etched into the metal.
"Ren..." She said, her voice low but carrying effortlessly through the air.
Then, she tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into something halfway between a smirk and an expression of satisfaction. "No… Terence Ross."
Ren's eyes narrowed.
She gave a slow nod. "That's right. I know exactly who you are. And I'll admit," she took a step closer, boots scraping on the stone, "even though this is where you'll die, I'm… pleased. It's good to see a fellow Ross get this far."
That caught him off guard. His brow furrowed, his grip on his sword hilt tightening unconsciously. "A fellow Ross?" He repeated.
The woman chuckled lightly at his confusion, the sound holding no warmth. "What's with that look? Did you really think you were the first Ross to go chasing the Primordial Flame?"
Her smirk widened. "Or the first to step inside Carthage's walls?"
Ren's mind raced. He opened his mouth, but she kept talking.
"My name," she said, pausing for just a heartbeat, letting the tension stretch, "is Myra Ross. General of the Warden of Law. And the fifth generation descendant of Alistair Ross, the Ross who entered Carthage, long before your father's father was even a thought."
The name hit like a jolt. Alistair Ross. He'd seen the name before in the book of the Ross family genealogy. However, no one knew what had happened to him. All they knew was that one night, he disappeared, and no signs pointed to anything nefarious.
"You…" His voice trailed, the rest of his thought unspoken.
Myra tilted her chin, studying him like a hawk might watch a smaller predator. "Yes. I know the blood that runs through you. And for that," she gestured loosely toward his broken, blood soaked body, "I'll give you something I don't often give my enemies."
Her eyes locked onto his with a predator's calm. "A chance to defend yourself."
Ren straightened slightly, his breath still ragged from the fight.
She reached down with one gauntleted hand, drawing her own weapon, a longsword with a wickedly serrated edge. The sound of metal leaving the sheath echoed unnaturally in the silence.
"Pick up your sword, Terence." She said, her voice carrying a cutting finality. "And prepare… to die."