NPC for Hire-[Gamelit|Simulation|Multi-genre]

They emerged in the gaps like sharks in shallow water—skirmishers. Light armor, fast blades, faster feet. The kind that slipped between formations, harassed flanks, and bled a squad dry before anyone realized the line was broken. Short spears and curved steel caught the bramble's shifting light, their steady, deliberate advance aimed straight at him.

His mind kept circling the plan, every angle weighed, every risk measured. It would work, or it wouldn't—but staying here would make failure certain. His hand tightened on the Umbral Resonance's hilt, the weight of the blade grounding him. The restless tap of his thumb stilled. His mind went still with it. It was time to act.

He sprang over the bramble wall, boots slamming into the dirt, the squad's shadows falling in behind him.

The air was thick with blood, burning wood, and the sharp ozone tang of spells tearing the sky. To his left, a man screamed as a fireball engulfed him—armor sloughing off in molten streams. A trio of soldiers huddled against the brambles, one clutching the stump of a severed arm, face grey with shock. Another lay still, skewered with arrows, eyes fixed on nothing.

The losses were high—but the bramble bulwarks had kept them from being worse. Without them, the battle would have ended before it began. Fen let out a low breath. "Looks like every credit Fisck poured into this mess was worth it." They were still dying—but far fewer than they would've without the walls holding the line.

He wasn't about to waste it.

The skirmishers closed in, their shadows stretching toward him. The tome at his hip pulsed with hungry need. The blade would feed soon enough.

He vaulted the next bulwark in a rolling somersault, boots barely kissing the dirt before he surged forward again. The battlefield blurred around him—shouts, the crack of distant spells, the metallic ring of steel meeting steel—but he had no time for anything but command.

"Engage the skirmishers! Keep them from the flanks! Vaelin, Luthair, Soren—lock the line! Rennic, cover us!" He didn't need to check if they obeyed. The same five who'd been with him since the drop fanned out instantly, splitting to cover gaps in the bramble wall and watch each other's backs. Rennic stayed one line back, bow already drawn.

Ahead, the enemy mirrored their movements with unnerving precision. These weren't disorganized raiders—they were a guerrilla strike squad. Fire-orange hair flared through the soot-streaked air, likely a custom skin, and their gear was stripped down for speed. They vaulted a line of brambles and landed low, each step measured, every movement built to disrupt and overwhelm. Some carried paired, one-handed axes—short, brutal weapons for quick, chopping strikes—while others gripped curved sabers designed to slip past armor and carve through a formation before it could rally.

And then Fen saw their leader.

Taller, broader, his frame dense with the kind of muscle that could break a man in half. He carried no twin weapons—just a two-handed axe, its crescent blades catching what little light filtered through the smoke. His hex ID, like those of his squad, was masked. A rare, almost illegal mod. Fen knew the trick: hide your stats, hide your tier, and you deny the enemy one of the best tools for planning a counter. An element of surprise… and intimidation.

The leader's gaze locked on Fen. He raised the axe— as an unspoken acknowledgment that the fight was on. A gesture for all present, not just one man.

Fen rolled his shoulders, noting how odd the move was for a skirmisher. It didn't fit their usual doctrine. Maybe it was theater—one more way to stand out and win corporate favor in a world where style could matter as much as kills.

"Hopefully his employer isn't as batshit crazy as Fisck," he thought. "If he's softcore, maybe he respawns out of the Expanse with a good story instead of a gravestone."

The leader didn't close the distance himself. Instead, he flicked two fingers, sending four of his warriors straight at Fen. The rest split to flank, and Fen's squad met them head-on—Vaelin's shield smashing into a rushing fighter, Luthair's serrated axe carving down in a vicious arc, Soren's spear snapping forward to intercept a second. Rennic's arrow whistled overhead and struck home, staggering one of the four bearing down on Fen just long enough to break their formation.

The first came in swinging high—both hands flashing as twin axes carved a brutal overhead cross meant to split him in two. Fen dropped low, the paired blades hissing past just above his head as he slid on one knee. He came up in the same motion, his own blade snapping upward in a vicious arc that bit deep into the man's thigh. The warrior staggered, and Fen rose into the opening, driving his weapon across the man's chest in a clean, decisive cut.

One down.

Two more crashed into him, their axes slamming against his blade in a relentless rhythm that jarred his arms to the shoulder. Steel screeched against the black edge, each strike forcing him half a step back. Movement in his periphery—a third fighter sweeping in from behind, feet silent over churned dirt, closing the gap in seconds.

No time to turn. He felt the shift in air behind him, the faint scrape of boots on churned dirt, the pressure of intent closing in.

The strike never landed.

An arrow cut past his ear with a sharp hiss and buried itself clean through the attacker's eye. The man dropped without a sound. Rennic again.

Two of the attackers were out of the fight.

Fen pivoted, bringing his blade down hard on the first attacker, only to meet crossed axe handles that caught his blow with a crunch of steel.

"Fine." The word was half a growl, half a release—an end to hesitation.

He triggered the Veil of Night.

[Ability: Veil of Night — Allows the wearer to teleport a short distance within line of sight, leaving behind a brief cloud of disorienting smoke that acts as a decoy.]

Dark smoke burst outward as he vanished, reappearing in a blur a few meters away. The fine line between survival and being overrun narrowed to a heartbeat—just enough to reposition before the next axe came down.

Fen reappeared behind his opponent, the shift so sudden the man didn't even turn. The Umbral Resonance punched clean through his back, the tip bursting from his chest in a spray of dark mist. The skirmisher crumpled without a sound, already gone before he hit the dirt.

That's three off the board, Fen thought, steadying his grip on the blade.

The last one in front of him hesitated, axe raised but feet shifting back. Up the line, the skirmisher leader flicked two fingers—another signal. More fighters broke from the formation, cutting through the bramble toward Fen. He still had one opponent to finish, and now fresh blades were on the way.

Fen slammed his heel into the ground.

[Ability: Grounding Pulse — Sends a shockwave through the floor, staggering nearby enemies and weakening magical shields.]

The force erupted outward in a ripple of dirt and splintered bramble, knocking the nearest skirmishers off balance and staggering the rest of the rush.

Vaelin and Luthair were on them in an instant, smashing into the broken line with enough force to draw off two of the attackers. Steel rang as blows landed, curses and grunts cutting through the clash. Around them, the battlefield narrowed into controlled chaos—every motion measured in survival and violence.

But the enemy recovered quickly. Fen reset his stance, the Umbral Resonance humming in his grip as the skirmishers regrouped, their movements tighter now, more deliberate. His gaze flicked to the corner of his HUD—checking the one number that mattered.

[Stored Charge: 42%]
"Power drawn from the blade fuels its wrath. The more it drinks, the greater the storm."

Not enough yet for Cavern of Souls. He'd have to carve it from them blade-first.

Instead of rushing him head-on, the skirmishers shifted tactics, pairing off in a coordinated movement that spoke of training and intention. One fighter in each pair slung their axes over their back and drew a small buckler and a long, curved knife from their harness. The other stayed close behind, twin axes still in hand, using the shield-bearer's cover to search for an opening. They moved in perfect sync—one guarding, the other ready to strike the moment a gap appeared. They spread wide, flanking on instinct, creating angles.

They hesitated at the edge of his reach, and Fen used the lull to steady his breathing and take stock. He was still two, maybe three hundred feet from the base of the bridge—close enough to see the churn of bodies, but too far to influence it yet. Beyond the skirmishers, the main enemy force held the bridge in a tight shield wall, trading arrow volleys and bursts of spellfire with the defenders. The air above was thick with smoke and streaks of light, every clash on the flanks threatening to spill open a gap.

Five minutes into the assault, and every second counted. If he didn't cut through these fighters soon, the bridge fight would be decided without him.

Fen exhaled. They weren't looking to overwhelm him with brute force anymore. They were controlling the fight—limiting his angles, cornering his space.

He shifted his stance, blade low, footwork tight. He couldn't let them box him in. Eyes flicking to his HUD:
Veil of Night – 30 seconds.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Grounding Pulse – 10 seconds.
Too long, he thought, sparks of frustration flashing through him.

He clenched his jaw. He wasn't used to feeling slow—openings closing just as he reached them—or being the one hunted. That was supposed to be his role. A flicker of instinct pulled at him. If he could link with Auri, maybe they could find the resonance again—ride that shared rhythm that made them faster, sharper, impossible to pin down. He pushed a thought toward her across their link, searching for that subtle frequency beneath the noise of battle.

As if reading his frustration, the first pair surged forward. The shield-bearer rushed in, knife flashing in tight arcs, each feint drawing Fen's guard just slightly off-center. He caught the first blow on his blade and twisted to redirect it, absorbing the momentum—but stepped back to reset, giving ground instead of pressing. It was a mistake, and the shield-bearer seized on it instantly. The buckler snapped up, catching Fen's blade against its rim and locking it there—half a second frozen, just enough for the axe-wielder behind him to close the gap.

The axe-wielder slipped from behind and struck. A wild horizontal chop, reckless but fast. Fen saw it coming, but there was no time to block.

The blade bit deep into his shoulder, slicing through armor, searing fire through his nerves. He staggered, a breath hissed between clenched teeth as pain and reflex warred for control.

Before he could counter, they were gone—retreating behind the shield again. Resetting.

Damn them. They were good.

Instinct screamed to burn the tome's power. Even the odds.

But the charge wasn't there. Not yet.

Instinct screamed to burn the tome's power. Even the odds.
But the charge wasn't there. Not yet.

He reached for resonance, willing the connection to spark again—this time it answered. Faint. Threadbare.

"Fen… is that you? I can feel you but—" Auri's voice wavered, distant, strained. "We're too far apart. I can't reach you fully. Even if I was ready, the link won't carry this distance. I'm sorry. Just hold on."

Hold on. Not a promise of rescue. Not yet. Just survival until she recovered—until whatever was building between them grew strong enough to bridge the gap.
Even so, they both felt it: surprise that the bond could stretch this far at all. Weak, imperfect—but new.

He circled carefully, blade steady, footwork tight as the paired skirmishers shadowed him step for step. Each shift closed the ring tighter, their bucklers raised, curved knives and axes ready to snap forward the moment he overcommitted.

For an instant, he still felt it—the faint echo of Auri's presence. Even that brief contact had steadied him, bolstered him, reminded him he wasn't alone. But the sensation slipped away as quickly as it came, leaving only the ring of steel closing in.

His heel brushed rough bark. The bramble bulwark loomed at his back, thorns catching his coat, cutting off retreat. Space was running out.

With a sharp breath, he surged, vaulting the waist-high barrier in a low roll. He hit the dirt hard but came up balanced, resetting his stance. Across the bulwark, the skirmishers paused—shields angled, knives gleaming as they gauged the next move.

They weren't reckless. They were measured. Deliberate.

They weren't reckless. They were measured, deliberate—shield and knife guarding, axes waiting for the opening. They circled toward him, then slowed as he vaulted the bramble bulwark. Now the waist-high wall of thorns stood between them, jagged and cruel, a narrow barrier that gave neither side a clean line.

Fen blew out a sharp breath. Seraph would have teased him for this one—no neat plan, no perfect execution. Just a seat-of-the-pants gamble to keep the fight moving.

He rolled his shoulders, forcing the tension out, letting a grin stretch across his face. Even that fleeting spark of Auri's presence lingered, steadying him as he stared them down across the bramble.

"How about you dwarven fellows head back underground?" he called, voice light, mocking. "Hammer some stone, drink some ale—live out those proud, grumpy, beer-soaked lives you were meant for. This doesn't need to be a fight."

They didn't move at first. Of course they didn't. They only stared at him across their shields, bemused, slow grins spreading under fire-orange beards.

Then their boots shifted forward, shields braced, axes gleaming. Custom skins or not, they looked the part—and that was exactly what Fen was mocking. If he could get them to bristle, he could make them sloppy.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Fen warned.

One of them scoffed. The sound didn't match his wiry, brawny frame—too clipped, too clean, like some teenage intern piping lines through battle software. The voice reeked of a rented skin and cheap augmentation. "Oh yeah? Or what?" he sneered, bracing to vault the bulwark. "We've got you surrounded. Why shouldn't we end this here?"

Fen's grin sharpened. His eyes flicked to his HUD—Grounding Pulse: Ready. Veil of Night: Ready. He'd been stalling for exactly this.

"Well… because my abilities are off cooldown."

They leapt, all four at once, weapons raised mid-air. Fen saw it in the way their shoulders tensed, the sudden burst of motion—they'd figured it out. The grin, the banter… they knew he'd been buying time. Now they were trying to clear the bramble and cut him down before he could act.

Fen slammed his boot down. Grounding Pulse tore through the bulwark, and the waist-high wall of thorns erupted in a cyclone of splintered wood and jagged bramble. The four skirmishers were still mid-leap when the blast hit them, their bodies twisting unnaturally as the force shredded their formation and hurled them upward like broken puppets.

Before the debris even settled, Fen triggered the Veil of Night. Smoke blossomed where he had stood, and in the same breath he was gone—reappearing in midair beside the tumbling fighters. The world spun around him in a dizzying panorama as he twisted through the air: the churn of fire and steel below, the crash of shield lines at the bridge, the flare of spellfire lighting the haze. For an instant he felt weightless, suspended between chaos and clarity, his blade already in motion.

He became a blur of steel. The first strike opened a throat in a single, merciless arc, blood scattering in the air before the skirmisher even knew he was dead. Fen pivoted in the same spin, his sword plunging into the gut of the second, void-forged edge slicing through light armor as if it were cloth. The third tried to react, raising his guard too late—Fen's blade punched through ribs and leather, dragging downward as gravity pulled them both into the fall.

They hit the ground in a tangle of steel and broken bodies. Fen twisted free at the last instant, rolling hard across the dirt, the impact rattling through his bones. He came up low, breath ragged, the Umbral Resonance still jutting from the chest of the last man he'd struck. Blood steamed on the blade's edge, dark against the smoke and ash drifting down around him.

For a moment—just a heartbeat—the battlefield seemed to still. His ears rang with the echo of the fall, the haze of smoke and spellfire painting the world in fragments. He dragged in a breath, every muscle strung tight, waiting for the next strike.

It came faster than expected. The last skirmisher—the one who had slipped the arc of his aerial strike—was already moving. Fen caught the blur of axes rising, shoulders coiled, the downward swing already in motion. Too fast to counter, too close to dodge.

A bitter laugh almost rose in his chest. So this is how it ends? Cut down in the dirt after playing at some half-baked martial arts stunt? His grip tightened, not on the blade, but on the thought. What happened if he fell here? Would the system still pull him back—respawn him like before—or was he truly on his last run?

If I go down now… Seraph and Auri will be the ones telling the story. My story. I can already hear them spinning it, glossing over the part where I completely blew my dramatic kung fu moment. I hope they make me sound cool, Code help me if they don't.

The blade descended. Fen could almost feel the edge already splitting him open—his end rushing to meet him.

Then a shadow surged through the haze to his left.

Out of the smoke came a battle hammer wreathed in lightning, its head trailing jagged arcs of blue as it swung in a brutal, perfect arc. The strike connected with the side of the skirmisher's skull, bone cracking like thunder. The man's body snapped sideways, hurled away like a broken doll as the hammer's follow-through carried clean through him. Electricity danced across his armor in fading bursts before winking out.

There stood Fred—red hair wild, his tattered red shirt pulled by the wind.

Fen froze. His mind stuttered. He hadn't seen him, hadn't even thought of him. Saints, he'd half-believed the man had bolted the moment things turned ugly.

Caught in the rush of adrenaline, Fred lifted the hammer high, his voice breaking across the battlefield.

"FOR FEN! FOR CYBERDYNE! FOR MY SQUAD!"

The cry rang raw and steady, fueled by heart and the heat of the moment. And then, louder still, he bellowed with everything he had:

"YOU WILL FEAR MY RED SHIRT, MORTALS!"

For a heartbeat, the battlefield around them faltered. Nearby skirmishers halted mid-stride, Vaelin and Luthair's opponents faltering as every gaze cut toward the madman in crimson.

Then the leader of the skirmishers—broad, fire-haired, every inch the dwarven warlord his skin pretended him to be—threw back his head and roared with laughter. It rolled across the chaos like thunder, shattering the silence.

"That," he declared, striding forward with predator's ease as he sheathed his axe across his back and began to clap, slow and deliberate, "was epic. Truely, a moment for the histories."

Immediately, Fen's squad tensed—blades lifting, shields angling—but the leader lifted his hands, palms open, showing he came without malice. His eyes glittered, not with mockery, but something dangerously close to admiration.

"Hold," Fen barked, signaling his squad to stay their weapons. He crossed quickly to Fred, who was trembling now that the rush had burned off, hammer sagging against his shoulder. Fen caught him by the shoulders, steadying him, steering him back toward their line.

"Good job, crewman," he murmured, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth despite the chaos. "You've avenged more red-shirted fleet officers than you'll ever know."

Fred blinked at him, baffled. "What?"

"Don't worry about it. Go stand with the others—well done." Fen gave him a shove toward Rennic, who caught him with a look halfway between disbelief and pride.

The enemy leader's gaze lingered on Fred. "You, valiant warrior—the madman in red." His voice carried over the hush. "I will spare you. And I will sing your battle cry in the halls of my keep." His axe still rested across his back, but he pointed straight at Fen. "My business is with this one now."

A murmur rippled across the field. Skirmishers, mercs, and mages alike began to pull back, the clash unraveling into a wide, tense ring. Everyone knew what was coming.

Fen raised his blade in salute. "Is it to be single combat, then? Better than wasting the lives of more of our men." His eyes narrowed, though his tone softened into a grin. "Aren't you laying it on a little thick with the whole 'dwarf-lord of the mountain' bit?"

The man's persona cracked just for a heartbeat. "Aye, maybe so," he said, chuckling low. "But this is the high point of my year. Let me have it."

Fen couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head as he crouched, scooping a fistful of dirt and rubbing it into his palms like chalk. "Fair enough." He rose again, sword at the ready, the Umbral Resonance thrumming faintly at his side, the tome at his hip brimming with crackling energy.

His HUD flickered at the edge of vision:
[Stored Charge: 87%]
"Power drawn from the blade fuels its wrath. The more it drinks, the greater the storm."

His gaze swept his squad—Rennic, bow taut and ready, Vaelin and Luthair battered but holding firm, Fred still red-eared and shifting the hammer like he wasn't sure whether to brandish it or hide it. If this duel could spare them, then so be it.

The leader stepped forward, rolling his shoulders, laughter burned away and replaced with iron resolve. The dwarven mask slipped fully back into place, every line of his frame radiating purpose. And in that moment Fen saw him clearly: this was a man who lived for the fight, who reveled in it. Their duel would be remembered for cycles.

And only one of them would walk away.