Rise of Tyrus

Tyrus narrowly avoided blindness by swiftly moving his head. Rather than piercing his eye directly, the dagger only scraped his cheek. Warm liquid streamed down the side of his cheek as a slight, tingling sensation emerged on the left side of his face.

Without a moment to spare, a boot rapidly approached his chest. Avoiding the attack was effortless this time, even while off balance. Just like a cat, Tyrus swiftly bounded away on all fours immediately after storing his weapon.

Once Tyrus had put some distance between them, he stood up and readied his sword once again. Breathing heavily, his chest rose and fell as he battled the stinging sensation in his cheek. Blood seeped into the old, wooden floorboards and a small drop of crimson landed underneath him. The color faded away like spilled ink, leaving no trace.

But soon, Tyrus stopped looking at his injury and focused on Jericho. When his eyes landed on the man, he noticed that the Scourge member’s hand was in a weird gesture, as if motioning for Tyrus to charge at him. However, a swish from behind changed his way of thinking.

Glancing back, Tyrus saw a dagger flying in his direction. As always, the keen edge was aiming for his head. Luckily, his ears caught the sound just in time for him to dodge out of its way. And like a bird returning to its nest, the weapon swerved back to the exact hand that threw it.

“What just—”

“That usually works,” Jericho chuckled. He retrieved a fresh dagger from his ring. “There’s just so much you don’t understand, you greenhorn runt. Scourge is more than just a bunch of poor thieves. We have the connections and resources to utilize pseudo-artifacts such as these.”

Jericho tapped the base of the flying dagger. Right away, a shining symbol materialized directly above the handle. Magic flowed from the symbol, glowing brightly, like a row of lanterns. Gradually, the glow diminished until the light completely vanished and the markings were no longer visible. The dagger returned to its usual form.

“Now, enough of me blabbering like a drunkard. It’s time to continue, little lamb.”

During his grating monologue, Tyrus had formed the thought; That was really cool—and dangerous! He knew there were different pseudo-artifacts that served a purpose, but a flying weapon was new to him. In the end, there was no doubt the fact that those daggers had undergone modifications to accomplish what it did. And it all stemmed from the mana-filled mark.

While he would have liked to study more or even keep it to himself, he had more immediate concerns to address, such as his own survival. Also, Jericho didn’t seem like the type to share more details about the artifact since he didn’t bring it up until the last second.

Still, I should watch out for sneak attacks. Now that I know about the dagger, he lost the element of surprise. Does he have more in the ring or is it the only one?

Jericho‘s hand blurred before Tyrus could even finish that thought. Once again, the airborne dagger was aimed directly at his head. Arching his back, the blade zoomed past, a pinch of wind brushing the tip of his nose. This was followed by a second, then a third dagger, and then the fourth one. At first, Tyrus thought it would stop at five, but another appeared out of nowhere, its razor edge headed toward his chest. Tyrus narrowly escaped, earning himself another wound to the face. Thankfully, the cut wasn’t deep.

This time, Jericho didn’t smirk or laugh. Frustration showed on his furrowed brow. Tyrus figured that even someone like him wouldn’t expect him to have the reaction speed necessary to avoid those dagger attacks.

Tyrus was astonished that he could evade the onslaught of weapons with few injuries. His feet were in constant motion, reminiscent of a rabbit, while the rest of his body trailed behind. A dagger to the leg, he would jump over, and one to his face, he would duck. At a glance, a spectator would think that the two were involved in some sort of dance, a very deadly and sweaty one at that.

I have to get close to him! I’m at a disadvantage if I have to constantly defend and keep moving away!

Just as a plan came to mind, he felt something solid tackle his legs. He looked down just in time to see himself toppling over a stray crate. He let out a startled cry as he saw two daggers hurtling towards him, one from the front and the other from the side.

Without thinking, Tyrus allowed himself to fall flat on his back, all the while smacking his head against the floorboards. At the same time, he shielded his head from the incoming threat, waiting for a flare of pain to shoot up his arms from the impact. Instead, a dull thunk sounded off, and the daggers fell next to him with a clink. Opening one eye and removing his hands, his coat glowed with power. The light was quickly snuffed out, and it returned to its plain and old state.

Tyrus sat there in awe. He had forgotten all about the enchanted coat’s properties. He was too busy worrying about not getting hit that such a key detail slipped his mind. Since he was so used to dodging and focusing on the fight that he subconsciously thought of using the coat to guard himself.

Worth it, Tyrus smiled, and he got to his feet. He watched the flying dagger return to a disgruntled Jericho.

“Seems like I’m not the only one in possession of a pseudo-artifact,” Jericho stated. “It seems like Yutar himself is watching over me. Delivering a treasure straight to me must be the god of wealth way of bestowing his blessing.”

As if I would give it to you. Ivy gifted it to me.

Tyrus readied his sword and dashed forward. Now was the time to go on the offensive. So far, only one weapon had the magic to fly around, and the others were just regular daggers. Dodging it would be easy as long as he paid attention. If he couldn’t evade, then the enchanted coat would protect him.

After that, there wasn’t anything special about Jericho. Tyrus didn’t get the sense that the guy was a sorcerer. There was no sign of mana coming from the man, and he didn't employ any spells or magic. He was just an unblessed, a regular human with no magical power. In order to prevent a change of plans and a request for backup, Tyrus had to bring the battle to an end.

Tyrus closed the gap, bringing him within striking distance. Swinging his weapon horizontally, he intended to cut the man from shoulder to waist. The magical dagger interrupted the attack, causing it to change direction and soar upward right before Jericho had to move back. Tyrus gritted his teeth and swung again, intending to follow with a downward slash. This was also deflected, this time a little further away.

Seizing his chance, Jericho thrusted the magical dagger for Tyrus‘ head. Instead of dodging, Tyrus grabbed hold of Jericho’s arm, stopping his attack the attack just a finger away from succeeding. The man twisted his arm to free himself, but Tyrus held on the best he could as magical power swelled in his body. A shooting pain crossed his chest.

“What the—How are you so strong!?”

Jericho abandoned his attempt to break free and summoned a second dagger, aiming for the head. Tyrus smacked away the weapon in one fell swoop. Now he had Jericho right where he wanted him, rooted in one spot and unable to use his arms.

“Don’t tell me... You really are an Augmentation Sorcerer!?”

Squirming like a worm, Jericho began bucking his body. Slowly, he began freeing himself from the hold, but Tyrus didn’t care to be surprised. He had already imagined himself unleashing Thunder Stun on the unfortunate man.

Tendrils of arcing blue light burst from his palm, enveloping the scarred arms, and surging across Jericho’s chest and limbs. A cat-like hiss left his lips as drool leaked from his mouth. Eventually, Jericho’s body turned as stiff as a board, and Tyrus released him—not on his own accord, however.

Nausea and white-hot stakes pierced his head as he went staggering back and fell flat on his butt. The pain in his chest grew to a fever pitch as he struggled to stay sitting. Instead of darkness, a myriad of colors erupted from his eyelids when he closed his eyes. The scene was as pretty and distracting as it was irritating and painful.

Mana deprivation? I still have mana to spare!

Did using augmentation and Thunder Stun sap him that much energy? He had no problem using them together before. Using those two shouldn’t have incurred that much damage when he had a half-empty mana heart.

In his contemplation, a second wave of pain shot through him, albeit lesser than the first. If there was any solace in the pain, it was getting lesser and lesser after each attack. The sensation of heat in his chest diminished to a dull ache, and his eyesight gradually returned to normal.

Alas, the moment he regained his senses, a boot struck him across the face, smacking his head straight against the floor. There was a loud cracking noise, and fragments of wood flew onto his face. An acid-like pain enveloped his top-half as he struggled to rise. A hole the size of his head had opened up, and a clear view of the bottom floor was in his peripheral vision.

“You fight well for a Demi-human brat!”

When Jericho swung his boot again, Tyrus met his foot halfway, trapping it before the kick landed. He winced and wiggled his nose, the back-side of his head aching, but he didn’t dare focus on the pain anymore. Through the swirling whirlwind that was his vision, Jericho was as exhausted as he was. Sweat gleamed off his brow and his breaths were long and labor.

“You should’ve killed me when you had the chance!” Jericho mocked. Two daggers appeared in his hand, and another one levitating above his head. “You had the choice of breaking my hands or even going for the killing blow with magic. Instead, you left me incapacitated. How soft! Because of your foolishness, you will die beneath my boot.”

Jericho thrust all three daggers forward. Maintaining augmentation through the pain proved to be a daunting challenge, as it just created a constant drain of erratic mana. Forming a Lightning Bolt or summoning lightning through his hands again was pointless as well. Magic was useless without a good amount of control and concentration, two things he lacked in his desperate state.

The flying dagger arrived first. By moving his head to the side, the dagger merely grazed his tiger ears, flying straight into the hole Jericho had made. The other two arrived just as swiftly, and Tyrus knew that dodging them was impossible.

In that split second, Tyrus had already commanded the enchanted coat to change into a new form. A form that neglected the area below his neck and only focused on his head. In the nick of time, Tyrus angled his head just enough to where the daggers struck the fabric instead.

Though they didn’t stop, they certainly lost their power and sharpness, poking his skin more than cleaving right through him. Still, pain flared across the side of his face as fresh cuts formed. When he tried to instruct the coat once more, no pulse of mana came from the artifact.

It was simply rendered useless.

“This is the end, brat!” Jericho snarled.

Sapped of strength and options, Tyrus could only watch the sharp metal rapidly approach. In a fleeting moment, a solitary and terrifying notion appeared in his mind: death had ultimately come for him.

Tyrus waited for the sharp steel to enter his flesh and bring forth bloodshed. He waited for the cold, cruel embrace of nothingness to consume in entirely. To be beaten by a mere bandit left a sour taste in his mouth. The loss was entirely his fault, that he was too weak and stupid to handle a battle all on his own. Because of such weakness, death was his reward.

“Light Bolt!”

A flash of light blinded Tyrus, then came a spout of curses coming out of Jericho’s mouth. The pressure pushing Tyrus to the floor vanished and a loud thud signified that Jericho’s had met the ground.

A golden opportunity laid itself in Tyrus’ lap. Blinking hard several times, his vision somewhat returned to normal state—the swirling persisted, but not enough to deter him. Tyrus glimpsed Jericho groaning on the floor, clutching at his face.

“The hell was that!? Can’t see shit!”

A sword appeared in Tyrus’ hands. Standing up demanded a lot of energy, yet he still stood. Tyrus shambled for the man. With just one swing, it was all he needed. Just one hit, and the fight would undoubtedly end. If he didn’t kill the man now, he would make another escape and inform Sezor about what had just happened. Jericho knew his face, and he seemed like the type to hold grudges.

Yet his body refused to listen. As simple as a simple chop or a stab to the heart would suffice, but his arms refused to rise above his shoulders. Breathing felt like a burden and his head was as turbulent as a storm.

Why was he hesitating? Killing was not a foreign concept to him. He has hunted and killed animals and beasts alike. Heck, he even killed a lizardman before, a creature who could walk and talk like a human. Sure, he felt terrible after doing the deed, but it was him or the beast. One will live, and the other will die.

Take whatever actions are required to ensure a secure and prosperous future for yourself.

One eye half open, Jericho finally looked up, staring straight at the sword poised above him. For the first time, Tyrus detected a hint of fear in the man’s eyes. He held up one arm, as if such a measly effort would do anything. His scarred hands trembled, and his face twitched as sweat trickled down his cheeks.

Before he could utter another word, Tyrus plunged the sword deep into his chest, his tunic staining crimson red. Jericho gawked, looking down at the wound, then back at Tyrus with the look of pure disbelief on his face. Again, the man tried to speak, but all that came out were blubbers.

Tyrus grimaced as he watched the life fade from his scowling eyes. Watching the light leave the eyes of a person he killed filled him with an emotion he’d never experienced before. Suffice to say, seeing someone go from alive to dead was disturbing to watch no matter how heartless they were. It was an entirely unique feeling from the usual hunting of animals and beasts. All that remained—what used to be pride and victory—was numbness.

Exhaustion washed over Tyrus as he stored his sword. Bile flowed up his throat, but he instinctively stopped himself. A searing feeling rippled his nose and legs. He wanted to lie down and rest for a few days at most, but that would have to wait. There was still much work to be done, even after Jericho’s death.

“First things first,” Tyrus mumbled.

He turned toward the stairs, the place where the Light Bolt had originated. Walking up to Tyrus was Igneal, face scrunched up as his eyes scanned the place.

“This place is a mess! To be expected of a nest of bandits, I suppose.” Igneal shifted his gaze to Tyrus and frowned. “And you look as if you fought a thorn bear by yourself. Is that the body of their leader? No, judging by his clothing, he doesn’t look like he could even afford a loaf of bread. An affiliate, perhaps?”

“You... came back,” Tyrus whispered.

“Now’s not the time for that,” Igneal interjected. “We need to leave now or else it’ll be too late.”

Tyrus frowned. He was about to ask what Igneal meant until he took in a big whiff of air. Though faint, he detected a hint of smoke and burned flesh. And when he focused his ears away from Igneal’s breaths, he heard shouting and some sort of crackling. Then came the sound of the front entrance bursting open. Soon after, two people came running up the stairs, out of breath. Unshackled and free were the hostages from before.

“Good, you’re still alive,” the man spoke. He glanced at Jericho and then Tyrus. “The introductions can come later. If we don’t leave now, we’ll get caught in the crossfire. I’m afraid your distraction has caught their attention.”

No sooner had he uttered the words, a haunting yet familiar whistle echoed through the air, sending shivers down his spine. The air turned as cold as ice and Tyrus did not hesitate to haul himself off the floor, ignoring the swirling and pain. No matter how exhausted he may be, no matter how much it hurt, all he thought about was fleeing.