The bent nails half-buried in broken beams shudder loose. Rusted buckles twitch where they lie amid the rubble. My own knife jerks violently in my hand, nearly wrenching my wrist from its socket before it tears free entirely.
The blade flies from my grip hard enough to slice open my palm on the way out and embed itself in the wall beside the stranger’s head with a vicious metallic crack.
Cold dread coils in my stomach.
Possession Domain.
The man glances at the knife quivering beside his face and smiles faintly.
“Well,” he drawls, his voice rough with lazy confidence, “looks like someone found a very creative way to spend his Culling.”
His gaze sweeps over the room, taking in the collapsed barricade and the blood streaked across the floor from my now-healed injuries.
Then his eyes rove over my tattered, blood-stained shirt despite my lack of injuries. Eventually, his attention lands on Moe’s tattooed wrist.
His smile sharpens.
“How interesting. Last I heard, you were barely in one piece.”
Moe shifts behind me, and I instinctively step in front of her, shielding her from his view.
He notices my movement. He lets out a low hum, as if he’s laughing at me.
“Your wounds might have healed, but you’re still in terrible shape,” he says conversationally. “How much longer do you think you can last?”
I resume my stance, already scanning the area for all available shadows.
“You still have some fight in you, huh?” He chuckles. “That’s fine. I guess I’ll beat it out of you. It’s nothing personal. If not me, then it would be someone else. One hundred and fifty points are quite attractive after all.”
He lifts one hand with casual indifference. At once, every loose fragment of metal in the room rips free.
Bent nails burst from splintered timber. Rusting scraps of abandoned armor scrape across stone. Discarded knives, shattered spearheads, twisted hooks, buckles, clasps—every piece of sharpened or jagged metal tears itself from the rubble and rises into the air around him, forming a slow, circling orbit that gleams like a halo of steel.
Moe inhales sharply behind me.
The male’s grin widens.
“Too bad she’s bound to you,” he muses. “You don’t find them this comely around here.” He lets out a dramatic sigh. “One hundred and fifty points are more important than a fine piece of ass.”
I grit my teeth at the way he’s talking about her.
Suddenly, his eyes sharpen. He flicks his fingers and a knife shoots for my throat.
I wrench Moe downward and twist at the same time, the blade hissing past so close I feel its wind against my skin before it buries itself in the wall behind us.
Another follows instantly. Then another. It’s a continuous torrent.
Steel fills the air in flashing silver arcs, coming too quickly to track and too densely to evade cleanly. I drag shadows upward in frantic bursts, forcing darkness between us and the barrage.
But it’s too many, and with each use of my shadows, my energy drains a little. They become less and less opaque—less able to shield us from the incoming attacks.
Each strike sends violent tremors up my arms, through my shoulders, into my spine, threatening to shatter my concentration. My shadow buckles and ripples under the assault, flickering as if it might collapse entirely.
He advances through the storm of his own weapons with slow, measured steps. His expression never changes. It’s calm and serene, as if this display of power is nothing for him. He can control so many weapons without strain, his energy seemingly boundless.
What level is this male at?
I’ve never seen such a combination of precision and control until now. Based on what I know, this could put him upwards of level seven or eight. Maybe more.
