I slammed the door with fierce force, the wood shuddering in its frame. Then I grabbed my sword.
They would try to enter through the door. Any ordinary person would run, would retreat deeper into the house and hide. But this gave me a perfect opportunity to eliminate one of them. One or two would attempt to force this door open. That was how groups like this operated, they spread out, covered exits, then converged.
A thunderous bang against the door radiated through the house, nearly breaking it from its hinges. Dust drifted down from the frame. Another strike would probably cave it in.
Their height ranged approximately one hundred seventy to one hundred eighty centimeters based on what I saw. I needed to aim for the head or neck. I thrust my sword at one hundred seventy-five centimeters of door height, driving the entire blade through with every ounce of strength in my body.
The steel met resistance, flesh, bone. I yanked it back inside. Blood coated the blade, dark and thick, dripping onto the floor. There was no cry of pain from the other side. Just a heavy thud as a body crumpled against the door. It had definitely struck the brain.
Now they would avoid this entrance. No one wants to die forcing a door open.
The remaining options were the windows and the yard door where I trained. I'd spent countless hours in that yard, learning to move across every inch of ground, memorizing the slight unevenness of the grass, the way the light fell at different times of day. That knowledge would have to serve me now.
I dashed toward that door.
Footsteps echoed throughout the house—multiple sets, moving with purpose. Two were attempting to breach the windows on the far side, glass shattering in quick succession. Two were rushing toward the back door, their boots pounding against the wooden floor.
I listened to the approaching footfalls. I had seconds to decide.
Two choices. Either exit through a window, attack one from the side, then ambush the ones at the back door from behind. Or engage the back door assailants first. The first option was treacherous, climbing through a window left me exposed, half-in and half-out, unable to move or defend properly. If they caught me in that position, I was dead.
The back door it was.
I pressed myself against the wall beside the door, controlling my breathing. The footsteps grew louder. Two men, running hard. They'd hit the door together, probably, try to overwhelm whoever was inside with sheer momentum.
I gripped my sword like a javelin, preparing to throw. The grip felt different from the prison weapons,better balance, better weight distribution.
I positioned my left foot forward and wrenched my entire body to the left with explosive force, releasing the blade at the peak of energy transfer just as the man came within inches of the door.
The sword flew in a near-perfect trajectory, ripping through the wood and piercing his body. The tip entered just below his sternum, angling upward. A sharp cry of pain erupted from the other side, cut short as his lungs failed.
I immediately lunged forward and kicked the door open with both legs, using my entire body weight to drive it outward. It caught the second man off guard, slamming into him, disorienting him for the critical half-second I needed. I could not attack him directly without knowing his capabilities, he might be Aether-trained, might have abilities I couldn't predict. So I rolled past him, toward my sword still embedded deep in the first man's chest, and pulled it free with a wet sucking sound.
The second man recovered quickly, raising his weapon. Short sword, I noted. Fast, meant for close quarters. He was already moving toward me.
I lunged toward him and stopped a few steps away, my sword held horizontally as I tried to cleave his body in half.
A sharp CLANG.
He blocked with his short sword, the impact shoving him sideways from the recoil. He was strong, but my leverage was better. He stumbled, recovered, reset his stance.
The others would rush here soon. I could hear them moving through the house, responding to the noise. No matter. I had trained extensively in this terrain.
He counterattacked, his short sword lashing out in a rapid combination. High, low, high again, textbook pattern. I dodged by moving left, letting the strikes pass inches from my body. The short sword's advantage was speed. I needed to neutralize that advantage.
Without wasting a heartbeat, I settled into my athlete's stance, ready to thrust. With his shorter sword, defending against a well-timed thrust would be extremely hard. He'd have to parry at an awkward angle, or dodge completely.
He tried to defend. He failed. My blade pierced him just above the collarbone, driving down into his chest cavity. The angle was wrong for an instant kill, but it didn't need to be. The wound was fatal. He collapsed onto the grass, blood sprawling everywhere, soaking into the dirt, his legs kicking once, twice, then still.
Only two left.
One came from the front, rounding the corner of the house at a sprint. One circled to the rear, trying to flank me while his partner held my attention.
I deliberately focused on the front attacker, giving the one behind me an opening. I held my sword horizontally, facing the man ahead. He was cautious now, advancing slowly, watching for traps.
Just as the rear attacker prepared to strike—I heard the shift in his weight, the slight scrape of his foot as he committed to the attack—I rotated my body right toward him and extended my leg, driving my sword toward him. The maneuver overwhelmed him. He hadn't expected me to turn. The edge grazed his neck, not deep enough to kill but deep enough to spray blood across the grass.
He stumbled back, clutching his throat, trying to stem the flow.
I instantly resumed my athlete's stance and dashed toward the last opponent. No time to finish the wounded one, he was dead anyway, just didn't know it yet.
CLANG.
Our blades met. My blade carried greater force.
He was pushed back, his feet sliding on the grass. I granted him no reprieve. I thrust left and right, grazing and cutting him with each motion. This was the dominance of the thrust. Once you established it, the opponent could only retreat and block, never finding an opening to counter.
He tried to break the pattern with a desperate sword strike, wild and uncontrolled. I ended his life with a thrust to the head. The blade entered just below his eye and kept going until it hit bone at the back of his skull. He dropped.
I breathed heavily. My arms burned. It was over.
I looked around the yard. Five bodies.
Suddenly, a man landed on the grass with a mild shockwave, the impact cratering the earth slightly beneath his feet. He'd come from above, the roof, maybe, or he'd jumped from somewhere higher.
How many more were there?
I concentrated on my senses, reaching out with everything three years of blindness had taught me. One heartbeat. Steady, controlled breathing. No others nearby. Just him.
This one might be formidable.
"You're amazing," the man said. His voice was calm, almost admiring. "To be able to defeat the black ones without Aether."
Who are these fuckers? Black ones. Was that what they called themselves? Some kind of unit, some organization? They'd come for me specifically. The way they moved, the way they coordinated, this wasn't random violence or a robbery gone wrong.
I positioned myself into a defensive stance, sword up, weight balanced. Let him talk. Talking meant he wasn't attacking.
He was a young man, probably eighteen or nineteen. Young for someone with that kind of entrance. His clothes were plain, dark trousers, simple shirt, nothing that identified affiliation. He carried no weapons. Either he was incredibly confident, or his body was the weapon.
"He said to bring you without harming you."
He. Who was he? My father? Someone else?
His leg stance was clumsy. Too wide, weight distributed poorly. It telegraphed his moves, told me where his center of mass was, where he'd have to shift to attack. He lunged in a blur of speed, faster than the others, attacking with his fist extended.
I shifted my center of mass to the left. His attack was concentrated on the right, I could see it in the angle of his shoulder, the way his hips rotated. He was committed to that line.
I moved and set my sword ahead toward his fist, deliberately leaving it there as it made contact. The blade edge facing his knuckles.
Newton's third law. For every action, an equal and opposite reaction. I could not generate enough energy in this compromised position to counter his fist, so I chose not to counter.
BANG.
His fist connected with the blade. To not let the energy transfer to me through the sword, I withdrew it. The impact should have hurt him, should have cut deep. But his skin didn't break. The energy didn't transfer into me, therefore he kept moving forward.
He crashed into the wall with a heavy thud, his body impacting hard enough to crack the stone wall. No sound came from him, no grunt of pain, no gasp for air. Just silence as he pushed himself upright.
I quickly retreated, putting distance between us, and positioned my legs forward in a baseball stance.
He turned to face me, and there was blood on his lip where he'd bitten through it on impact. But he was smiling.
He would probably attack with his fist again. That was his pattern, he'd led with it twice now. His speed was a little slower this time, the crash having rattled him more than he wanted to show.
Our fists met… A large shockwave radiated outward from the point of impact, stirring the grass around us.
I retreated, shaking out my hand, flexing the fingers.
He laughed.
"HAHAHAHA." The sound echoed across the yard, genuine amusement. "I underestimated you. Let's have a fair fight, Zyphron of House Theodore."