Chapter 2: The Harvest of Shadows
Seven stared at the leader, his gaze as cold and unwavering as a winter grave. The air between them seemed to chill, the smell of roasting boar suddenly replaced by the sharp, metallic tang of impending violence.
"I'm sorry," Seven said, though there was no apology in his tone. "But I can't leave here without an answer. I hope you understand the gravity of your situation."
The Boss let out a snort of derision, leaning back in his makeshift throne of logs. He looked at Seven as one might look at a persistent fly. "I don't give a shit about you or your 'gravity.' You're a twig in a windstorm, kid." He gestured lazily to one of his larger subordinates. "Hey, you. Go take care of this nuisance so we can actually enjoy the feast. Use the dull side of the blade; I want to hear him scream for a bit while I eat."
One of the thugs, a mountain of a man with grease-stained fingers and a jagged beard, stood up with a grin. He reached for a heavy, double-bitted axe leaning against a stump.
He swung the massive weapon onto his shoulder, his every footstep vibrating through the forest floor as he marched toward Seven. He was trying to project an aura of crushing dominance, a predator closing in on a wounded fawn.
The thug didn't waste breath on words. He raised the axe high, the moonlight catching the rusted edge, and brought it down in a vertical arc meant to split Seven in two.
Seven didn't flinch. At the very last micro-second, he tilted his body. The axe head whistled past his ear, burying itself inches deep into the soft earth. Before the thug could wrench it free, Seven was already moving. The man swung again, a wide, desperate horizontal slash, but Seven seemed to flow like water around the blade. He stepped into the thug's reach and delivered a sharp, snapping punch to the bridge of the man's nose.
"What a weak punch," the axe-man growled, though his eyes watered. He wiped his face with a meaty hand, leaving a smear of red.
"Is that all you—"
"Are you sure about that?" Seven interrupted.
A second later, the man's nose erupted in a fountain of gore. The delayed shock of the strike a vibration that had traveled through the bone finally registered.
"You bastard! You made me bleed!" the man screamed, his voice rising to a frenzied pitch. "I'll tear you apart! I'll grind your bones to make my bread!"
The axe-man rushed at Seven with blind rage, swinging the heavy iron with zero technique, only raw power. Seven dodged again, his movements so minimal they were insulting.
"Stop running like a rat!" the giant screamed.
He lunged, throwing his entire weight into a tackle. Seven stepped to the side, his hand darting out like a viper to catch the man's wrist. With a sickening pop, he twisted the arm beyond its natural limit. The man let out a guttural howl, the axe falling from his limp fingers. Before he could even begin to turn around, Seven stepped in and delivered a brutal, precision strike to the man's Adam's apple.
The scream died in a wet, choking gurgle. The giant collapsed to his knees, clutching his throat as his eyes rolled back. The Boss and the remaining men stood up, their laughter dying in their throats. The atmosphere had shifted. The forest was no longer a place of celebration; it was a killing floor.
Seven walked over to the kneeling man. With a calm, almost clinical detachment, he placed his hands on the man's head.
CRACK.
The sound was like a dry branch snapping in the dead of winter. Seven let go, and the axe-man fell to the ground like a lifeless log of wood, his neck twisted at an impossible angle.
"Everyone get up! Get up now!" the Boss screamed, his voice cracking with a mixture of fury and burgeoning fear.
Thirteen men, including the Boss, scrambled for their weapons. The fire crackled, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to move in sync with Seven's breathing. The Boss spat on the ground once more, his face contorted. "Kill him now! I said kill him before I finish my meat! I want his head on a spit!"
Seven dropped into a low, predatory stance. The forest went quiet. Too quiet.
Moonlight slipped through the canopy in jagged, pale streaks, painting the scene in monochrome. Twelve thugs spread out, forming a jagged circle around the pale youth. They wielded the tools of the wasteland: notched machetes, reinforced iron rods, serrated knives, and wood-cutting axes. Their boots crushed the dry leaves, the only sound in the suffocating stillness.
At the center stood Seven. No weapon. No armor. Just a stillness that was more terrifying than any blade. He rolled his shoulders, a soft clicking sound emanating from his joints, and looked around at the circle of killers as if they were nothing more than a minor chore.
"You serious, man?" one thug scoffed, his voice trembling despite his bravado.
"There's twelve of us and one of you."
Seven's voice cut through the trees calm, steady, and razor-sharp. "I don't need a weapon to take on a pack of rabid dogs. Come at me. I'm waiting."
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. Then, the forest erupted.
They rushed him from all sides in a chaotic wave of steel. The first attacker swung a heavy axe downward. Seven stepped aside with a dancer's grace, caught the man's wrist mid-swing, and drove a knee into the man's solar plexus. The air left the thug in a violent gasp. Without letting go, Seven snapped his elbow backward crack shattering the joint before sending the man crumpling into the dirt like a broken doll.
A machete came from the right, aiming for his neck. Seven ducked low, the leaves exploding into the air as the blade sliced through the space he had occupied a millisecond prior. He surged forward, slamming his shoulder into the attacker's chest with the force of a battering ram. Using the man's own momentum, Seven guided him headfirst into a thick oak tree. The trunk shook, shedding a rain of dead leaves, and the man slumped down, his skull fractured.
Two more charged together, trying to pin him down. Seven spotted a heavy, fallen branch. He didn't use it to strike; he used it as a fulcrum. He planted the branch, vaulted into the air, and delivered a double-kick one to the first thug's jaw and the other to the second man's chest. Teeth flew like ivory sparks in the moonlight. He landed, spun on his heel, and drove his elbow across the throat of a third man who had tried to sneak up behind him. The thug collapsed, clutching his crushed windpipe, eyes wide with the sudden realization of his own mortality.
"Don't let him move! Circle him!" someone shouted from the back, but the coordination was gone. It was no longer a fight; it was a harvest.
Seven moved like the forest belonged to him, his pale skin appearing and disappearing in the shadows like a ghost. A knife slashed his forearm a shallow graze and blood welled up, dark and thick. Seven didn't even look at the wound. He caught the knife-wielder's wrist, twisted it until the bone splintered, and forced the man to drive his own blade into his thigh. A jagged scream echoed through the valley as Seven shoved him backward into another charging thug, sending them both tumbling down a steep, rocky slope.
An iron rod slammed into Seven's back with a sickening thud. He staggered for a split second, the impact enough to break the ribs of a normal man. But Seven simply exhaled, a low, guttural sound, and turned.
The thug with the rod froze. He saw Seven's eyes they weren't human. They were empty pits of calculation.
Seven reached out, gripped the iron rod, and yanked the man toward him with terrifying strength. He grabbed the man by the hair and delivered a headbutt so violent the sound echoed between the trees like a gunshot. The man's lights went out instantly, his body hitting the floor before his brain even realized the fight was over.
The remaining thugs hesitated. The "easy kill" had turned into a nightmare. They spread out, their breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps. One man, younger than the rest, dropped his knife. He turned and ran, bolting for the darkness of the deep woods.
Seven didn't let him go. He chased the deserter down in three long, predatory strides, grabbed him by the back of his collar, and slammed him face-first into the root-choked ground. Once. Twice. The dirt turned a dark, muddy red.
Seven stood up, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek. He looked back at the few remaining men including the Boss, who was now clutching his cleaver with white-knuckled desperation.
"Who's next?" Seven asked, his voice barely a whisper. "I still haven't gotten my answers."