Ten figures, cloaked in dark robes, hoods drawn low over their faces, moved through a dark, isolated forest beneath the moon in the dead of night. Crossbows cocked and ready, we advanced cautiously with hardly a sound. Amongst these shadows, my nerves stretched thin as I strained my senses against the oppressive darkness.
We were a small detachment, sent to hunt down an enemy who had fled into this forest. Our numbers comprised only the followers of the Aros Temple Cult, each one prepared to kill without hesitation.
The order had come just hours prior from one of the sect’s executives: “Find the woman who escaped into the woods and permanently silence her.” It wasn’t the first time we had been tasked with eliminating an intruder. People who strayed too close to our order rarely lived to regret it.
Suddenly, the lead scout—a wiry man named Lloyd—threw up his hand, fingers snapping into a silent signal. Halt. Every muscle in my body froze, my breath catching in my throat. The rest of us crouched low, eyes flicking to the signal he flashed next. Enemy sighted.
Peering past his outstretched arm, I caught sight of a crumbling abandoned cabin just beyond a thick patch of undergrowth. Its walls leaned precariously, half-swallowed by creeping vines. There, huddled in the shadows just inside the threshold, was our target—a lone woman, her form barely visible through the dense, gnarled branches.
My grip tightened instinctively around my crossbow. That’s her. The one they want dead. The one whose head they demanded. I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. Lloyd’s fingers traced another signal. Encircle. We exchanged quick, silent nods before fanning out, our movements synchronized and silent as shadows on snow.
We crept closer, weaving between trees and shifting shadows, careful not to disturb even the dry, brittle leaves underfoot. The target, oblivious to our approach, was busy tending to her wounds. I could see the fresh gashes carved into her exposed skin, dark lines of blood seeping through the thin fabric clinging to her frame. No doubt, it was the work of one of our own—a testament to her stubborn resilience.
Lloyd didn’t hesitate. He flashed the final command. Fire.
Ten crossbows sang in unison, bolts streaking through the air from every direction. Each shaft was tipped with a viscous, toxin-laden head—death itself, even from a glancing blow. Our reinforced crossbows gave each bolt the speed of a striking viper, impossible for a mere human to dodge.
Got her. There’s no way she can survive that. Unless… she’s not just some random trash mob…
The thought had barely crossed my mind when the unmistakable crack of snapping wood shattered the silence, followed by a chorus of shocked gasps from my comrades. My eyes darted back to the woman, and my heart seized. Every single one of our bolts had curved away at the last moment, tracing impossible arcs through the air to bury themselves in the trees around her.
Arrow Deflection.
The phrase hammered through my brain, and I felt a cold sweat break out beneath my hood. Of course. She’s a named character—a wind magic user. Panic flared in my gut. I reached for the sword at my hip, every nerve screaming for me to act, to close the gap before she could retaliate. But it was already too late.
For a split second, she disappeared as a flicker of silver hair vanished into the gloom. Then, with a sound like a blade slicing through the air, Lloyd’s head spun off his shoulders, a spray of hot crimson painting the leaves. He toppled backward, his decapitated body hitting the ground with a wet thud.
A scream and a gurgle rang out, and another head sailed into the darkness. This woman was moving faster than any of us could track, like a lethal blur that carved through flesh and bone with each sweeping arc of her knife. Four men, then five, fell in rapid succession, their lifeblood splattering the forest floor as the air filled with the wet, coppery stench of death.
Damn it all! My pulse thundered in my ears. Why the hell is there a named character here?!
I caught a glimpse of her. Celestia Hothound, the silver-haired specter in a flowing habit, her blade gleaming wet in the moonlight.
I recognized her immediately. She was one of the infamous executives of the Kenneth Orthodoxy, ranked seventh among their elite. A minor character in the grand scheme of the original story, yes—but only when compared to the godlike heroes and eldritch monstrosities that roamed that world. For mere mooks like us, she was nothing short of a nightmare.
She twisted mid-air, using bursts of wind magic to flit between tree trunks, her movements a chaotic dance of lethal precision. Panic spread like wildfire through our ranks, turning the hunters into the hunted in the span of a heartbeat.
“Guh! Aaaagh!”
The battlefield devolved into chaos.
The disciplined formation we had so carefully maintained shattered in an instant, reduced to a panicked scramble for survival. Screams filled the air, wet and desperate, as my comrades were torn apart around me, their bodies twisted into grotesque heaps of flesh and bone.
This can’t be happening. We have the numbers! How can we be losing this badly?!
I felt a cold, prickling dread seize my spine. We had trained for years, drilled to near perfection, molded into killers who could cut down any mere human with ease. But Celestia Hothound was no ordinary human. She was a living storm, a calamity wrapped in the flesh of a deceptively delicate woman. Against her, our strength meant nothing.
Around me, the last few survivors of our squad flailed in desperate terror, their discipline destroyed. One of them—a man I vaguely knew, an acquaintance from countless drills and training exercises—turned back to me, his tear-streaked face contorted in terror, eyes wide and glistening.
“O-Oakley! What the hell are we supposed to do against this?!”
His voice cracked, words trembling as his gaze locked onto mine, pleading for an answer I didn’t have. I opened my mouth, throat dry and tight, but before I could force out a single word, a gentle, mocking voice cut through the chaos.
“No time for idle chatter, I’m afraid.”
The world blurred. A sharp, invisible force ripped through the air, distorting the very space around us. My vision swam as my mind struggled to comprehend the unnatural distortion—a razor-thin blade of wind, a kamaitachi.
When the world came back into focus, my comrade was gone. No, not gone, but reduced to a grotesque display of carnage. His body lay before me, severed cleanly at the waist. His upper half twitched, fingers scrabbling blindly for purchase, before his eyes glazed over and he collapsed into a lifeless heap.
“Oa… kley…” he croaked, his severed torso quivering as the last spasms of life shuddered through it. Blood pooled around him, soaking into the forest floor, dark and steaming in the cold night air.
I staggered back, bile rising in my throat.
Wind magic. Of course, she used wind magic. But knowing that did nothing to close the chasm of power between us. I couldn’t even see the attack, let alone defend against it. I’m just a grunt. A faceless extra in someone else’s story.
What… What the hell am I supposed to do?! My thoughts spiraled into blind panic. We can’t win. We never could. But it’s not like we can escape!
My legs shook, threatening to buckle beneath me. I clutched my sword tighter, its worn grip biting into my palm. My breath came in short, desperate gasps, the taste of copper thick on my tongue. I could feel her cold, dismissive eyes on me.
Celestia let out an exaggerated sigh, her violet gaze narrowing as she regarded my trembling form. “Did you truly believe that ten nameless grunts like you could take me down? Or were you simply too ignorant to grasp who you were dealing with?” Her tone was light, almost playful, her words a cruel mockery of the chaos she had just unleashed.
That voice… It was exactly as I remembered from the original story—clear, ringing, almost musical in its beauty. The voice of a character who had always been more endearing, more human in the pages of fiction than in the flesh.
Her silver hair flowed like liquid moonlight, her eyes glimmered with cold amusement, and her black nun’s habit clung to her lithe form, a stark contrast to the gore-streaked battlefield. In the story, she had been a cute, dependable sister. A minor character, yes, but one with hidden depths, an unbreakable resolve hidden beneath a gentle exterior.
But now? She was a monster. My knees quaked as I forced a pitiful, trembling smile to my lips, tears mingling with the cold sweat running down my face.
Celestia stepped forward, her arm rising slowly, fingers spread wide as she aimed her open palm at my chest. I could see my death reflected in those cruel eyes, a blast of wind, a clean severing of flesh and bone. I was going to die, to be reduced to a bloody stain on the forest floor, my final, pathetic stand erased in an instant.
“Farewell, pitiful cultist,” she whispered, her fingers flexing as the air around her hand twisted, the wind itself trembling in anticipation.
This is it. It’s over.
I stumbled back, my spine hitting the rough bark of a tree, my legs threatening to give way as my body prepared for the end. My grip on my sword went slack, the blade dropping to my side, forgotten in the face of utter hopelessness. The forest spun around me, my vision narrowing to a pinpoint as the world itself seemed to hold its breath.
And then, a shockwave.