A sharp noise, or rather a hissing sound, which I didn't understand because I felt more like I was burning.
And a trickle of blood ran down my cheek, leaving a bluish line.
I blinked several times, as if my brain hadn't had time to process the information before finally falling.
'...An arrow?'
The world froze and all eyes turned towards the arrow. Suddenly, a heavy, electric tension fell upon us like a storm ready to break.
Gried, the leader of the group, started shouting:
'Everyone take cover! It's an ambush!'
Smart old man. I can't stand him, but he has the reflexes of a man who has survived too long.
'Well done, Arla, for your divine reflexes!'
So the woman who saved my life is called Arla — a half-crazy archer who laughs when things explode and who has already drawn her bow, her eyes fixed on the direction from which the shot came.
And me? I'm on the ground. Like a piece of shit.
I want to scream, but my body is still shaking, as if reality is finally deciding to get back on track after a monumental lag.
Damn it, I need to improve my danger perception skills!
I run a finger over my cheek. The blood is warm. Visceral.
I almost got headshot. By what? By who?
And why am I not even surprised?
A rain of arrows suddenly descends.
Highly accurate shots fired with murderous intent—this is clearly not the work of a novice archer.
The other archer, calmer, more like a sniper, finally spots something and leaps to the side.
'Over there! North-east gallery, at eleven o'clock!'
He takes off. And the group follows, as one.
Me? I get up, grumbling, and follow them to retrieve my baby.
That damn kid attracts trouble like a lamp attracts suicidal moths.
I follow them halfway, out of breath, my legs still stiff. And that's when we see them.
Two silhouettes.
Slender. Impeccable. Calm.
Pale hair. Elven armour with metallic sheen. And those fucking expressionless eyes, like robots. Mannequins. Judges who no longer even judge.
So that's what elves look like? Damn, they don't look very friendly!
Their bows are still drawn, arrows ready to fire. And they stare at us as if assessing pieces of overcooked meat.
Gried approaches slowly, hand on the hilt of his weapon.
'Identify yourselves.'
No immediate response. Just an icy silence. The kind that reeks of bureaucracy, procedure and death marching towards us.
One of the two elves steps forward slightly, his expression still neutral:
'You are in possession of an unauthorised specimen. Test unit 230864.'
His voice is... bland. Even the AIs in my old world put more intonation into their dialogue...
'This entity must be recovered. And recycled.'
I blink.
Recycled? Seriously? We're talking about a kid here.
And I feel a cold shiver run down my spine.
'If you attempt any resistance, you will be eliminated as witnesses.'
And then something snaps in my head.
They're not just assholes. They're fucking executioners. Evidence cleaners. Shadows with administrative smiles.
One word buzzes in my head: probably subordinates of this Potimas.
Shit.
Gried speaks, but I'm not listening anymore. My eyes are fixed on the elf's hands. On his steady fingers, on the bowstring still taut.
They're ready to kill.
And this time, I don't think it's just a test.
It's an execution.
When I finally turn my attention back to the discussion, I realise I haven't heard a thing.
'Then die.'
The elf's words hang in the air, as sharp as blades. No one speaks. Even the heat in the air seems to have stopped. And then, without a cry, without a command, the tension breaks.
A volley of arrows flies through the air.
Not just a single shot. A surgical volley, targeted, planned. Three arrows for each member of the group.
But they had time to react.
Arla rolls on the ground, an arrow whistling past her ear. The other blocks another with his bow, a movement that deserves a cinematic slow motion.
The big man roars and raises his shield, taking two shots. The third lodges in his shoulder, but he doesn't flinch.
The old man is unleashed. A flash splits the air and two arrows fall, cut cleanly. The third grazes his hip.
'WHAT THE HELL ARE THESE SNIPERS FROM HELL?!'
As for Gried...
'Damn it, you're in the way!'
Huh, wait? WHAT!? And before I knew what was happening, I was thrown against a wall and my eyes closed.
Our group regroups, taking cover.
'They're hitmen.'
I'm out of breath, and I quickly assess the situation.
Vayne hisses through his teeth. 'There are two of them. But there are surely more hiding behind them.'
'And the corridor's too narrow to charge them head-on.'
Selina, who had been silent until now, drew two daggers. 'Then we lure them out. We make them move.'
I nodded in agreement.
'Mike. Firewall. Vayne, cover. Arla, aim for the joints. Selina, go around the back if you can.'
'Count on me,' Mike shouted before rushing into battle.
'Fire.'
And then, all hell broke loose.
Mike was already charging forward, roaring, a barrier of flames rising from his shield, aided by Orman's abilities.
Arrows rained down once more.
Arla returned fire, each shot whistling deadly.
Selina had already disappeared into the shadows.
Vayne advanced at an angle, covering the blind spots, while the elves did not retreat. They pivoted and slid, their movements with supernatural precision.
An elite duel in a corridor of lava and death.
And to my great surprise, one of the elves lunged at me and drew a sword.
He wants to fight hand-to-hand?
I see him advancing, each step deliberate, balanced, controlled. He is at the exact distance to force me to react without giving me time to anticipate. His sword rises, perfectly horizontal, and he strikes.
I parry just in time, the blow is sharp and brutal. He immediately steps back, circles around me, forcing me to pivot. He doesn't give me any openings and tests my guard.
I feint. He doesn't take the bait. He reacts, parries, and strikes back. I deflect his blow with the flat of my blade and move up towards his arm. He barely steps back, dodges, strikes again.
He is experienced.
We continue. Blades clash. Short, tense movements. No words. Just the rhythm of footsteps, parries and attacks.
He is fast, precise and shows no hesitation. Each attack targets a vital point: throat, wrist, heart. He has no flamboyant style or precise mastery of a style, it is just a method of execution.
I respond and use the weight of my body and the terrain. I push him back, causing him to slide across the floor, but he comes back. His blade grazes my side. But I take the blow and retaliate. A vertical strike. He blocks. Our swords lock together.
We force our swords apart as the metal screeches. My guard holds while his begins to give way, and then there is a crack and his blade breaks.
I lose my balance as he ducks and punches me directly in the stomach, causing me to loosen my own sword, which ends up flying out of my hands.
We are bare-handed.
He doesn't move and I stand up straight. I inhale, arms raised. So does he.
'You're not bad.'
I feel my fist hit his jaw with a sharp impact, but he doesn't flinch, his gaze remains fixed on me like that of a hunter who sees only his target, not the pain.
He responds immediately, his fist piercing the air and crashing into my cheek with a brutal shock. My skull twists under the force of the blow, my footing wobbles, but I remain standing, because falling would mean certain death.
I clench my teeth, the metallic taste of blood spreads in my mouth, and I spit on the blackened ground as I close the distance, crushing my shoulder against his chest to bring him to the ground.
He doesn't give in. His elbow strikes my side twice, each blow vibrating my ribs, but I hold on, pushing, insisting, my hands clinging to his armour, searching for a flaw, the slightest weak point, a loose attachment, anything.
My forehead collides with his, a sharp crack echoes between us, I think I see stars but I don't stop. He finally growls, cold frustration, his fingers clutching my neck, trying to strangle me.
I fight back blindly, my fists pounding his chest, every muscle screaming, but I don't slow down, not as long as I can breathe.
We roll in the burning dust, our bodies intertwined. This is no longer a noble duel, no longer a warrior's dance. It's a dirty, primitive clash where only brute force, rage and the refusal to die matter. My knee hits his stomach, his fingers scratch my cheek, my nails dig into his ribs, he hits me on the temple, I ram my elbow into his throat.
Everything is fast, chaotic, instinctive. There is no technique, just the relentless determination of two survivors who refuse to fall first.
I growl through clenched teeth, sweat burning my eyes, my muscles trembling with fatigue, but I can feel that he is tiring too. His breathing is shorter, his gaze less steady.
My heart pounds like an anvil beneath my ribs, each beat a declaration of war. He tries a hook, I block it with my forearm, counter with a straight punch to the stomach, he takes a step back but regains his balance almost immediately. I follow up, my fist slams into his temple, then once, twice, I feel his body wobble.
But he comes back. Again.
I hate him. Because he's like me. He refuses to fall.
And that means I have to crush him.
I slam him to the ground with my shoulder, my fingers digging into his throat, and I hear his nails scraping against my arm pads as he tries to break free. But this time, I don't let go.
Breathing heavily, my arms lock around his thin but nervous body, and with one last effort I pin him to the ground with all my weight. My knee crushes his ribs.
But he doesn't say anything.
And that's when I hear it.
Just a barely audible click, a movement of his finger against his collar.
I realise too late.
'No!'
A greenish light pulses beneath his throat. A magical circle, thin as a thread, glows on his skin.
Suddenly, an explosion propels me against the wall and seriously injures me.
As my body falls to the ground covered in wounds, I see that the fight around me has started to get worse. Dozens of elves are actually there, fighting valiantly without flinching.
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Hello everyone here HorrorSoup4109
At the moment I notice that the story is starting to not be as popular. Could you tell me why?
Is it because I haven't started the story yet or is it because it's way too long in terms of character evaluation?