"I am not a kind man."

James gasped awake once more, his body shaking as it burned with newfound energy. It, thankfully, wasn't as overwhelming as the last time he tapped into it, but it was still enough to make his blood grow hot and his teeth chatter.

Something hot flowed in and out of his veins, sending flashes of heat all over his body. James closed his eyes tightly, despite the darkness, and tried to focus on the last thing he could remember before his meeting with Gryff.

He and Naomi had been engulfed by that strange light, which was nothing like any of the Rune Gates he had seen before. They didn't even have time to react when they were thrown into this void, where gravity seemed nonexistent.

It must have been close to half an hour since then. James hoped to the gods that this place between realms didn't also make time itself irrelevant. For he feared what would happen if he arrived in Yorktown years ahead.

'Focus on the now. Try to find Naomi.'

James took in a deep breath—somehow—and searched the cold expanse. He kept his eyes closed as he did so, his hand grasping at nothing. Well, sorta. The atmosphere in this place was thick and humid, with the wandering scents of something sweet.

'It's almost… fruity?'

James shoved that wandering thought away. He cleared his mind of distractions and tried to focus on the other Outlander. Dahlia had told him once before that all magic needed intent and will to work. Did this void work in similar ways? He hoped so.

He thought of Naomi, of her intentions. Which was difficult, given that she gave little to no information about herself outside of what James could pry out of her.

'Well, except for our conversation before the raid,' he thought. He tried to recall the moments in their short talk. The bits and pieces of her past. Thien. The coin. Her goal to remove the cursed eye and find its origin. Just as he began to ponder these things, the emptiness before him began to form around his fingers. He could feel the fabric of a cloak, wet from the snowfall and coarse from age. He gripped it tightly, focusing harder.

"This is a nightmare! A dream or something! Wake up! Wake up, dammit!"

Naomi's voice rang out, distant. She sounded different, younger even. Another voice followed it.

"Believe it or not, we're not on Earth anymore. This is a place between dimensions, a pocket in space and time."

Was that… Thien?

"You shall embark on a quest to assist the rebellion in taking back their nation and uniting the clans. You shall be a hero."

"I… I accept your quest."

More voices followed, each one different.

"I'd rather you swear the life of a pig rather than your own."

"I won't let you get away from me, you bastard!"

"I never felt this way toward someone, you know…"

"You're an Outlander. A disease."

"You will learn to fight. To sneak. To be a Specter"

"I love you, Naomi."

"I'm sorry for what happened. I hope he can find peace…"

"You're not human! You're a killer! A monster! A ghoul!"

"You shall hold my title. You will free our people."

"I hate you!"

"Naomi Miller, Outlander, Specter. You are charged with the assassination of Emperor Osaka Hiro and the aiding of a rebellion. By the will of Empress Uzaki Hanabi, you are hereby sentenced to death. May the gods have mercy on your soul."

James recoiled as the voices filled his head, his body tensing as he tried to hold onto Naomi's cloak. He opened his eyes and saw her standing in front of him. She was looking at him, both eyes normal in this realm. Her expression seemed to mirror his, her own hand holding James' shawl.

'Is she hearing something similar right now?' James thought as the voices waned from his mind. For a moment, the two just stood there, watching each other with perplexed looks. James could hear bits and pieces of Naomi's past. He could catch the names and titles they placed upon her during her years in Kasan.

Assassin. Monster. Rebel. Outlander. However, there was one word that came up more often than the others. Specter. They called her a Specter. A name that was used both to mythologize and tear her down.

God only knew what she was hearing from his end.

As James contemplated on what to say, the void around them was illuminated in a great light. James felt as his corporal form was sucked away into the blinding whiteness, Naomi following suit, her mouth agape in a silent shout. Both Outlanders didn't make a single sound as the pillar of pure power engulfed both of them.

Kira watched as Seamus lost consciousness. She frowned, disappointed. She had wished the young man would stay awake for a while longer, if only so he could be lucid enough to experience Kira's mind reading. She sighed at that, her lips pouting as she considered waking him up.

Perhaps not the time. Kira had a simple goal, after all. Get into Seamus' head and extract what useful information she could. His being awake didn't do much outside of wasting time. The young woman knew better than to do that. Eilif had made it clear to her of the master's wishes to get this all done before the day was over. To prolong that would be to earn his ire.

Kira grabbed at Seamus' hair, raising his head up. She leaned, her lips parting ever so slightly…

A huge club burning with the remnants of a dead fire struck where Kira stood, sending a flurry of embers and dust into the air. The strike tore through the wall where Seamus had been leaning against, collapsing the roof of the building it belonged to. The attacker responsible pulled his improvised club from the spot Kira had been standing, his gaze expecting to see two crushed bodies. He found only rubble.

Kira watched the brute with a critical eye, her teeth gritted with annoyance. She set down Seamus against the wall of another building, her hand moving to his chest.

'Mend.' she mentally commanded, her eyes flaring a bit as they processed the spell. Steam rose from the wounds on Seamus' chest, Kira's casting, knitting his flesh back together. It wouldn't fully heal him like most spells of its kind, but it would keep him from dying in the meantime.

"Annoying creature," Kira growled as she focused on the brute ahead of her. Two deep slashes struck the orc's torso, her third nailing him on the head. He stumbled back, his body clearly taking the hits. Yet he didn't fall. Kira tilted her head, confused.

The orc slowly regained his footing, the flames of a nearby building illuminating his figure. He wore black steel armor, a red skeletal anatomy painted onto its plates. Kira blinked as she focused on the creature before her, her eyes trying to discern where the armor ended and the skin began. The answer became obvious when she got a look at the thing's half-scorched face, his eyes still burning with hatred.

'His armor is grafted onto his skin,' Kira realized. The same intense heat that had scarred this orc must've also fused its flesh with the steel. A Fireball was probably responsible, but so was a pyre. In short, this orc had been through some shit.

"So, you got a name?" Kira called as she left behind Seamus' slumped form. He would be stable for a while. Long enough for Kira to get a few rounds in with this newcomer. If he survived long enough, of course.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

"I am Blood-Irk," the orc growled. Even his voice sounded deformed as if his vocal cords had been melted halfway. "Vyre of Atrox and Bane of Humans. You will fall like many have before."

"Oh really?" Kira asked. She smiled at the orc, feeling a bit excited at the way he composed himself. He was overly confident, his stupid orc brain probably thinking that pure strength would be more than enough to take care of someone blessed with Beholder eyes.

Blood-Irk didn't entertain her question, for he raised his smoldering club once again. He swung hard at Kira, who was quick enough to dodge the strike and counterattack with a stronger slash.

'Cleave,' she commanded, her singular blade enhanced with the red energies of an improved casting. It hit Blood-Irk straight in the breastplate, which flared with the glow of advanced-level enchantments. Blood flowed from where her invisible blade struck, but it failed to bisect the orc. Blood-Irk didn't even seem all too affected by the wound as well, as his club's trajectory changed and swung back toward Kira in a blinding motion. She barely managed to dodge the attack, her body twisting in the air impossibly. She rolled on the ground with a grunt, her eyes flaring.

'Cleave.'

Another enhanced strike landed on the orc, this time aimed at his guts. Same result. The blade failed to cut any deeper. Kira backed away from the orc, her brow furrowing as she watched his haggard movements.

Cleave was a Physical Casting reserved for martial fighters who specialized in swords. The casting enhanced one's attack, sharpening one's blade enough to cut through armor and enchantments whilst also homing one's attack to a single target. The casting was usually paired with Power Strike, as stacking the two would give the additional benefit of continually targeting another person if the first opponent was killed immediately.

Basically, it was two for the price of one casting. Kira liked using it on multiple enemies since her invisible blades could already cut pretty sharp, and using Cleave meant that she could take out swathes of people in one or two strikes. It was also useful for tougher brutes, like that orc who had been with Jarl Holter. Kira had thought then that he would be the toughest thing she'd kill.

It seemed like she was being proved wrong. She tilted her head at Blood-Irk, who turned to face her once more. She could see how her Cleaves only managed to inflict what looked to be minor wounds. Kira smiled, her excitement returning in a flurry of emotions.

"I think I'll take my time with you…"

Haggard hated naval combat. He hated the way the deck lurched beneath his boots. He hated the taste of salt mixing with the heavy scent of blood. He hated being only a wrong step away from being sent into the black waters, his heavy clothing and gambeson dragging him into a watery death.

All of this was to say that Haggard was not having a good time. He struggled with an orc, who was grabbing at his hammer arm with a vice-like grip. Haggard grunted as he struggled with the brute, both wrestling for control as they neared the railing of Draugr's Haunt.

With a final push and curse, Haggard managed to pull his hammer away from the orc. He brought it down not even a second after, bashing in its skull with a bloody crunch. Haggard groaned as he shoved the corpse off of the ship, his gaze moving to the rest of the crew. They were faring better than he expected, some even pushing the raiders back to their half-sunk vessel.

Haggard's brief respite was cut short when a force of wind shoved him against the ship's railing. He nearly went overboard had it not been for some quick thinking from Liam, who had hurried over to grab the falling man's cloak. The Shipmaster grunted as he brought Haggard back, who recovered enough to spot incoming trouble.

Haggard tackled Liam to the ground, avoiding a set of thorns that buried themselves into the deck. He saw how they grew into the floorboards, breaking and cracking the wood with little veins of green.

'Nature magic. Great.'

Haggard turned to the caster, that being the Shaman who led the orcs. He ran for him, his hammer at the ready for a single strike that could end the fight. The Shaman responded with a few unintelligible words, his hands forming runes. Immediately, Haggard sidestepped to the ship's mast, hiding behind it to avoid any projectiles.

None came. Instead, Haggard felt the deck beneath him shift and groan. His first thought was that the damn ship was going to go overboard, the Shaman casting some spell to turn it over. Instead of that, the older man was met with the sight of vines breaking from the wooden floorboards beneath his feet. He cursed and quickly moved to avoid their grasp.

As Haggard tried to get away from the conjurations, he saw how other crewmates were faring. Some were being held down by the twisting vines, which coiled and pulled them against the deck. Others hacked and slashed at them, leaving them open for attack by the boarding orcs.

"No!" Haggard shouted. He ran toward the advancing raiders, hefting his mighty hammer for a swing.

"Untec' Sahra!" the Shaman shouted, his foreign tongue enhanced with magical weight. Haggard had forgotten about the caster, which left him quite open for attack. He turned just in time to see the deck below morph and erupt, a spiraling spear made of wood aiming right at him. Haggard could do nothing as the spear struck his left shoulder, the tip piercing clean through. He gritted his teeth and tried to break out of the spear's hold. Another one sprang from behind, this time piercing through his thigh.

"Shit!" Haggard hissed. He was pinned now, the pain in his wounds slowly numbing. Whatever spell that bastard had used on him, it came with some numbing poison.

"Get him!" the Shaman shouted in accented Azuran, his hand gesturing toward the orcs. They all had been watching the brief show of magic, mesmerized for a moment. They snapped out of it quickly enough, their rusty axes and cleavers clinking as they rushed past bound crewmates and dead bodies. Haggard could only watch, his breath becoming ragged as whatever poison coursed through him.

A loud bang echoed across the deck, the deafening noise accompanied by the crack of the air. The orcs froze in place, their faces becoming taut with fear. Haggard blinked at their sudden stop. Then, he watched as one of the oafs stumbled in place, his hand over his neck. Dark blood flowed from there, dripping down from his armor and onto the deck below. The others watched in dead silence up until the orc dropped dead.

Another crack sounded out, and another greenskin was thrown back. This time, Haggard could see as something tore through the orc's shoddy breastplate, the unenchanted iron warping as a bullet struck it.

Haggard turned to the source, his eyes widening as he spotted Hilda with the Gunne prototype. She had brought the damn thing alongside its sparse ammo. He watched as the gnome struggled to open its chamber, her hands shaking as she brought out another iron-cased round. Before she could even load it, the Shaman cast another spell.

"Untec' Sah–!"

"Rockford!" Haggard roared despite his weakened state. Hilda froze as another of the spears lunged for her, its tip spiraling with deadly venom. The gnome didn't even have time to scream as a dwarf tackled her to the side, saving her from a gruesome fate.

The Shaman cursed and tried to cast another spell but was stopped when a bottle shattered over his head, spilling golden mead everywhere. The spellcaster fell to the ground in a heap, his eyes blinking as blood ran down his forehead. Liam tossed aside the broken bottle, the Shipmaster sighing as he turned to the orcs, who still stood there with dumbfounded faces.

None rushed him, as the vines that held most of the crew had dissipated alongside the Shaman's fall. Which left the dwindled greenskins surrounded.

'Looks like that gunne did most of the talking,' Haggard thought as he watched the orcs do the smartest thing they could've ever done. They backed away and surveyed the situation. A rare sight, no doubt.

"I suggest," Liam started, his foot kicking at the cannon that lay near him. It was empty now, with no ball or rune inside. Still, the orcs didn't need to know that. "You all fuck off to whatever hole you crawled from. Otherwise…"

The orcs got the message, their backs turning to face the crew of Draugr's Haunt. They stopped when they realized their vessel had sunk into the black waters, its damage no longer sustained by their Shaman.

The ones that didn't jump ship were shortly dispatched.

Falrick focused hard, eyes closing as he tried to establish a connection. None came. He opened his eyes and cursed himself. He had just been speaking with Seamus not long ago, their conversation cutting short out of nowhere. He looked at the Dunn crystals around him, their opaque surfaces without glow or color. Their magic did not return, no matter how hard Falrick tried.

"Dammit!" the Wizard hissed, his eyes opening as he tried to refocus. He went at it for some time, hands forming runes and chalk scraping against stone. Nothing worked. His reserves were running low. Dangerously so. If he kept this up, even with the help of the ley lines that converged on this mountain, the ritual would start to strip past his ley lines and tear his own soul apart for substance.

As Falrick considered options, Alarms blared warnings in his mind. He spun around to the entrance of the small chamber, his eyes focusing on a lone figure that stood silhouetted in the cramped hallway. The Wizard let out a breath, his hands lowering.

"You… got past my other wards," Falrick said, defeated.

"Quite the challenge, I'll admit," the figure said. He stepped past the burnt glyphs that lined the entryway, his brass goggles glinting in the sparse light. There was a strange wheezing coming from the back of his throat as he approached. Laughter, Falrick realized.

"You are very skilled. However, I've been alive long enough to figure my way around such magical defenses. Not perfectly, sure, but good enough." The stranger stopped just outside of the ritual circle. "We can get through this fast and quick if you like. Just drop the ritual. I'd rather not have to go through the trouble of watching you wither away as the ley lines drained whatever is left of your life."

"I've heard of you. Eilif, right?" Falrick asked, avoiding the suggestion. "The Immortal Bounty Hunter. What kind of business would someone such as yourself have in a town besieged by orcs?"

"I'm not at liberty to tell," Eilif answered. "Drop the ritual, Wizard. I'm not going to ask again."

Falrick watched him for a moment, unsure. The magical circle beneath him flickered in response to his inner thoughts, his only good hand shaking with barely contained effort. Keeping this ritual up for as long as he did was a miracle in itself, not counting the prosthetic he was forced to work with. He was at his limit, with no other options left.

So, he dropped the ritual.

Eilif was upon him like a shadow, his right producing a short blade. Falrick barely had time to cast a counter, his body shuddering as he formed the rune. Eilif jumped back from the expected attack, his goggles illuminated in a purple glow as he dodged the desperate Arcane Bolt.

"Damn," Falrick muttered before he was promptly stabbed in the chest. The cold bite of the dagger sank deep into his torso, which grew in heat from the recent casting. The Wizard looked up at the assassin before him, who stared back with lifeless lenses.

"I… I was hoping to maybe get one good hit in," Falrick admitted. "Before I razed your body to ash."

Eilif paused at that, his knife faltering. Falrick didn't even give him the chance to respond. The Wizard raised his only good hand up, his fingers forming as he activated the runes he inscribed within the small chamber.

"Explosion!"

The glyphs turned to a hostile red, bathing the room in its nefarious glow. Falrick made sure to keep smiling, even as the magical energies around him exploded in arcane might.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.