Riven surveyed their formation and spotted a glaring flaw in their current strategy. Surrounded on all sides, the only path to escape was to carve a hole straight through the enemy ranks—but Roman, the only one with the raw power to pull it off, was locked in combat with both the noble and the Fanglion.
Their current approach seemed to rely on gradually whittling the enemy down before making a break for it. But there was a critical weakness in that plan.
Sylvia's summoned beast—who kept the archers at bay—could only intercept the constant barrage. That was the problem. Elementals, by nature, burned through mana just to exist. Riven knew this. It had been hammered into him by tutors and his father alike. A fact every competent hunter would exploit when facing one in the wild.
This particular elemental had taken the form of a medieval knight, thickly plated and hulking. Likely an armored elemental variant. Though he'd never read about an ice-based one before—understandable, considering creatures like this were rare in their region of the kingdom, where perpetual winter was a myth, not a season.
Riven shook his head and refocused, turning his gaze toward the summoned beast as it stood firm, shielding them from the storm of arrows. It didn't strike back with finesse or aggression. It simply endured. It absorbed. A fortress rather than a sword.
The archers, on the other hand, were too far. Too well-positioned. Unless someone took the fight to them, they'd remain a threat—and a deadly one at that. He clicked his tongue in frustration, lips tightening as his left hand curled instinctively into a fist.
With a low breath, Riven's eyes flicked back to the rooftops, scanning the battlefield with renewed focus. He counted ten on the closest side—ten bows trained on their position. Then, something caught his eye. A glint among the scattered corpses and debris. Steel, curved. A weapon lying half-buried on the stone floor.
He darted toward it, ducking low, trying to hide behind the bodies. It was a kusarigama—or what was left of one. Short-handled, the chain trailing uselessly, snapped near the base. A broken weapon.
The only reason he even recognized it was because he'd trained with Roman using one, albeit briefly. He scooped it up with his left hand, testing the weight. It felt light—almost deceptively so. Built for speed and precision, not brute force. He tested the grip. Worn, but solid enough.
His gaze snapped back to the rooftops.
Get in, eliminate them fast, and get out. A simple plan. A stupid one. But it was all he had.
He inhaled deeply, syncing his breath with the steady thrum of his heartbeat. The tension in his chest ebbed just slightly, focus sharpening.
I'll have to time this perfectly.
No second chances.
Riven turned toward where Sylvia fought and moved closer, weaving through scattered debris and bodies.
"Sylvia! Can you force most of their attention onto you and your beast?" he called out.
Sylvia didn't answer immediately. She spun mid-strike, slashing through two attackers in a single, fluid motion. Frost clung to the deep wounds her rapier left behind, spreading in jagged veins. Neither of the men got back up.
She flicked her blade clean, turned to Riven, and finally spoke.
"What's your plan?"
"The archers are a problem. I plan to take them by surprise," Riven answered, not missing a beat. The tension around them never eased, pressure prickling at his skin like static. Every second mattered.
Sylvia studied him in silence for a moment, her gaze flicking down to the bandaged arm at his side.
"You sure?" she asked, her tone quiet but firm.
Riven nodded once, sharp and resolute. His expression said more than words could—he was committed.
Sylvia returned the nod, just as curt, and her mana flared in response. A soft purple glow enveloped her, dancing across her skin like embers of magic. Ice crawled up the length of her silver rapier, and the ground beneath her feet shimmered with frost.
Then she moved—a blur of motion that crashed into the oncoming enemies. Riven watched her dance through them, her slashes swift and precise. Where her blade kissed flesh, blood sprayed and ice burst outwards, fracturing joints and freezing limbs mid-motion. Some slowed, others locked up entirely, frozen solid where they stood.
That must be her beast's ability, Riven thought, turning his gaze toward the elemental once more.
The knightly creature had entered a frenzy, its massive greatsword cleaving in brutal arcs. Hooded attackers were bisected like stalks of wheat. Each swing hummed with raw force, the kind that shattered bones before blades even landed. The ground beneath it wilted—grass freezing over, turning brittle before crumbling into powder beneath its steps. Every stomp sent a spray of frozen mist and dead flora into the air, the scent of churned earth and something sharp—like fresh snow—wafting past Riven's nose.
Arrows continued to rain down in waves, yet the elemental pressed forward, unbothered. Unrelenting. It advanced toward the nearest building like a siege weapon, a wall of frost and wrath. And it was working—Roman now had the distraction he needed.
Before committing to his own plan, Riven turned back to check on Roman.
Two blurs tangled in the distance—Roman and the Fanglion. The massive beast moved with terrifying grace, bounding between strikes, its green-glowing claws and fangs aimed to shred. Roman met each attack with precision, his greatsword a blur of steel and muscle, deflecting blow after blow.
Then, slicing through the air—blades of wind. Riven saw them before Roman did. But the warrior reacted with brutal efficiency, pivoting and batting them aside with a heavy swing.
Riven followed the trajectory of the attack.
The noble.
He still stood in the same place as before, robes fluttering, arms raised. His face was twisted into a grin—hungry, malicious. Like a cat toying with a cornered mouse.
Good. Riven narrowed his eyes. The noble was fully focused on Roman.
With that confirmation, Riven shifted low, slipping along the edge of the chaos. He crept closer to the elemental beast, carefully threading the battlefield's blind spots, doing his best to remain invisible among the madness. Every heartbeat thundered in his ears, his breath shallow as he moved. He couldn't afford a single misstep.
He moved in sync with the beast, shadowing its every step, his grip tightening around the sickle's hilt. The moment his foot crossed into the building's shade, he readied his mana, letting it trickle toward the weapon.
I'll have to time this right. The weapon drains everything—if I hit zero, I pass out… or worse.
His jaw clenched. He couldn't afford hesitation.
Gritting his teeth, he triggered three rapid Blinks in succession, his body flickering across the battlefield. He cleared the rooftop with ease and landed just behind the line of archers—silent as a whisper, deadly as a falling blade.
The instant his boots touched the tiles, he pushed the remaining threads of mana into the sickle. The weapon drank it greedily, humming with power in his grip as he launched toward the nearest figure.
He wasn't as fast as he wanted to be—not without mana reinforcing his body—but speed wasn't everything. Precision would have to do.
He brought the sickle down in a savage arc, aiming for the back of the neck of the nearest hooded figure. Steel met flesh with a wet, sickening sound. Blood sprayed across the tiles, hot and sticky against his cheek, and the man let out a strangled scream before crumpling.
Riven's stomach churned, but he forced it down.
It's them or me. That truth burned brighter than any guilt.
Before the others could react to the sudden threat behind them, he surged forward, slicing at their throats with desperate force. His strikes weren't perfect—awkward, one-armed swings with unsteady footing—but they landed. He didn't have the luxury of hesitation or finesse. His right arm still hung useless at his side, pain throbbing beneath the bandages with every heartbeat.
One by one, they fell. He wasn't sure if his attacks were fatal—but they were enough. Enough to drop them. Enough to buy time.
When the final figure collapsed, Riven released the sickle. It slipped from his fingers, clattered along the sloped roof, and slid away, leaving a faint trail of blood behind it.
He dropped to his knees, gasping. Each breath burned like fire in his chest. The connection to the weapon was severed, and with it, the relentless drain on his mana. But the cost had already been taken. He barely had five percent left—just enough to avoid the sickness that came when your mana hit zero.
"I did it…" he whispered, staring down at the blood-speckled roof tiles. The scent of iron filled his nose, thick and metallic. His hands trembled.
I hope the others can handle the rest.