Arthur settled into a ready stance, his breath coming easier now despite the pain in his side. The darkness around him seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat, responding to his newfound connection. With each passing second, he felt more attuned to his abilities, more aware of the potential that existed within him.
The Nightreaver circled warily, searching for an opening. Arthur tracked its movement without turning his head, his Dark Sense painting a perfect three-dimensional map of his surroundings. When the creature finally attacked again—this time from above—Arthur was ready.
His blade met the Nightreaver's descent with deadly precision, cutting through wing membrane and sinew. The creature's momentum carried it past him, crashing into the field of dead roses several feet away.
For the first time since entering this realm, Arthur felt something beyond fear or desperate survival. As he advanced toward the wounded Nightreaver, determination burned in his eyes. This was no longer about escaping death—it was about embracing the power to overcome it.
The Nightreaver writhed among the dead roses, its damaged wing dragging uselessly at its side. Black ichor seeped from the wound, staining the withered petals beneath it an even darker shade of crimson. The creature struggled to regain altitude, beating its remaining functional wing frantically, but each attempt ended with it crashing back to the ground with a pitiful screech.
Arthur approached steadily, his footsteps crushing dead roses beneath his boots. The sound echoed in the stillness of the night, a rhythmic counterpoint to the creature's desperate thrashing. His sword hung at his side, the midnight-black blade seeming to absorb what little light reached it, giving nothing back but darkness.
The monster turned to face its hunter, primal instinct recognizing the imminent threat. Its eyes—multifaceted orbs that reflected the moonlight in fractured patterns—fixed on Arthur with an expression that transcended the boundaries between species. Even a beast knew fear when death approached.
A growl rumbled from deep within the Nightreaver's throat, rising in pitch and volume until it became a vicious snarl. With survival instinct overriding pain, it gathered its remaining strength and lunged toward Arthur with astonishing speed, a final desperate attempt to turn the tables on its pursuer.
Arthur raised his sword in a defensive position, anticipating an attack aimed at his head or torso. It was a reasonable assumption—one that proved fatally incorrect.
The Nightreaver dove low, its trajectory hugging the ground. Before Arthur could adjust his stance, the creature's razor-sharp talon slashed across his leg, cutting cleanly through fabric and flesh. Pain erupted along his thigh as the keen edge severed muscle and scraped bone.
Arthur's agonized yell split the night air. His leg buckled beneath him, balance compromised by both the wound and the shock of unexpected pain. The Nightreaver, sensing advantage, immediately changed tactics. It pivoted with surprising agility and launched itself directly at Arthur's chest, seeking to tackle him to the ground where it could finish what it had started.
Through the haze of pain, Arthur managed to interpose his sword between himself and the charging monster, preventing it from closing the distance completely. But he was already off-balance, his injured leg unable to support his weight. He felt himself falling backward, the ground rising up to meet him.
In that critical moment, something in Arthur's tactical awareness clicked into place. He couldn't risk being pinned beneath the Nightreaver again—not with a freshly wounded leg limiting his mobility. Using what strength remained in his uninjured limbs, he twisted his body mid-fall, altering the trajectory of both combatants. When they hit the ground, it was with Arthur on top, straddling the thrashing creature.
The Nightreaver screamed and thrashed beneath him, claws raking at his arms and torso, drawing blood in thin, stinging lines. It bucked and writhed, desperate to escape, to live another night. Its struggles grew more frantic as Arthur's weight pressed down upon it, pinning it against the cold, unforgiving ground.
Arthur didn't hesitate. His face set in grim determination, he raised his soul sword high above his head, the blade momentarily eclipsing the moon. With a powerful downward thrust, he drove the weapon deep into the monster's body. The blade pierced chitin and flesh with a sickening crunch, passing entirely through the creature's torso to embed itself in the earth below.
But the killing blow Arthur expected didn't come. The Nightreaver continued to fight, continued to resist death's embrace. Its claws found purchase on Arthur's already wounded leg, tearing fresh gouges that sent waves of agony surging through his nervous system.
Arthur gritted his teeth against the pain, refusing to yield. He withdrew his sword from the creature's body with a wet, sucking sound, dark fluid coating the blade. Without pause, he raised it again and brought it down with even greater force.
Again, the Nightreaver's struggles continued. Again, Arthur raised his weapon.
Again and again, the blade fell.
Something had broken free within him, something primal and vengeful that demanded satiation.
'Die. Die. DIE.'
Arthur's eyes held a manic gleam, pupils dilated within irises that seemed blacker than the night itself. His sword came down harder with each successive strike, movements growing more vicious, less controlled. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with spatters of black ichor as rage overflowed the carefully constructed dam he had built to contain it.
"FUCKING DIE!" he roared, bringing the blade down again with such force that it nearly slipped from his blood-slicked grip.
But this blow did not kill the beast. Neither had the last one. In truth, the Nightreaver had perished after the third strike, its body surrendering to the inevitable. But Arthur hadn't noticed—or hadn't cared. He wanted to hurt something, to make anything feel the pain that had been building inside him since he'd found himself in this nightmare realm. Since he'd lost Luke. Since he'd lost his parents.
Finally, exhaustion claimed him. His arms trembled from exertion, muscles burning with fatigue. The soul sword dissolved from between his fingers, dissipating back into darkness as he sat astride the ruined corpse of the monster.
Something wet fell upon the Nightreaver's lifeless face. Unlike moments before, these weren't droplets of sweat or blood—they were tears. Arthur's tears trickled down his cheeks, carving clean paths through the grime and ichor that stained his skin.
He leaned forward, bringing his face close to that of the dead creature, and screamed. The sound that tore from his throat wasn't human—it was primal, visceral, the howl of a wounded animal. It carried all the grief, rage, and despair that had been building within him, released in one destructive, unrelenting cry that echoed across the field of dead roses.
In that moment, kneeling over his fallen prey, Arthur wasn't sure which of them had been the monster.