[Two days since meeting Arkham]
Sacrifice kept walking.
That alone explained why there were fifty of them now.
Every road through Kazdel carried the same things—wounded mercenaries, abandoned civilians, deserters dragging broken armor, people who had survived one massacre only to stumble into the shadow of the next. Most groups passed them by. Some took what they could and moved on.
Sacrifice stopped.
She always stopped.
A man with a shattered knee received a splint made from scrap and leather. A woman coughing blood was given stabilizers and forced rest. A child with a fever slept wrapped in her coat until the shaking eased. Some stayed. Some didn't. Some left after a night of food and bandages, bowing awkwardly before disappearing into the ruins.
If they had all remained, the group would have numbered in the hundreds.
But Kazdel did not let kindness linger untested.
Fifty stayed.
Fifty who could still walk.
Fifty who could still fight—or would learn how not to die trying.
They moved more slowly now, but safer. Scouts rotated. Fires were smaller. Noise was managed. The wounded were placed in the center without being told to stay there. Orders were rarely spoken twice.
Sacrifice did not call them soldiers.
She called them patients.
Arkham hovered near her shoulder most of the time, dimmed low enough that only those closest noticed him.
[Arkham]: Your survival probability continues to decrease.
[Sacrifice]: It remains acceptable.
[Arkham]: You treated three strangers today who provided no immediate tactical value.
She adjusted a bandage on a man's forearm without slowing her pace.
[Sacrifice]: They are alive.
[Arkham]: That was not—
[Sacrifice]: That is sufficient.
Arkham went quiet, processing.
They reached a broken overpass by dusk, collapsed concrete forming a natural choke point.
Reth raised a fist.
The group halted instantly.
No panic.
No shouted orders.
Everyone already knew where to stand.
The wounded were guided inward. Scouts melted into cover. Weapons came out—not raised, not lowered—ready.
Reth exhaled once, then turned his head slightly toward Sacrifice.
[Reth]: Boss… we've got a problem.
The words had barely left his mouth when the air screamed.
A bloody red arrow tore through the dusk, spinning end over end—aimed straight for Reth's head.
There was no time to shout.
Rockwood moved.
Stone erupted upward in a violent snap, a rockwall shield forming between Reth and the arrow less than a heartbeat before impact. The arrow hit with a wet, cracking thud, embedding itself deep into the stone—
—and the force carried through.
Rockwood was thrown backward.
The shield shattered. Stone fragments exploded outward. Rockwood hit the ground hard, rolling once before stopping in a cloud of dust.
His hands were bent at the wrong angles.
Silence—just for a fraction of a second.
Reth was already moving, skidding to his side, dropping to one knee.
[Reth]: Are you okay?!
Rockwood sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. His face was pale, sweat breaking instantly across his brow—but he grinned anyway, sharp and stubborn.
[Rockwood]: Hah… don't worry.
He lifted his arms slightly. Both hands trembled, fingers useless, blood running freely where bone pressed against skin.
[Rockwood]: This is nothing compared to Boss's one-punch knockouts.
A ripple of grim laughter moved through the group—not relief, but resolve.
Sacrifice was already there.
She knelt beside Rockwood, hands steady, eyes cold and focused.
[Sacrifice]: Both hands. Compound fractures. Pain response within tolerance.
She looked up.
[Sacrifice]: You did well.
Rockwood's grin widened—just a fraction.
[Rockwood]: Worth it.
The air shuddered.
Another arrow screamed out of the dusk, its shaft vibrating so violently the sound alone split the air. The pressure wave hit first—enough to rupture organs, enough to drop a Sarkaz centurion where he stood.
Sacrifice moved.
Her hand snapped up.
The arrow stopped.
Not deflected.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
The shockwave detonated outward anyway, dust and loose gravel exploding across the ground. Cloaks snapped. Armor rattled. Several mercenaries staggered back under the sheer force.
Sacrifice did not move.
Her fingers closed around the shaft. The arrowhead hissed, heat bleeding into her palm, blood still fresh along its edge.
She crushed it.
Wood splintered. Metal warped. The weapon folded in on itself with a sharp, ugly crack.
Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her gaze to the shattered overpass above.
Her eyes burned—not with rage, but with absolute intent.
[Sacrifice]: Don't you dare touch my patients.
Silence followed.
[???]: "Glop"
Then, somewhere in the dark above, someone swallowed hard.
And realized—far too late—
They had chosen the wrong prey.
Behind her, the mercenaries shifted.
Not panic.
Not retreat.
Just one careful step back.
No one misunderstood the situation.
Having a calm, brilliant healer as a boss was reassuring.
Having one whose hands could stabilize a shattered spine or knock a gargoyle unconscious with a single punch…
That was something else entirely.
They trusted her.
They followed her.
But in that moment, every Sarkaz present shared the same unspoken thought:
[It's better to be standing behind her… than ever in front of her.]
The night seemed to agree.
No stars pierced the sky. Only a flat, lightless dark stretched overhead, heavy and watching.
[Reth]: …Huh. First time I've ever seen a night with no stars.
He glanced sideways.
[Reth]: How're your arms, Rockwood?
Rockwood flexed what he could, wincing only slightly.
[Rockwood]: With Boss's Arts? You should be worrying about her, not me.
A few low chuckles followed—strained, but real.
Sacrifice didn't respond.
She was already kneeling beside the injured, Arkham hovering at her shoulder, its blue light flickering softly as it fed her data faster than speech ever could. Several Sarkaz assisted in silence, hands steady, movements precise. They had learned quickly: when Sacrifice worked, you did not interrupt.
Between Arkham's analysis and direct observation, the truth became clear.
Her Arts were not singular.
They were layered.
The first manifested without gesture or incantation.
[Damage Transfer]
Wounds vanished from the injured—gashes sealing, bones realigning, missing flesh restored—only to reappear on Sacrifice's own body. Blood bloomed across her skin where none had been moments before. Even lost organs, torn muscles, shattered structures—
All of it moved.
Not copied.
Transferred.
The second followed immediately, almost violently.
[Regeneration]
Her body rejected the damage as if insulted by it. Tissue knits itself together at impossible speed. Blood evaporated into heat. Bone reformed. Organs stabilized. What should have killed her instead became fuel for recovery.
And finally—
The third.
Subtle. Controlled. Intentional.
[Enchanting]
Her presence changed people.
Strength surged where exhaustion had lived. Limbs moved faster. Breaths came deeper. Wounds hurt less. Hearts beat stronger. It was not madness or frenzy—but reinforcement, as if reality itself had agreed to give them more than they should have had.
Arkham's screen flickered, unreadable symbols scrolling too fast.
Three Arts.
Individually impossible.
Together—
Unacceptable.
Sacrifice finished tying off a bandage and rose to her feet, steady despite the blood that had already vanished from her skin.
Her gaze lifted to the broken overpass.
She frowned.
[Sacrifice]: Why hide… when I can see you?
The air shifted.
In the next heartbeat, a knight stood before her—red armor scarred and darkened with old blood, a spear the color of rusted iron already leveled at her throat. The weapon hummed faintly, its tip so close that the heat of it kissed her skin.
Around them, mercenaries surged to their feet.
Steel rang. Crossbows lifted. Even the wounded reached for stones, broken blades, sticks—anything they could hold. No one retreated.
The knight's voice was low. Controlled.
[Unknown Knight]: Tell your men to lower their weapons.
The spear pressed closer.
[Unknown Knight]: Or your head would be flying.
Sacrifice did not flinch.
[Sacrifice]: And then what?
The question landed harder than any threat.
For a fraction of a second, the knight hesitated.
Then the spear thrust forward—just enough.
Blood welled at her neck, the wound no longer shallow, heat blooming as it ran down her collarbone.
Still, she did not step back.
[Sacrifice]: I asked you something.
Her eyes met the visor—unblinking.
[Sacrifice]: Why didn't you answer?
Silence stretched.
[Sacrifice]: What will you do after you run from here?
Her voice was calm. Not mocking. Worse—clinical.
[Sacrifice]: Will you keep calling yourself a knight with no purpose and no future?
A pause.
[Sacrifice]: Or will you go somewhere quiet… and die like a nobody?
The spear trembled.
Just slightly.
And in that moment, every Sarkaz present understood the same thing.
[The boss is playing mind games.]
Sacrifice held the knight's gaze through the visor, unblinking.
[Sacrifice]: Nameless. Alone. You will continue to live like this.
Then she shifted her attention—not away from him, but around him—letting the words carry.
[Sacrifice]: I can help you.
She turned her head just enough for the Sarkaz to see her profile.
[Sacrifice]: I can give you a name.
A pause.
[Sacrifice]: But you will pay a price.
The knight's grip tightened on his spear.
[Unknown Knight]: What's the price?
Sacrifice answered without hesitation.
[Sacrifice]: Protect my patients.
She raised her voice—not in command, but in certainty.
[Sacrifice]: You all—go back to resting.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then, one by one, the Sarkaz obeyed. Weapons lowered. Tension remained, but trust held.
The knight let out a short, disbelieving sound.
[Unknown Knight]: That's it?
His voice edged with scorn.
[Unknown Knight]: All I need to do is protect some useless nobodies… and I get a name?
No elaboration. No justification.
The knight was silent for a long moment.
Then—
[Unknown Knight]: Why can't I just force you to give me a name… and kill my way out of here?
Sacrifice tilted her head slightly.
Not threatened.
Assessing.
[Sacrifice]: Because a wounded, dehydrated vampire…
Her eyes flicked—not to his spear, but to the faint, uneven rhythm of his breathing.
[Sacrifice]: …doesn't make it very far.
The realization hit the camp like a wave.
One Sarkaz took a step back.
Then another.
Horns lowered. Eyes sharpened.
They weren't afraid of the knight.
They were afraid of what she had already seen.
The spear stopped trembling.
And for the first time since he arrived—
The knight hesitated.
[To be continued]
Sorry for the short and low quality, but I'm too busy, I hope I will make it up to you next time