Chapter 24 — Tiered Shadows
(Kaelen / "Shadeblade" POV)
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Portscab's streets smelled of smoke, wet stone, and something vaguely like overcooked fish. Not exactly the aroma of glory, but perfect for a mercenary mission: gritty, unpredictable, and the kind of environment where mistakes were expensive. I adjusted my mask — boney white, crack running from left eye to cheek — and tried to ignore the slight wobble in my knees.
Selia, perched like a cat on a nearby rooftop, waved. "Skeleton! Don't trip over your own reputation today. I don't want to clean up bones for the third time this week."
Bran bellowed from the alley, laughing so hard it rattled the crates around him. "Skeleton! Try not to scream like a dying goat this time! Or at least pick a dramatic pitch. Make it theatrical!"
I growled beneath the mask. Humiliation was now an occupational hazard. I was Tier‑2 Disciplined, and my allies were Tier‑3 Path-Bearers, but humor was apparently the ultimate weapon against my dignity.
Mira's amber eyes scanned the nearby streets, calm as always. "Observe, adapt, survive. Points for keeping your mask clean, too. That crack isn't going to hide forever, Shadeblade."
Korran Veyle walked beside me, blade sheathed but aura sharp. Late Tier‑3, brushing Tier‑4. "Remember," he murmured, voice low and dangerous, "precision, timing, rhythm. Not speed, not flash. Don't let humor distract you from survival."
I exhaled. Humor, panic, thrill — all tangled together in my chest. I had no magic available, only the sword, my aura, instincts, and whatever lessons Volrag had drilled into me: stance, grip, balance, angles, patience.
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The mission: a contract with a local merchant prince who had a "misplaced" shipment of luxury goods. Translation: a gang of bandits trying to steal something valuable. We had to intercept them without anyone noticing we were involved. A perfect setup to flex our Tier‑3 skills.
Selia leapt from a rooftop and landed silently behind a barrel. "Skeleton, try not to trip over your shadow again," she whispered. "Or I'll start putting notes on your mask: 'Beware: clumsy killer inside'."
Bran laughed. "Skeleton's lucky he's got that mask. Otherwise, people would recognize terror on that face. Points lost for poor intimidation tactics!"
I gritted my teeth. Tier‑2, yes. But I was starting to understand my limitations and my strengths. Sword in hand, aura humming faintly, eyes scanning, I stepped into the first alley. Step, pivot, strike — instinct guiding every move.
A bandit came at me with a knife. Duck, roll, thrust. Missed by a hair, corrected mid-motion, and sliced across the arm. He yelped, stumbled, and I swallowed a laugh at the dramatic flair he added.
Selia's voice rang from above. "Finally! Didn't die! And you actually hit someone! I'll believe in miracles now!"
Bran bellowed with laughter. "Skeleton's finally competent! Just don't fall over while claiming victory!"
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The ambush escalated. Shadows spilled from corners. Lysara darted like a living shadow, knives flashing. Korran moved silently, blade precise, eliminating threats before they could react. Bran smashed through crates and enemies alike, literally sending one bandit tumbling into a pile of sacks with a dramatic thud.
And me? I danced in the middle, pivoting, striking, dodging, adapting, learning from every motion. Every nudge from Korran, whispered cue from Selia, or protective wall from Bran was a lesson. Each successful strike built confidence. Each narrow miss taught humility.
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One bandit lunged unexpectedly from the side. Duck, roll, strike. Connection. Pain flared in my ribs, sweat stung beneath the mask. Selia's laughter floated down. "Yes! Didn't die! That swing… wasn't terrible!"
Bran shouted, "Skeleton's finally dangerous! Slightly! And alive! That counts!"
Lysara leaned against the wall, smirking. "Next time, try to look dangerous while fighting. Your dramatic grunts won't scare anyone. Maybe add a little skull-staring glare?"
Korran's voice, calm as always, reached me. "You're reading the rhythm now. Fundamentals are solid. Soon, your style will emerge. Not speed, not magic, just rhythm, timing, and precision."
I swallowed hard, tasting copper and adrenaline beneath the mask. Humor, panic, thrill, exhaustion, and growth intertwined. Tier‑2 Kaelen, Disciplined, surrounded by Tier‑3 masters — learning, surviving, laughing, and shaping his own sword style.
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The last bandit fled. Silence settled over the street. Merchants breathed shakily. Crates teetered. Muscles quivered with exhaustion. Pain, humor, relief, pride — all mingled, making me feel alive in a way both terrifying and exhilarating.
Selia landed beside me, brushing dust off her cloak. "Points for surviving. Barely."
Bran grinned. "Alive counts! Lesson one: Don't faint. Repeat forever."
Mira's gaze remained precise. "Observe, adapt, survive. That's all that matters. The rest is optional."
Korran placed a steady hand on my shoulder. "Good work. Fundamentals solid. Soon, the style you're forging will be recognizable — dangerous, precise, yours. No magic needed to be lethal."
Lysara smirked. "Don't get cocky. Survive the next dozen attackers first. Or at least sound like a predator instead of a dying goat."
I let out a shaky laugh beneath the mask. Humor, panic, thrill, exhaustion, and growth mingled. Tier‑2 Kaelen, learning, surviving, laughing, and carving a path that would one day be uniquely mine.
Shadeblade was no longer just a mask. It was a persona, a forge, a spark, shaping me, sharpening me, guiding me toward something beyond survival. My sword style — crude, painful, unpolished — was beginning to burn, without a single spell revealing my identity.
And as we walked back, Bran muttered to Selia, "Do you think he'll ever stop tripping?"
Selia laughed, "Not until he's Tier‑3 like Korran. Or dies trying."
I glared beneath the mask, but a small grin tugged at me. Humor, chaos, and survival. It was exhausting. Terrifying. And incredibly fun.