Chapter 30 — The Contract of Teeth and Shadows
(Shadeblade POV)
The air smelled of iron and damp stone, thick with anticipation, the kind that made my bones ache beneath the boney mask. The crack along its left eye to cheek reminded me that misfortune didn't care about lesson plans or fundamentals—it merely existed, and it liked to watch.
"Alright," Mira whispered, her sharp eyes scanning the warehouse ahead, "contract's simple: clear the monster-infested supply corridor and deliver the goods. Neutral territory, minimal witnesses."
Minimal witnesses. Except, of course, for every whispering eye in Portscab, every corner hiding a shadow, every alley holding someone curious enough to watch a fight between mortals and monsters.
Selia perched on a beam above the warehouse entrance. "Minimal is my favorite number," she muttered, her dagger catching stray light. "Minimal drama, minimal screams… hopefully minimal deaths. But if you trip, Skeleton, make it spectacular."
Bran chuckled, cracking his knuckles. "Minimal drama, huh? I'll supply the drama."
I adjusted my grip on the sword. Step lightly. Fundamentals. Discipline. Tier‑2. Sword. Nothing else.
The warehouse doors groaned as Mira nudged them open. Inside, the smell of rot hit first, then the low growl—a vibration in the stone itself. My pulse spiked.
Three beasts emerged, each the size of a small wagon, limbs bent at unnatural angles, teeth like jagged shards of obsidian. Their eyes glowed dimly, hungry and aware. Selia's dagger flashed as she dropped from the beam, striking the closest monster's shoulder. It screeched, recoil sending it off-balance.
"Bran!" Mira called. "Front and center!"
Bran charged, shield forward, landing blows that staggered two of the creatures. Lysara stayed to the side, silent, her eyes cold, calculating openings. Korran moved methodically, reading their movements, pinpointing weaknesses, offering no advice—just observation.
And me? I stepped forward, sword raised, trying not to think about how easily one of these things could end me. One step. One swing. Slice. Pivot. Stumble. Recover. I felt my Tier‑2 muscles strain, the fundamentals Volrag drilled into me screaming for precision.
The first monster lunged. I sidestepped, using its momentum to knock it into a stack of crates. Sparks flew as the crate cracked, dust coating my mask. I barely caught my footing.
Selia laughed quietly. "You call that controlled? That was beautifully messy."
"Quiet," I muttered. "We're still alive. Focus."
The second monster charged at Bran. Shield slammed into its chest. He staggered it back, but barely. Its claws slashed through the air. I dove in, blade slicing across its forelimb, forcing it to shift. The momentum carried me into a stumble, scraping my knee against the floor—but the monster lost balance, crashing into the wall.
Korran's voice cut through the chaos. "Observe patterns, not panic. Your missteps are teaching you more than perfect swings ever could."
I groaned beneath the mask. Missteps were my specialty.
Mira called out, pointing at the third beast. "Flank! Selia, left! Shadeblade, right!"
I pivoted, dodged, and sliced, sending the creature staggering. Selia's blade danced, cutting across its neck. Bran drove it backward with a shield push. Lysara circled silently, dagger ready, striking when an opening appeared. Korran adjusted positions without a word, just presence, like a chessboard in motion.
For a moment, the monsters hesitated. Coordination among allies—Tier‑3, disciplined, precise—was a wall even these beasts couldn't break. And I? I survived by fundamentals, sword swinging, stumbling strategically, learning rhythm from chaos itself.
A fourth, smaller creature emerged from the shadows. It lunged at my ankle. I tripped—perfectly. The stumble, accidental or not, caused the monster to topple into a crate that collapsed on it with a deafening crash. I shot Selia a look from beneath the mask. "Comedy tier achieved?"
She smirked. "Tier‑2 hilarity, yes. Now back to survival."
Time stretched. Every moment required calculation. Every step could kill or be killed. Sweat dripped beneath the mask. My arms ached. But fundamentals guided me, instincts sharpened by stumbles and Volrag's teaching: sword swings with anticipation, weight shifted before impact, recovery built into every movement.
The monsters faltered under combined Tier‑3 precision. Bran's brute force drove them back. Selia's acrobatics kept their attention divided. Mira's directions kept allies coordinated. Lysara's silent strikes removed openings. Korran's calculations kept the team from overextending. And I? I tripped, pivoted, slashed, stumbled again, each misstep bending chaos into order.
Finally, the last monster fell, crashing into debris with a sound that echoed through the warehouse like a bell. Silence returned, broken only by heavy breathing. Dust hung in the air. Shadows lingered.
I leaned on my sword. My mask was streaked with grime, crack more pronounced. My legs screamed. And yet, beneath it all, a sense of triumph: Tier‑2 Disciplined. Survived. Sword-only. No magic. And the crew… alive, coordinated, watching each other with trust reinforced in real time.
Mira exhaled, tense but satisfied. "Goods are secure. Mission success."
Bran grinned, still brimming with energy. "And we didn't even need a fireball. Impressive, Skeleton."
Selia hopped down, wiping her blade. "Controlled chaos. I like it. You're getting better at… surviving with style."
Lysara said nothing. She merely nodded, eyes scanning, silently approving.
Korran finally spoke, his voice low and cold, yet carrying faint respect. "Tier‑2 is not weak. Today proved fundamentals can outlast unpredictability. Remember this feeling."
I allowed a small, brief smile beneath the mask. Survival had a taste sweeter than victory, heavier than fear, and sharp as steel.
And somewhere in the shadows, I knew the city, the guilds, the watchers, and even the hooded man had seen enough to count me. Not as a joke. Not as a menace. But as a swordsman capable of bending chaos—Tier‑2, Disciplined, and still very human.
The monsters were gone. The goods were secured. But the lessons lingered like a shadow in my chest. Step lightly. Trust allies. Missteps are weapons. Humor is survival. Fundamentals endure.
And above all: Portscab never truly sleeps.