Mist clung to the roads as dawn broke over the countryside, soft light spilling across fields and forests alike. I moved alone, Voraciel sheathed on my back, cheap sword at my side. The villages I had claimed lay behind me, ordinary and unaware of the shadow that had passed among them. Observation remains paramount. Patience endures. Every movement, every routine, every flaw in human behavior is a thread to be exploited.
The whisper brushed faintly against my mind: "…kill." Patient. Alive. Waiting. Not a command. Not a demand. Observation first. Patience always.
Word of the missing mercenaries had traveled faster than expected. The neighboring towns had begun organizing a militia. Not ordinary villagers with predictable mistakes, but trained hunters with a singular focus: find the shadow, the unknown killer, and eliminate him. They would be my first coordinated opposition, a challenge beyond simple observation or small patrols.
I watched from a ridge outside the first village, scanning the movements of the militia below. They were three dozen strong, armed with swords, spears, and crude ranged weapons. Their formation was tight, disciplined. Their march was purposeful. Their confidence was high, but arrogance always accompanies ignorance. Even the sharpest swords can be cut by a sharper mind. Observation always precedes action.
Voraciel pulsed faintly against my back, responsive to intent. "…kill," it whispered softly, but I ignored it. Not yet. Patience first. Calculation must align with intent.
I studied their patterns carefully. They moved as one unit, sweeping the roads and small paths between villages, but each man was predictable in the subtle micro-movements of his body—head tilts, steps too long, grip adjustments. Observation paid dividends. Mistakes multiplied under pressure.
The villages remained unaware, ordinary, safe. For now. Merchants continued routines. Guards focused on the wrong streets. Children ran freely. Ordinary mistakes everywhere, waiting to be exploited.
Evening fell, stretching shadows across the fields. I positioned myself atop a small hill overlooking the militia's campsite. Torches flickered, shadows twisting unnaturally in the wind. Voraciel hummed faintly, alive, patient. The whisper pressed again: "…kill."
Not yet. Not without preparation. I could not rush this. Observation comes first. Patience always. Every detail mattered.
I noted the rotation of guards, the placement of the campfires, the way their horses shifted in their stalls, the patterns in which they ate and drank. Ordinary mistakes. Ordinary people. Predictable behavior. Observation always comes first.
Night deepened. Lanterns flickered, wind carried the scent of fire and sweat through the trees. I moved silently, weaving along shadows, testing the perimeter. Voraciel responded, warmth spreading through my arm as if alive. Bloodlust did not surge yet. Control is everything.
Suddenly, a guard shifted, eyes scanning too carefully. A minor ripple of awareness—but predictable. I stepped closer, silent, intent precise. Shadows bent subtly to my movements. The whisper returned, insistent: "…kill—Crimson Tide."
I hesitated. Not because of danger, but because of potential. This was the first time I faced a force large enough to require strategy beyond mere observation and subtle manipulation. The whisper grew impatient, but I remained still, calculating. Patience is sharper than any blade.
Hours passed as I observed, mapping patrols, noting weaknesses, calculating timing. A single gap in the perimeter appeared—small, insignificant to them, but critical to me. Voraciel pulsed faintly, approving. Bloodlust is awakening, but it must be controlled. Every kill, every strike, every technique must serve the larger purpose.
At midnight, I acted. A single patrol moved through the gap, unaware of the shadow observing them. "…kill—Crimson Tide."
Voraciel pulsed beneath my grip. Shadows shifted, guided by intent. The first man faltered, staggered slightly. His companions froze, hesitation cracking their rhythm. Controlled. Precise. Efficient. Bloodlust, refined.
By the time the last guard collapsed, unconscious, the perimeter was breached. The militia remained unaware. Observation had once again preceded action. Patience endured.
I infiltrated the camp silently, adjusting supply lines, moving critical weapons slightly out of reach, redirecting their patrols. Subtlety was key. Ordinary people remained unaware. Mistakes accumulated without notice, until a coordinated collapse would be inevitable.
From a nearby ridge, I surveyed the village and the militia below. Every supply crate, every guard rotation, every minor path was cataloged and ready for exploitation. Voraciel hummed faintly, alive, patient, responding to my intent. The whisper softened: "…wait." Not now. Not yet.
By dawn, the first coordinated opposition had been mapped, studied, and controlled. Mistakes had been cataloged. Shadows stretched over the villages, roads, and fields, guiding them toward my intent. Ordinary mistakes, predictable behavior, and bloodlust restrained by calculation. Observation is always cheaper than interference.
I returned to my room at the edge of the first village. Cheap sword at my side, Voraciel sheathed. Bread purchased. Coins counted. Routine maintained. Ordinary. Unremarkable. Invisible. Yet the thrill lingered. The whisper had acknowledged my presence, confirming Voraciel's approval. Alive. Patient. Watching.
The first true threat had been observed, contained, and cataloged. Villages are predictable. People are ordinary. Mistakes are everywhere. Shadows stretch across towns, guiding patterns toward my intent.
"…kill."
Not now. Not yet. Patience first. Observation always. Calculation. Intent.
The world sleeps, unaware. And I am just beginning.