Chapter 5 #2
Four Superior Offensives against little old me.
Four. Each wielding a fucking Skindo—a weapon designed by someone who clearly thought knives weren’t quite dangerous enough.
Five blades. Five times the slicing, stabbing, and general maiming potential.
In other words, an absolute nightmare in the wrong hands.
And right now, those wrong hands were aimed directly at me.
Without hesitation, Cedric lunged at me with a vicious downward slash. I twisted to meet the attack, my blade clashing with his, the impact reverberating through my arms. The force of it nearly sent me to my knees, but I gritted my teeth and pushed back, forcing his weapon to the side.
Anna moved in at the same time with a sweeping horizontal cut, aiming to catch me off balance.
I managed to sidestep, my weapon intercepting hers with a jarring clang.
The force sent a tremor up my arm, but there was no time to adjust—she was already twisting her Skindo, pivoting to follow up with a backhanded strike aimed for my ribs.
I dropped low, dodging the deadly arc, and countered with a vicious thrust toward her exposed side.
She leaped back, a thin strand of hair slicing free from the near miss.
Ron and Liam weren’t far behind. Ron’s Skindo flashed through the air, targeting my midsection with deadly precision, while Liam pressed his attack with rapid, stabbing motions.
I ducked and rolled, my boots scraping against the ground as I twisted to parry their relentless strikes.
Ron came at me again, his weapon cutting through the air in a high, arching swing.
I blocked it at the last second, the force jarring my wrists, but it was Liam I should have been watching.
A flicker of movement in my periphery. Too late.
Pain exploded through my side as Liam’s Skindo found an opening.
The blade sliced across my ribs with searing precision, white-hot and merciless.
It was as if a fiery snake had wrapped itself around my torso, sinking its fangs deep into my flesh.
The force of the hit sent me stumbling back, my balance tipping dangerously.
Ron seized the opening. His Skindo shot forward in a brutal thrust, and I twisted right in time, the edge skimming my arm instead of spearing through my shoulder. My vision blurred as another wave of pain crashed through me, but I forced my body to move.
I slammed my foot into the ground and pivoted quickly, bringing my Skindo up in a wild, sweeping arc which forced Liam and Ron to retreat.
Anna darted in, aiming for my thigh this time, and I managed to parry the strike, my blade sliding against hers in a desperate clash.
Cedric was already behind me, his weapon whistling toward my exposed back.
Instinct roared through me. I dropped low at the last second, sensing the air shift as his Skindo cut inches above my head. Before I could rise, Liam surged forward again, his next strike coming fast—too fast. Hitting the same fucking spot he had before. How the hell…
I staggered, a sharp gasp tearing from my throat as the edges of my vision darkened. Blood—warm, slick—seeped between my fingers as I pressed a shaky hand to my side. Shit.
I pulled my hand away and looked down. The wound was deep, the edges already splitting, raw and gaping, the dark red pooling fast. My uniform clung to the injury, the fabric sticking uncomfortably to my skin. Fuck me, this is not good.
I was losing blood. A lot. And fast.
AJ glanced over, his gaze flickering briefly to my injury before shrugging dismissively. “Find a Healer if you need one,” he said, waving it off as if my wound was no more than a minor inconvenience.
What. The. Fuck. My jaw dropped at his nonchalance. I was starting to bleed out here!
I scanned the faces around me, my vision blurring with desperation as I pressed harder on the wound, warm blood pooling beneath my fingers.
I wanted to ask for help, but my throat closed around the words.
The others didn’t even flinch, their focus locked elsewhere—on their weapons, on anything but me.
My knees buckled, a shudder running through my body.
Someone whispered nearby, followed by a cruel chuckle—harsh, slicing deeper than the wound itself. My cheeks burned, not only from the pain but from the cold, gut-punch realization they didn’t care.
They didn’t fucking care.
Not one of them. I’d been fighting alongside them for weeks, and I was still nothing more than an outsider. A nuisance. A problem to be dealt with, not a person to be counted on.
Fuck. Them.
They wouldn’t see me falter. Wouldn’t see me bleed. Wouldn’t get the satisfaction of watching me break.
Acting classes. Lawyer training. Years of poker nights spent bluffing my way through impossible hands—whatever it took, I reached for it now, forcing every ounce of strength into my expression. Untouchable. Unshakable. Sealing my face behind an impenetrable mask of ice.
My legs wobbled as I forced myself toward the door, each step agony.
Pain tore through me with every movement, sharp and relentless, the kind which made my stomach churn.
My breath came in short, ragged gasps as I stumbled into the hallway.
The walls were closing in, the flickering lights overhead swimming before my eyes.
I leaned against the wall, and gripped the cool stone with my free hand, as if it could anchor me.
I bit down hard on my lip, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth as I tried not to cry out.
My clothes clung to me, now soaked through with blood, the sticky warmth spreading farther with every passing second.
It was everywhere—on my hands, on the floor, staining everything it touched.
I glanced down, and a wave of nausea hit me.
The wound wasn’t just deep; it was gaping, raw.
One that could kill you if you didn’t act fast.
Shit. I needed help. Now.
My chest started to heave as panic clawed its way through me. My hands shook uncontrollably, and my thoughts spun out of control. I couldn’t breathe—I was suffocating in my own fear. My vision blurred, dark spots dancing in the corners of my view as the blood loss hit me harder.
“Move,” I whispered to myself, choking on the word. My legs barely responded, my weight dragging me down as I slid along the wall. I pressed my hand harder against the wound, a feeble attempt to stop the bleeding. It hurt so much—so much I thought I might pass out.
I pressed harder, searching desperately for a flicker of energy, a spark of hope. My breaths came in shuddering gasps, my body trembling as I clung to the wall. “Please,” I whispered, though there was no one left to hear me, but then—
A warmth, faint but growing, began to spread beneath my hand.
What the…
A soft, golden glow pulsed from my palm, growing stronger as I concentrated, my heart racing in disbelief.
The warmth spread through my body, soothing the edges of the pain, and I could see the wound slowly starting to close.
The gash, raw and open a second ago, began knitting together, the blood flow ebbing until it was nothing but a trickle.
I blinked, staring down at my side in shock as the wound continued to heal, the pain fading into an almost surreal numbness. Within moments, the deep, searing cut was nothing more than a faint scar, only a reminder of how close I’d come to death.
Pulling my hand away, my breath caught in my throat as relief and disbelief crashed over me. What just happened? How had I…healed myself?
Staring in stunned silence at the now-healed skin of my side, I slowly started to realize I was not in danger anymore.
The transformation was unreal, as if my body no longer belonged to me.
Moments ago, I’d been bleeding out, the pain unbearable, and now—smooth, unbroken flesh.
My breaths came uneven, and my heart hammered like it wanted to escape my chest.
Holy fuck. I had healed myself.
Impossible.
Before I could entirely grasp this turn of events, a new kind of panic surged through me, cold and electric, rooting me in place.
What the hell did this mean?
How did this even happen?
My mind spun, fragments of thought colliding in chaos. Did anyone see? Was someone there, watching as I performed the impossible?
Eyes wide with dread, I scanned the hallway, searching every shadow, every corner.
My ears strained for the faintest sound—a creak, a whisper, footsteps closing in.
Nothing. The silence was there, but it didn’t calm me.
My body sagged against the wall, trembling as adrenaline burned through my veins, leaving me hollow and shaking.
I couldn’t let anyone know. Not after what I’d endured with my untraceable translation. Memories of Coastal slammed into me, sudden and unforgiving. NO. I would not be another lab rat. Not again.
I would get answers first, which I had no idea how to get. I only had the undeniable truth of what had happened.
And no choice but to hide it.
I was in hell.
Pacing my dorm again, I was going crazy about James. Going crazy about my new powers. About me almost dying this afternoon. About me healing myself.
With no one to talk to about any of it.
I’d tried nexing James three times. Zero response. Classic. The silence only fueled my frustration—and my nerves.
And I missed him. So fucking much.
Which is why, in a moment of utter desperation, I decided to move to James’s loft, disregarding any notion of his privacy, hoping being surrounded by his familiar scent might soothe me at least a little.
If it didn’t work, I figured his impressive collection of Scotch would be a decent backup.
With his ring snug around my finger—only to ensure I wouldn’t trip any protections warding his dorm—I portaled straight into his kitchen, snagging a bottle on my way to his bedroom.
And there I was, sprawled across his bed like a starfish with a hernia, burying my face in his sheets. They still smelled faintly of him, and I found myself sniffing them like some lovesick junkie.
The Scotch quickly worked its own magic, dulling the panic enough I could almost pretend everything was fine. Almost. My eyelids grew heavier with every sip until, at some point, I passed out mid-spiral into self-pity. A true picture of dignity.
But I couldn’t find it in myself to care.
It was around three a.m. when a sudden loud noise jolted me awake.
My heart pounded in my chest as I shot upright, disoriented and still groggy from the Scotch.
For a split second, I couldn’t remember where I was.
Then it hit me—I was in James’s loft, surrounded by the faint scent of him mixed with the lovely tang of spilled alcohol.
I strained to listen, every nerve on edge. The sound echoed again, something heavy being knocked over. My pulse quickened as I scanned the room, unsure of what—or who—had caused the rumble.
The noise was coming from the living room. I moved quietly toward the door, heart hammering in my chest. I reached for the handle, my fingers trembled, and I slowly pushed it open, enough to peek through the crack.
There, standing in the middle of the room, was a guy I didn’t recognize.
He was blond, with strikingly handsome features, but completely covered in blood and dirt.
It was almost surreal—he looked like some tragic hero straight out of a battlefield.
As I held my breath, trying to make sense of what I was seeing, I suddenly heard James's voice.
“Thank you for helping me bring him here,” he said, his tone low and serious. “You should go see a Healer. And go see our resident hotelier after, he’ll have a room ready for you.”
The blond guy nodded, gave James a tired look, and then portaled out, leaving nothing but the smell of sweat and iron behind him.
I pushed the door open further, stepping into the room with trepidation. My breath caught in my throat as my gaze fell on James.
He was just standing there, blood and dirt streaking his face and clothes, but it wasn’t just the physical damage that stunned me—it was the look in his eyes.
Lost. Hollow. Like he was still in the middle of a battlefield no one else could see.
His shoulders sagged under the invisible weight, his hands hanging limp at his sides, as if he didn’t know what to do with them anymore.
“James?” I said softly.
He looked up slowly, almost dazed, as if he hadn’t realized I was even there. His eyes met mine, wide and wet, full of something unspoken. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t move, like a man unsure if he was still allowed to fall apart.
So I walked to him.
My steps were slow, careful, but steady.
And when I reached him, I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him in.
For a second, he didn’t react—still frozen, still lost. Then, all at once, he melted into me.
His arms wrapped around my waist, clutching me like I was the only solid thing left in a world that had collapsed in on itself.
He held me tight. Like he needed to feel someone still breathing.
I glanced past him at the couch, and my stomach knotted at the sight of the man lying there—pale, still, and heartbreakingly familiar. I hadn’t known him long, but I’d come to respect him more than most. And now, just like that, he was gone.
As if James’s grief had found its way into my own heart, a sudden relentless lump formed in my throat.
I closed my lids, fighting back tears, wishing for something—anything—to ease the overwhelming sorrow.
If only I had the power to undo this, to change what had happened.
The thought was wild, desperate, but it wouldn’t let go.
I wished for the power to bring people back from the dead.
To bring him back.
Maurice.