⟬ Ancient Wendigo, Gold-Rank Undead. ⟭ 

Hm. Tycon flourished his sword. The creature's appearance was disappointedly predictable. Compared to the beast's lesser kin, the Ancient was larger, stronger, and... would probably be faster, due to the rank difference. Its weakness lied within the fact that its attacks would be straightforward. 

Not wanting to waste any time, Tycon charged forth. He stepped to the side, dodging the creature's powerful fist smas.h.i.+ng the ground. He stabbed his blade deep into its forearm, and when the creature retracted its arm, he allowed its momentum to launch himself towards the creature's head. 

"⌈Legionbreaker.⌋" Tycon thrust his mansharpened sword into the creature's right eye, then launched a powerful slash at the side of its neck. The maddened Ancient slapped the wound with a clumsy, desiccated hand, but Tycon had already stylishly backflipped off... landing behind the creature's... missing feet.

Tycon was in the kneeling, staring at where the Wendigo's feet should have been. The creature was floating, bleeding from its ankles down as if they were eaten by ravenous beasts. 

His plan to sever the creature's tendons, forcing it to fall, was doomed to fail from the start. 

"⌈Taste the Demon Blade!!⌋"

The activation of a skill forced Tycon to move quickly. He somersaulted out of the way of the falling Ancient Wendigo, narrowly avoiding its crash and fall. Just to be safe, Tycon turned away and s.h.i.+elded his face beneath his cloak to avoid the ice flower shrapnel. 

The wendigo's b.l.o.o.d.y, antlered head fell in the distance, a short second after its body did. 

Someone else was here. 

And that someone cut the wendigo down with a demonic blade... Tycon peered through the powder, searching for its wielder. 

« System, inquiry: What cla.s.s utilizes the ⌈Taste the Demon Blade⌋ skill? »

⟬ System response: Samurai. ⟭ 

...No one in the Brazen Guard held such a cla.s.s. 

Tycon opened the flap of one of his combat pouches, removing and quietly quaffing a healing potion. He doubted he'd have the chance to use it, afterward.

A grey-skinned orc stood beside the corpse of the wendigo, swiping his long curved sword to his side to fling the blood off... then placing it in the crook of his elbow, wiping the blade clean with his sleeve. 

⟬ Gold-Rank Orcish Samurai. ⟭ 

The orc stood a full head over Tycon, as tall as Centurion Zenon, except thrice as thick with muscle. A decorative knot of hair was arranged atop its meaty head and thick tusks jutted out of its broad grimace. It wore layered brigandine armor, its color faded with time. 

Samurai was a rare cla.s.s originating from the Kogani Empire, an ancient culture with tens of thousands of years of history, predating even the Medusae. While that feasibly meant that the orc was well-versed in the arts of close combat, the art of war had come a long way since then. Any of the five nations in the Realm would prove superior to Kogani war strategies-- most of them drawing deeply and developing the latter. 

For such an orc to be such a high-ranked Samurai... Could he be tens of thousands of years old? No... If that were the case, the Dread Wraith would have been far more powerful than Adamantine-Rank. 

It was likely that the orc was from a Hidden Sect. 

Tycon stood and saluted with his sword, "My name is Tycondrius of guild Sol Invictus, savior of the White Scale Sect, guest elder of the Sea Wolf Sect, and friend of the Golden Crow Sect."

The orc's eyes widened and it bowed deeply, his deep voice like gargling gravel, "I am known as Garock Heartrender, warrior of the Screaming Silence...

"Forgive me, n.o.ble warrior," The orc flourished his blade, holding it up by the hilt near his head. "But I have nothing to say to a human of Tyrion."

"I'm not a human," Tycon responded automatically.

"Oh..." Garock's jaw twitched as he lowered his weapon. He let out a heavy sigh, "My soul and that of my companions have been imprisoned here for countless years... Each time we are called back to defend our tormentor, more hopeful heroes are doomed to join our ranks."

"That is very interesting, please tell me more," Tycon asked in a flat voice. He had recovered his crossbow. Though he had to forego his s.h.i.+eld to wield it, he doubted a Samurai from a Hidden Sect would be familiar with the weapon. 

The orc nodded, his eyes shut, "Savior and friend to the sects... I have... a difficult request to make."

Tycon pursed his lips to the side, loading his weapon using his reload tool, "Is it to... release your trapped spirit from the grasp of the Dread Wraith?"

"Wh...what?" The orc Samurai's eyes widened and his toothy jaw hung agape, "How did you know?"

It wasn't difficult.

Tycon's expression grew solemn, "All warriors wish to die with honor."

"Ah," Garock nodded. "It appears some things do not change over the years."

Tycon smirked, "I don't suppose you would consider closing your eyes and dying peacefully, without a fight?"

The Samurai shrugged, "I was planning on allowing my bloodline's base instincts to take over, attacking you with reckless abandon honed by decades of swordsmans.h.i.+p and martial training."

Empty night. This fight was not going to be pleasant for him. 

Tycon liked orcs a bit more than he liked elves. Orcish culture promoted honesty, valuing cunning in combat, rather than in wordplay. 

"Before we begin," Tycon's gaze drifted in thought, "I wish to ask you if--"

Tycon interrupted his speech by firing his crossbow from the hip, not taking the time to aim. If he'd wasted even a second, he'd lose the element of surprise. 

In a fight between Gold-Ranks, he'd take every advantage he could get. 

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