Chapter 37: Bandit Camp (Part 3)
Standing motionless beside the lifeless form sprawled on the leaf-littered forest floor Nate observed his surroundings. The silence of the woods was a stark contrast to the events currently taking place, the air now thick with the coppery scent of spilled blood.
The fury within Nate simmered, a dangerous concoction of raw emotion that threatened to boil over. Somewhere, in the shadowed recesses of his mind, a sinister voice whispered for more. It urged him to drench his hands in the life essence of another, to feel the rhythmic surrender of a human heart. A chuckle, dark and unsettling, escaped Nate's lips, the sound mingling with the night's eerie quietude. Blood painted his skin, casting him in a macabre light that would have made lesser beings flee in terror.
Nate's emerald eyes, reflecting the moon's pale glow, scanned the encampment. With a thought, he willed himself invisible, his form blending seamlessly into the night. He moved with a predator's grace, each step measured and silent as death itself, toward the nearest tent. The flap lifted with barely a whisper, and he slipped inside.
The tent housed two slumbering bandits, their snores an unwitting lullaby to their imminent demise. They were oblivious to the danger that now stood over them—a specter of vengeance with a razor-edged promise clutched in his hand. The dagger was an extension of Nate's will, and with it, he severed the thin threads of their lives. One, then the other, fell victim to his merciless efficiency. Blood welled and flowed, painting the earth beneath them in shades of crimson and maroon, the metallic scent joining the chorus of death that rang in Nate's senses.
As the last gurgles of life fled from their bodies, a wicked elation surged through Nate, feeding the maelstrom of excitement within. His face twisted into a sinister mask, one that reveled in the destruction wrought by his hand. In this moment of triumph, there was no room for flirtatious smirks or brash retorts—only the fulfillment of a primal need that clawed at his soul.
Yet within the depths of his being, beneath the thrill of power and the roar of bloodlust, the faintest glimmer of self-awareness flickered warning him that this wasn't him.
Ignoring that faint thought Nate glided through the encampment, a shadow amongst the nocturnal silence. The flap of another tent yielded to his deft touch as he slipped inside, his movements a silent promise of impending doom. Four bandits lay scattered within, their snores an unintended mockery of the danger that now loomed like an executioner's blade. Without hesitation, Nate's dagger danced in the darkness, its cruel edge singing a lullaby that stilled their breaths forever.
The exhilaration of his grim task surged through him, the coldness in his veins a paradoxical fire that burned for more.
As he stepped out, ready to claim his next victims, a sudden force struck Nate squarely on the shoulder, hurling him to the ground. The world spun momentarily before snapping into focus, revealing the towering figure of the bandit leader. His roar shattered the quietude, summoning his cohorts with the promise of bloodshed.
"INTRUDER!" bellowed the fearsome leader, his eyes aflame with battle-lust.
Nate rolled aside just as the behemoth charged, a mass of muscle and rage barreling towards him. Scrambling to his feet, Nate dodged narrowly, the wind from the leader's missed strike brushing his face like a warning of mortality.
There was no time to catch his breath; four more bandits emerged from the shadows, their weapons glinting maliciously under the moon's watchful gaze. They came at him—a flurry of blades and malice. Nate ducked, weaved, and twisted away from each deadly arc, but it was clear he was being driven back, inch by desperate inch.
With a flicker of concentration, Nate summoned his illusion magic. Three spectral doubles sprang forth, their forms identical to his own. They darted about, sowing confusion among the assailants, who swung wildly at these phantoms conjured from the ether.
Seizing the momentary chaos, his hand traced an intricate pattern in the air. A fine mist of purple began to seep from his palm, spilling outward to envelop the bandits. It was not a killer's poison, but one meant to distort and bewilder. Shouts turned into slurred cries as the men staggered, their senses assaulted by hallucinations born from the new affinity he gained from Chloe.
All but one. The bandit leader, a hulking brute of a man, fought through the miasma. His constitution, bolstered by sheer will or perhaps some innate resistance, rendered him impervious to Nate's toxic gift. With a guttural cry, he lunged forth, slicing through both illusion and poison cloud alike, determined to crush the life from Nate himself.
The bandit leader's club swung through the air with a ferocity that would splinter bone and shred flesh, but Nate was no longer there. Evaporating into nothingness with his vanishing act, Nate reappeared behind the unsuspecting brute, his dagger poised for a phantom strike. Yet, it skittered harmlessly off chainmail hidden beneath the bandit's leather garb, the sound a mocking chime in the heated night.
Unfazed, the leader pivoted, counterattacking with a wide arc meant to decapitate Nate. The half-fae's emerald eyes, glowing with an inner fire, caught the glint of moonlight on the descending weapon. With reflexes honed by countless hours of training, he sidestepped, and though the strike missed its mark, the cold edge of Nate's blade found skin. A minuscule cut was all it took; the venom, a concoction of demonic potency, seeped into the leader's bloodstream.
A cruel smile curled upon Nate's lips as he watched the burly man stagger, his breathing laborious and strained. Each gasp was a symphony to Nate's ears, the song of impending demise. But the music lacked a crescendo, and his bloodlust demanded it. Muscles coiled like steel springs, he lunged forward, his fist driving into the leader's chest with preternatural strength. Flesh yielded, bone shattered, and a heart—still feverishly pumping—was wrenched from its cavity.
With the bandit leader collapsing in a heap, his lifeblood pooling beneath him, Nate stood, holding the still-beating heart. For a moment, time stilled, and then, with a savage squeeze, he crushed the vital organ, its remnants falling atop the crumpled body—a testament to the fury that had just been unleashed.
But the night's grim work remained unfinished. The bloodlust, now a living entity within his soul, propelled Nate toward the remaining bandits. Their screams tore through the silence as he descended upon them like a specter of vengeance. His dagger danced a deadly ballet, and each thrust and parry painted crimson arcs in the air. He reveled in their terror, the metallic scent of their blood filling his senses, baptizing him in the very essence of their mortality.
As the last bandit fell, a hush settled over the encampment. The screams echoed away into memory, leaving Nate enveloped in a profound emptiness. Standing amidst the carnage, his breaths coming in ragged pulls, he felt the weight of his actions pressing against him. Shoulder-length black hair, matted with gore, framed his face, and for a fleeting instant, the green of his eyes dimmed.
In the wake of the battle's adrenaline, the gravity of life taken by his own hand bore down on him. The thrill of power ebbed, leaving behind a hollow victory.
His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground, a hand clutching at his stomach as it churned violently. The taste of bile rose in his throat; acrid and caustic, it forced its way past his lips. He doubled over, retching onto the blood-soaked earth, his body convulsing with each heave. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the grime and gore that clung to his skin. His emerald eyes, once vibrant with the thrill of combat, now dulled under the shadow of horror for the carnage wrought by his own hand.
"Gods... what have I done?" he whispered through ragged breaths, the words barely audible, drowned out by the echo of his victims' final screams haunting the recesses of his mind.
A rustling sound alerted him to another's presence, and he swiped at his eyes, turning to face the newcomer with an expression torn between defiance and despair. It was Professor Jodi, her gaze sweeping over the scene before landing on Nathaniel with a mix of shock and concern.
"By the stars, Nate..." she murmured, taking a cautious step toward him. Her voice held the warmth of a mentor but wavered with the uncertainty of what she beheld.
"Everything... everything's not okay," Nate managed to choke out, his voice breaking, "I can't—"
"Shh," Professor Jodi interjected softly, kneeling beside him. "You're going to be fine. We'll sort this out." Her hand reached out, resting gently on his shoulder in a comforting gesture that felt alien amidst the chaos.
But comfort was a luxury they could ill afford. With a swift motion borne of necessity, Professor Jodi's fist swung up in a tight arc, connecting solidly with the side of Nate's head. The world spun, stars bursting across his vision as darkness clawed its way to the forefront of his consciousness.
"This is for your own good," were the last words he heard, laced with regret, before succumbing to the void that eagerly claimed him.
Gifts
-- Gift
received Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone