He had been required to practice until he could best each of these men regularly. At times, he fought multiple strikers, and he was successful most of the time, although he did at times take injuries. None of those previous fights were to the death, though. As he gained Skills, the men were ordered not to pull their strikes. If they could score an injury or even kill him, then they should. Rezkin had never tried to kill any of these men, though. It turned out to be less difficult than he thought it would be.

Once Rezkin’s full Skills were unleashed, he seemed unstoppable. He no longer had to worry about accidentally killing one of his training partners. Still, it was not his normal style in training to actually land a mortal blow to any of these men. Blades sliced through the air with deafening clashes. Rezkin met each strike and slash when necessary and dodged others. One opponent sliced high, while another struck low. When one would attempt to back away to gain room for a ranged attack, Rezkin would pull him back into the fray or dance his partners around so they stayed between him and the third assailant at all times.

Like maneuvering playing pieces on the Queen’s Gambit board, Rezkin finally arranged his opponents exactly where he wanted them. With encouragement from his own blows, each one struck at him in just the right way. In one quick motion he spun, lashing both blades outward, and two heads toppled to the ground followed by their bodies, which crashed into the third from either side. Before he could recover, Rezkin ran him through.

As Striker Adona fell to his knees, he looked up into Rezkin’s pale blue eyes. His voice was strangled and weak, but his words were clear. “Long live the king.” His lips curled into an ironic smile, and he laughed, which was cut short when a bubble of blood slithered out of his throat. “May he forever dwell in this darkness he has unleashed.” Adona pitched forward and breathed no more.

Darkness? What darkness? And what has the king to do with this?

Rezkin spun around seeking and searching, high and low. Something was wrong. One was missing. He had kept track of his opponents at all times, but one had managed to disappear while he was battling the others—Striker Farson. He was nowhere to be seen. Since Farson had apparently run away, Rezkin doubted the man would come back to face him in the open now that his comrades were dead. Rezkin hoped the striker was not secreted away somewhere waiting to take a shot at him from afar.