Ethan glared at the little man standing amidst the burning forest below his mountain ruin.

  “This is the part where you introduce yourself to me as the ultimate badass or something?” he shouted down.

  The human – for he was indeed a human – removed his hood to reveal a pair of silver-grey eyes set in a dark face. It was the kind of pale, gormless face that spoke of one who often walked in the night.

  A Greycloak…possibly even the last one.

  “Hardly!” he shouted up. “Normally, I never converse with my prey. But you aren’t just any prey, are you, Hawky?"

  Ethan narrowed his eyes at the long, Onixian bow in the cloaked warrior’s hand. He Appraised the young man and his weapon while he had the chance.

  …now, that’s interesting.

  “You ain’t the first bird I’ve hunted,” the rogue continued, craning his neck to the side, never once taking his beady, pinprick eyes off Ethan’s face in the distance. “Thing is, among my people its customary for the hunter to offer his greatest prey the sight of his face. As a token of mutual respect.”

  Ethan balked. “You understand that I wiped out all of your order? Including the Council of Cardinals and your Commander?”

  The cloaked man nodded nonchalantly.

  “Never much cared for ‘em, to be honest.”

  “And yet here you are doing their dirty work.”

  “And yet, here I am,” the man agreed. “They sent me here ta kill this 'Architect' fella months ago. But – try as I might – I never could get into the old bugger’s lair. But I don’t go home empty handed. I knew you’d come. I knew ol’ Remmy had a reason to fear the old craftsman. Sure, he wouldn’t tell me. But I knew.”

  Ethan knew, too. Remiel had feared him making contact with the Architect more than anything else. It was the most credible threat to Argwyll’s stability in the old priest’s mind.

  Not that it mattered anyway.

  “You’ll forgive me for not offering you an interesting hunt,” Ethan sighed. “You see, I’m pretty tired, and pretty drunk. So I’m going to have to kill you quickly.”

  The young Grey smiled. He twirled his bow in his hand and took a gracious duelist’s bow, still keeping his eyes trained on Ethan’s face.

  “I gotta tell ya – it took a lot of patience to get you alone. Even managed to slip some Slumber Powder inta yer little Hybrid friends drinks. But – don’t worry. They’ll be up in about 8 hours or so. It’s not them I’m after.”

  Ethan ground his teeth. The little devil had thought of everything. That was why everyone had succumbed to sleep so quickly.

  A hunter with a sense of honor, Ethan considered. He could’ve used Tara, Klax, and Fauna as hostages to at least give him a chance. The fact he didn’t means that he’s confident in his abilities.

  Or he’s just batshit insane.

  Ethan smirked. Fine with me either way.

  “The name’s Mathias Senkar Garm,” the Greycloak said with a roguish grin. “Chief Assassin of the Office of the Allfather’s Holy Inquisition. Solver of problems. Collector of fine prizes.”

  Sys stirred as the little rogue rose to his full height and licked his lips.

  Ethan, he whispered. I smell something wrong on this guy.

  “And you, Archon – your head’s gonna make a real nice trophy.”

  Ethan – above!

  [Shield of Aegis] was already up and running before the invisible stream of arrows crested the top of his pointy-hat head. His crimson eye looked up to see a hail of arrows falling from the heavens as though the rogue below had split apart a black cloud and forced his projectiles through it.

  Each one of them was laden with some kind of status-effect inducing ailment – poison, laceration, petrification, fire, ice, lightning – but none of them could break through his defense. And [Incorruptible] meant he was safe even if they did.

  So when he returned his gaze to his errant little huntsman, he wasn’t too perturbed to see him taking aim.

  You thought that would distract me?

  The hunter’s strike came – a single arrow that Ethan redirected right back at him with a [Wing-Buffet] combined with [Arms of the Vigil]. He sent a flurry of Spirit Blades down to pierce the ground and impale the rogue.

  But it seemed his foe had other plans.

  He watched the white-blue blades of energy go right through the form of the archer and couldn’t help but grin as he spread his arms wide.

  “Can’t hurt what you can’t touch, Hawky!”

  The ghostly form of the assassin took aim again.

  Ethereal Form, Ethan thought. Good timing, little man.

  The hunter’s next arrows came – another flurry of incendiary tipped projectiles that Ethan’s [Winterbreath] nullified in a split second – turning the arrow storm into a block of ice that he then pushed towards the little rogue. Garm sidestepped, got his bearings, and then looked up to see Ethan’s eyes aglow with raw divine power.

  Two beams of [Azure-Arc] sliced towards the hunter and he activated a [Sonic Skitter] to take him as far from the beams as he could.

  Go on then, Ethan chuckled to himself. Let’s see how far you can run.

  From his vantage point, Ethan kept his eyes and his beams of light trained on the little man, watching for signs of return fire, and then, when Garm reached the very base of his mountain ruin, he brought both his blades down in a combined strike:

  [Twilight Edge]

  [Angel Arm]

  A thread of light wrapped in violet night raced down the mountainside, where the rogue was catching his breath.

  Got you.

  He felt the power of his attack racing through his arms – causing every sapphire vein to bulge with energy.

  And then – he felt it.

  Movement to his left.

  [Repulsor Shield] flashed on immediately while [Shield of Aegis] was on cooldown. The Grade S effect could repel any attack.

  SMASH

  Except – it didn’t.

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  A single dark arrow pierced clean through the chromatic veil of the hexagonal shield wall.

  Ethan watched it move in slow motion, canceling his beam attacks and bringing up his hand to grab the arrow just before it hit him right between his eyes.

  He let out a gasp as he succeeded, thankful for his foresight in upgrading his Dexterity to ridiculous levels. That, and only that, allowed him the speed and reflexes he needed to intercept the projectile.

  How could he break through complete damage nullification?

  He blinked as he felt pain assail his body. And yet, checking his HP, he saw he’d suffered no damage at all.

  Then something else happened. The numbers of his Status Window began to flicker. He began to see the onyx letters of his name and main Attributes stutter and give a blunt -ERROR- sign.

  …Sys?

  No response was forthcoming.

  Sys!

  From below then came a cry of joy – the hunter’s statement of a good strike.

  And, looking at the arrow in his palm, Ethan began to understand.

  …It wasn’t my HP he was trying to damage.

  His whole body felt sluggish as he looked at the thing he held in his hand. The barbs of the arrow had scraped the inside of his palm just enough to deliver their payload. He stared in horror as a bubbling black tar dripped from the barbed ends of the projectile and seeped into his skin like an infection. Like a parasite.

  And as his vision began to cloud, he managed an [Appraisal] before the ability left him entirely:

  Soulrend Shaft (Onixia)

  DMG: 0

  Effect: System [SILENCE] for 5 hours.

  User Restriction: INQUISITOR MATHIAS GARM

  Cursing himself, mind flailing in disbelief, Ethan looked down at the smirking little rogue below him.

  “Little beauty, ain’t she?” Garm said. “In all of Argwyll, I’m the only Assassin that ever crafted one of these babies. Used ta wonder why Kaedmon gave me the Skill. Used ta wonder why the item had a restriction to me and me alone. But now – I think I know.”

  As Ethan felt the weight of his Host begin to drag him back down to the earth, he saw the flash of deadly light overcome the hunter’s eyes.

  “I think he wanted me to kill ya.”

  Ethan kept his cool, but he was experiencing something entirely new in his head right now: absence. Silence.

  The silence was the worst part.

  No numbers. No glow of stats at the corner of his eyes. No System voice. Just the ache of muscle and the burn of blood where it ran down his side.

  Seems even Gods can bleed, he thought as he regarded the silver rivers flowing down his palm.

  Somewhere in the back of his consciousness, Sys must have been screaming at him – if he was even still technically ‘awake’. His Host’s bulk felt heavy. It was like he was wearing a suit of bulky armor.

  But he still had his wings. He still had his swords, and his HP. And if that was all the world wanted to give him, then that was all he needed.

  Beneath the broken mountains, Garm waited. A lone figure, black against the mist. Bow in hand, head tilted in casual amusement. As if Ethan wasn’t a god in flesh but a stag in the woods, just waiting for the arrow.

  “Now, let’s see just how well you fight when your wings are clipped, Archon.”

  The first shot came without ceremony.

  Ethan swerved hard right, feathers ripping from his wings as the arrow tore past. Another followed it, and another still. They came quick, faster than a man should be able to draw, yet Garm loosed them with a predator’s calm, his bow bending and snapping back like it was alive.

  The Greycloak bolted up to the top of the mountain in the next second, his [Sonic Skitter] clearing the distance between him and Ethan and giving him the chance to launch a point-blank shot right in Ethan’s face.

  The fourth arrow struck home. It buried in Ethan’s calf with a crack of bone and a jolt of pain that made him hiss between clenched teeth. His wingbeat faltered for a moment, almost sending him tumbling into the gorge below. He righted himself, wrenched the shaft free, and flung it away. Blood trailed in the air.

  No healing this time. No miraculous stitch of light. The wound stayed.

  A laugh came from his left. Another from above. Then one behind him.

  Ethan twisted in the air, swords ready, but what he saw made him pause.

  Three Garms. Standing on three different peaks, each with bow raised. All solid, all grinning, all waiting for him to flinch.

  Illusions. Mirror-doubles. They even carried shadows, even flicked their heads in time with the wind.

  The arrows came as one.

  Ethan drove himself into the volley, blades a blur. Two shafts split, their pieces sparking against his steel. The third grazed his ribs and went deep, tearing a hot line that stole his breath. He pressed the flat of his flaming sword against the wound, cauterizing it with a hiss.

  Pain seared through him. He welcomed it.

  Then Garm was gone again. The three illusions blurred, rippling away into mist, and from somewhere unseen came another arrow, whistling through fog.

  Ethan barely raised his sword in time. The impact was enough to rattle the bones in his wrist and knock him back a dozen feet through the air. His shoulder ached. His arm screamed.

  No god-shield to blunt the force. Just his body.

  “Better,” came the assassin’s voice, taunting from nowhere. “That’s better.”

  Ethan growled and dove, wings carving the air, straight toward a shadow moving across a narrow shelf of stone. His right blade swung for the kill, fire trailing behind—

  It cut through smoke.

  Ethereal. The man had stepped half out of the world, letting steel pass through as if he were nothing at all.

  And in the space of that missed strike, another arrow kissed Ethan’s side and buried in his belly.

  The force of it doubled him over. He staggered mid-air, wings flaring wide to keep from plummeting. His stomach burned. Wet heat spilled across his torso.

  He tore the shaft free with a roar. His vision blurred for a second. His body felt… smaller.

  No numbers told him how much he’d lost. But he knew. His life was running away in red ribbons across the mountain air.

  Still, he smiled.

  It had been too long since he’d fought someone like this. Too long since he had to think.

  With apologies, Sys, he thought. I’m gonna have to enjoy this without you.

  And with a roar upon his angel lips, he took to the skies.

  Ethan soared, swooping low to force Garm off balance. Garm answered with a volley so precise it cut the mist into ribbons. Ethan blocked some, dodged others, took more than he liked. Every cut mattered now. Every shaft left a scar.

  He landed on a jagged spire, both blades braced. Blood dripped from his thigh, from his shoulder, from his side. His breathing came harsh, ragged.

  Across from him, Garm stood easy on another peak, bow loose in his hand. His body was lean, twitching with predator’s energy. And around him flickered more copies—half a dozen this time, all mirroring him in perfect stillness.

  Ethan’s eyes darted from one to the other, searching for the truth. He knew one was real. He knew the rest would vanish like mist. But the hunter’s trick was good. Too good.

  The doubles raised their bows as one.

  Arrows screamed.

  Ethan moved. He became violence—blades flashing, wings beating, body twisting through the storm. He cut arrows apart, swatted shafts wide, let others cut into him where he had no choice. His arm burned. His neck split open shallow, blood slicking his collar. Another arrow took his shoulder again, deep this time.

  By the time the volley ended, he was bleeding from half a dozen wounds.

  And still standing.

  He raised both swords and pointed them across the gulf.

  “Is this it?” he bellowed. “All your tricks, and you still can’t put me down?”

  For a moment the illusions held. Then one of them twitched. Just slightly. A blink.

  Ethan dove.

  He crashed onto the shelf, his flaming blade hammering down. Stone cracked under the blow. Garm blurred back, already loosing another arrow at point blank. Ethan batted it aside, swung his second blade, caught nothing but air—

  Because Garm had vanished again, slipping out of the world.

  The counterstrike was brutal. An arrow into Ethan’s forearm, nearly dropping his sword. Another into the wing joint, feathers shredding. A third into his thigh. Each hit was fast, precise, surgical.

  Ethan dropped to one knee, gasping. Silver blood poured across stone. His body was screaming.

  For the first time in a long time, he was losing ground.

  And he laughed.

  The sound echoed through the shattered valleys. A laugh raw and mad, torn from a throat that should have been choking on blood.

  He felt his adrenaline coursing. Felt the threat of death hanging over him just like he used to in the old days – back when dungeon delving and Host-hopping was all he ever had to care about.

  “You’re good,” he called, staggering to his feet. “Gods damn it—you’re good.”

  He staggered up and licked his lips, curving both his swords in his hands.

  And the fight dragged on.

  They tore each other across the mountain range. Peaks crumbled under Ethan’s weight when he crashed into them. Arrows lit the air like storms. Ethan’s blades struck sparks from stone, steel clashing against nothing when Garm turned ethereal.

  Every time Ethan thought he had him, he cut smoke. Every time he tried to chase, another arrow buried in his flesh.

  His HP—whatever was left—was bleeding out of him with every movement. His wings faltered. His arms shook. His vision swam.

  But his grin only widened.

  This wasn’t the calm control of an Archon meting out judgement. This wasn’t the cold precision of an angel dealing death.

  This was the savage joy of a fighter finally finding a worthy foe.

  He’d missed this. And he wasn’t going to apologize for it.

  Then, at last, the assassin revealed himself.

  The illusions fell away, leaving one man standing on the apex of a broken arch, bow raised. His silver eyes glowed in the fog, his mouth a crooked smile.

  Ethan could tell he was out of breath. Even in a moment of triumph like this, the Greycloak hunter seemed barely able to stand upright and keep his vision trained on his fallen prey.

  He regained his composure enough to nock a final arrow unlike the rest. Its head was a cruel cross of Onixian steel, its shaft humming with malice.

  The string drew taut.

  “This is it, Hawky,” Garm called. “It’s been a good, respectful chase. I’ve enjoyed the game. But sooner or later, the game always ends.”

  He tightened his bowstring.

  “Lay still for me, will ya?”

  Ethan stood in the air before him, wings torn, body leaking blood from a dozen holes. Both swords hung at his sides, still burning, still ready. His chest heaved with the weight of exhaustion and blood loss.

  And yet he smiled. A calm, terrible smile, four eyes burning in the mist.

  “This battle,” he said, voice low, certain. “…is over.”