The Grey Ghost: Book Two of the Archaic Ring Series

by Reed R. Stevens

  A bulky man spoke up, his face hidden beneath a caged red helmet. “Even a fool’s child knows what you lot do to the people you encounter. We’re merely cultivation resources in your eyes!”

  Another mercenary stepped forth and pleaded with the first speaker. “Captain, you know who he’s talking about. Why not hand them over? It can’t hurt our chances of getting out of here alive.”

  “Did you grow up in a cave?” their leader spat. “Do you really think that they’re not planning to refine us?”

  “They?”

  Brecht watched on silently as the captain called out to the frightened people around him. “Everyone, listen up! Most of you aren’t aware of it, but we’ve just been surrounded by at least fifty disciples of the Bloodhand Sect, and it seems that about half of them are from their inner court. If they’re close enough for me to detect them then that means they aren’t trying to hide from us. I’m sure you understand what I’m getting at!”

  All of the warriors and many of the travellers had already resolved to die. Brecht could see it in their eyes, as the mercenaries and a number of armed travellers silently brandished their weapons. He couldn’t help but feel a tinge of admiration for the people of this land, for they were much more headstrong than those from the surrounding kingdoms, perhaps because they had never experienced an encounter with his sect before. It was easier to be brave in front of an enemy that only existed in stories.

  The man wearing the red helmet raised a large battle axe into the air. “All non-combatants flee to the south!” He looked to a nearby mercenary, a thin man at the fourth level of the Profound Entry stage. Greasy black tangles hung limply from beneath the man’s scratched up helmet. “Garun, take your boys and cover their escape. There are only six disciples to the south of the camp. Move, now!”

  Twenty mercenaries broke off from the rest and hurriedly retreated to the south side of the camp, only a dozen paces away from the older boy and girl that Brecht had come to kill. The armoured men pulled two wagons apart and opened up a path for the more frightened travellers to sprint through as they faded into the dark fields beyond. The detachment hurried past those that had immediately chosen to flee, and an eerie chorus of screams pierced through the night as the battle began out of sight.

  “What are you waiting for?” the man with the red helmet yelled toward the mass of frightened civilians that had yet to retreat from behind him and his men. “Go!”

  “Our belongings…” one man said meekly, but he was quickly pulled away by his teary-eyed wife.

  It was at that moment that everyone else at the centre of the camp began to flee, save for the mercenaries, who eyed Brecht with grave expressions on their faces as if he were an ancient devil that had just crawled out from a crack in the earth. Still, they didn’t back down as he began taking slow steps in their direction.

  This group didn’t entertain him in the way he’d grown accustomed to in his younger days, back when he’d travelled the southern kingdoms as an outer court disciple. Parents turning on children, lovers betraying one another in their final moments, siblings fighting to the death; he’d seen people do some ridiculous things in order to survive. Yet those in front of him had barely considered handing over two strangers. Was it because they were kind and benevolent people? No, the actions of the sect had become too predictable. If his victims knew that they would be killed either way, why would they listen to his demands and decrease their fighting strength?

  He glared at the mercenary leader. You’ll be the first to go, and then I’ll take care of the boy and that girl. His grandfather would prefer if he captured them alive, but the peculiar densities of their auras were too alluring to pass up on. Those with unique auras made for excellent cultivation resources.

  The majority of his men had yet to take action and were currently awaiting his ‘signal.’ It had only been half a minute since the Verdurian’s had begun to flee and he didn’t want to risk his targets escaping in the confusion, so it was about time he closed the curtains on this failed attempt at a good show. He withdrew a small knife from an inner pocket of his robes and covered it with a light layer inner essence, staring at the red-helmeted man as he did so. With a casual flick of his wrist, the dagger cut through air with a hiss of wind as it sped toward his knee.

  The dim firelight of the camp betrayed a momentary gleam as something collided with the dagger, which gave life to a sharp clang and a shower of sparks.

  Another knife? Brecht grew alert the moment that his attack was blocked. He extended the scope of his spiritual sense, heartstrings tightening in angst when he failed to locate whoever had just interfered with his throw. Could it be that those two had a powerful master supporting them? He glanced at the young duo in question, who were finally making an attempt at escape.

  “Braxis,” he yelled, pointing ahead of him, “subdue those two! The rest of you, take down those mercenaries!”

  Several dozen shadows converged toward the camp’s centre, a powerful lineup of inner court disciples leading the charge. Although they were outnumbered two to one, Brecht had confidence that his junior brothers wouldn’t have much trouble taking out the defenders. That being said, the reason he had them swarm the camp was so that he could draw out the hidden cultivator that had just prevented him from disabling the red-helmeted mercenary. Since he couldn’t detect them, he had to create a situation where they had no choice but to interfere.

  Brecht watched as over a dozen mercenaries were butchered in various ways by his more powerful juniors, a few of the outer court disciples dying in the initial clash as well. The beasts of burden that had been left behind struggled to break free from their tethers, many of them suffering collateral damage from the brutal battle that had just broken out. Come! You revealed your presence to protect just one of these fools, so can you watch as the lot of them are slaughtered?

  Almost immediately after the conflict began, a commotion drew Brecht’s attention to the east side of the camp. Three inner court disciples at the Profound Entry stage’s seventh level had been instantly bisected by a long horizontal slash. A middle-aged man with short, straw-coloured hair had just appeared in the midst of where the fighting was thickest, a jade-coloured longsword in his right hand that dripped blood from its dangerously sharp tip. He went on to butcher six of the weaker disciples, leaving a trail of disfigured bodies in his wake as he dashed about the battlefield like a bloodthirsty poltergeist.

  As soon as the man appeared, Brecht was suddenly been able to get a measure of his strength. He was at the third level of Integration. He’d suspected that he had been relying on a peculiar treasure to conceal his cultivation but he could see now that it was a martial skill, one that had been deactivated as soon as the man had jumped into the fray.

  The battlefield was aglow with dim red lights, a by-product of the ‘Scarlet Serrated Hand,’ a body enhancement martial skill available to all disciples within the sect. Not even two minutes into the battle and over twenty-five mercenaries had died to this technique, many still struggling to avoid the dozens of swollen, reddened hands that filled the camp.

  Brecht intercepted the middle-aged man just as he was about to cut down his tenth victim, blocking the jade sword with a weapon that his grandfather had lent to him for the duration of the trip. This was the sword that his grandfather used, the White Bone Blade. The colour of a healthy cloud, it had been fashioned from the bleached bones of a long-dead demonic beast, one that had been dug up within the sect’s territory a few years back. The unknown creature that had been at the peak of the Integration stage at the time of its death, and its remains still held strong traces of its aura.

  The middle-aged man was surprised, his pale eyebrows lifting as he summersaulted backwards to create a few dozen paces of distance between them. “Hoh, you don’t intend to flee?” Though the man’s voice was startlingly powerful, it carried an underlining elegance that betrayed a noble lineage. Even more, there was an unspeakable anger to it.

  “One only flee
s when they’re in danger.”

  The man rolled his shoulder and flexed the well-muscled arm that wielded his weapon. “That’s quite a sword you’ve got there.”

  “You think so? Personally, I don’t care for the colour.” Brecht flooded his body with inner essence, smoothly guiding it to fortify his physique. “Come, help me paint it a more fitting shade!”

  He closed the distance between them in an instant and brought his sword down with a powerful chop. His attack was offset by the jade-coloured sword, which smashed into the white blade with rattling strength that almost forced it to fly from Brecht’s hands. The man didn’t pass up on this opportunity and lunged forward like an aggressive serpent, attempting to run him through the gut with the bluish-green blade.

  Empowering his body with inner essence, Brecht barely sidestepped the strike and stabbed out with his left hand, which had gone completely scarlet and had begun emanating a billowing heat. His implementation of the skill lacked the premature swell that his juniors displayed when using it.

  His strike nicked the man on the shoulder, burning away a small patch of the fine tunic that he wore and drawing a line of blood along the singed, green fabric. Before he could retract his hand, a heavy kick sent him crashing into a carriage over twenty paces away, causing the side to collapse with a loud snapping sound.

  Brecht was a bit winded, but otherwise unharmed. It had been many years since someone had been able to push him back to such an extent, which angered him a great deal. What did it matter that this man was a couple levels above him? He was a bit stronger, but that hardly decided the outcome. Brecht had been trained within the sect since the moment that he could walk, had lived and breathed cultivation since before he could remember. Hailed as a prodigy since a young age, he was one of the most influential disciples within the sect. Defeat someone with a higher cultivation? He’d done it many times before.

  Jumping out of the carriage with an explosion of debris, he willed a dense layer of inner essence to coat the fine white blade of his weapon and then pounced back at his opponent, a bloodthirsty leer on his face as he poured nearly all of his strength into the attack. Their weapons met once again and this time it was the middle-aged man who was thrown back. After being airborne for ten paces or so he landed on his feet and then forced himself to a stop, leaving behind two small trails in the soil as his feet sank ankle-deep into the ground.

  “You must be the City Lord of Greenwall,” Brecht said. “A shame about your son. It seems that your family still carries on the tradition of dying prematurely.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Humph, I followed those two young ones because their cultivation levels are too high for them to have a simple background, mainly that girl. Who would have known that so many of you rodents would suddenly show up?”

  Brecht had to admit that the city lord was strong, though it wasn’t enough to make him feel fear. “You think that you can defeat me just because your cultivation is two levels above mine? You’re naive!”

  Brecht condensed the inner essence that cloaked his white blade to an even further degree, simultaneously reinforcing his body. The White Bone Blade was an essence fusion weapon that could cause a horrid infection in any wound that it inflicted, and it was now that he finally chose to activate this effect. Just as he was about to pounce toward the city lord and unleash a savage onslaught of merciless attacks, he sensed something that made him falter for a moment. His handsome mouth dropped open in disbelief for the first time in his life.

  On the south side of the encampment, a shower of splintered wood revealed that a disciple had been sent flying straight through one of the carriages, similar to what he’d just experienced. The young man crawled to his feet with a roar of rage, the brown hair above his brows wet with blood, as three scarlet streaks bled down the left side of his angled face. His clothes were tattered in several places and there was a black arrow jutting out of his left bicep, his right shoulder drooping slightly.

  Brecht’s eyes flashed. That’s one of Zaern’s arrows.

  Ignoring his wounds, the young man’s face distorted with an angry bloodlust. Both of his hands began to give off a startling heat, taking on a crimson colour as Braxis, the second strongest disciple present, leapt back into the darkness to continue with his fight.

  Brecht hadn’t seen the exchange just now, but he’d sensed that the one who’d beaten Braxis back had been Zaern’s killer, of all people. Impossible! He’s only at the first level of the Profound Entry stage!

  “Well, I’ll say…” The city lord had also noticed what happened. It was shocking enough to put their battle on pause for a few moments, as basically nobody was capable of holding their own against somebody with a cultivation that was so many levels superior to theirs.

  I need to interfere!

  If Braxis died then their grandfathers would likely have a falling out. This meant that his family would lose a significant supporter.

  Pulling out another knife, he covered it in a sharp layer of inner essence and hurled it toward the city lord, who had yet to move after sensing Braxis’s fight. Before he could react, Brecht vaulted into the air and aimed to land nearby to where he sensed Braxis battling it out with their target. Seconds after his jump, something collided with him over twenty paces above the ground. It was the city lord. He kicked off of the man, who’d just tackled him out of the air with enough force to steal away his breath.

  They landed about ten paces away from each other, both of them on their feet, but barely. With his bright blue eyes and soft blond hair that belonged on a man half his age, on any other day the city lord might have looked kind and charming. Today, however, he wore a mask of murder, fury and anticipation written into every line of his face.

  “My mother was in Mour when your people invaded. The king forbade my father from pursuing revenge, and threatened our family so that he didn’t go against the command. He lost hold of his mind, took his own life out of grief and helplessness. Now…now you’ve killed my youngest son. Again, you have taken from me!” The sound of knuckle’s cracking came from his weapon-wielding hand. “When I return home, I’ll send for some stakes to be prepared. The heads of you and yours will decorate the walls of my city, and such will be the fate of any from your despicable sect that has the misfortune of finding themselves within my lands.”

  Brecht hadn’t been paying attention to the city lord’s words, for he’d just noticed a disciple fleeing from the battle as quickly as their agility could allow. Brud, you little rat! He shouldn’t have let the boy live this long.

  “What’s with that expression? Don’t tell me that you’re planning to flee?”

  Brecht burst out laughing. “I’ve never refined someone at your level before.” He triggered the White Bone Blade’s infectious ability for a second time, and then gave his opponent a predator’s smile. “Let us not waste any more time.”

  Chapter Thirty: The Spark Explodes

  At the Red Captain’s orders, twenty mercenaries broke off from the main body of the group and opened up a path of escape for the crowd of merchants and travellers by dragging several carriages off to the side.

  This is probably the best time for us to make a break for it.

  Nolan watched as about a third of the people behind Red and his men stampeded for the sudden exit. There would be disciples lurking within the darkness beyond, but these people had no choice but to bet their lives on the mercenaries that had hurried over to protect them after guiding the mob out of the area.

  Unfortunately, three of the six disciples lurking in that section of the field were at the sixth level of the Profound Entry stage, a dismal contrast to the relatively weaker man that Red had assigned to lead the group. The three strongest mercenaries were targeted the instant that they charged out into the fields, two of them dying immediately as a vicious brawl erupted just out of sight.

  Although the mercenaries outnumbered their opponents, they were far outclassed. Four of the twenty died in less than a mi
nute, unable to withstand the savage blows of the inner court disciples that punched clean through their breastplates. One of the attackers immediately broke off from the group and began immobilizing frightened travellers as if he were playing a sick game of tag.

  “When will you set off your powder?” Nyla said urgently. “Those mercenaries won’t last long. When the other disciples attack Red and the rest of us here, it’ll become a lot harder to escape.”

  “We can’t draw their leader’s attention. If we wait until they attack in full force then there’ll be more confusion when I cause the explosion, and most of the disciples will be busy with the mercenaries. That’ll be the best time to leave.”

  Nolan stared at Karan and her family, who were still cowering amidst the crowd. He’d figured that everyone would scatter while the mercenaries held off the disciples in a widespread confrontation, not a huge gathering at the centre of the camp while a smaller battle took place out in the field. There was no way that he could ignite the gunpowder he’d left behind when there were so many people clustered just a few dozen metres away from the carriage, especially considering that most of them had weaker cultivations and likely wouldn’t survive the blast. He felt terrible about what was happening, and burned with frustration and hatred toward the Bloodhand Sect for being so relentless in their petty pursuit of revenge on him, all for a psychotic boy that he’d been forced to kill in Redfox Village.

  “What are you all waiting for?” Red yelled at the people who had yet to flee. “Go!”

  “Our belongings…”

  The man who’d just spoken up was dragged off by a frightened, teary-eyed woman at the same time that the rest of the crowd finally made an all-out break for the path that had recently opened up.

  The moment that Red addressed the civilians at his back, Nolan sensed a spurt of movement from the blond-haired disciple. A loud clang resounded throughout the area, shrill like the sound of an old steel door being slammed against a stone frame. The young man had thrown a knife at Red, which had been disrupted at the precise moment before it would have severed the hulking man’s right leg at the knee.