Chương 76: Like Winking

More than eight people sat hidden in the bushes, murmuring quietly among themselves, never taking their eyes off the young man standing ahead in a small clearing among the trees. The morning light filtered through the leaves, casting trembling patches of shadow across his figure, while the air around them hung still and heavy, as though the forest itself were holding its breath in anticipation of something inevitable.

Somewhere in the distance the treetops rustled faintly, and the silence between the Players' murmured words felt almost tangible, pressing down on the shoulders of everyone crouched in ambush. He wore a black hoodie and pants, spattered with faint bloodstains, long since dried and darkened, almost blending into the fabric.

His hair was black, and his face was nearly impossible to make out beneath the tangled strands, lending his whole figure something unsettling, undefined, as though what stood before them wasn't a person at all, but a clump of shadow that had merely taken on human shape. — Looks like he's completely alone. Hard to believe he's survived three days out here.

The second Player studied the young man with undisguised surprise, narrowing his eyes as though trying to gauge how dangerous he might be, examining his posture, his hands, the faint tension in his shoulders, searching for any flaw, any weak point. — What do we do? Kill him? A girl nearby shook her head, her voice quiet but firm, barely above a whisper, careful not to give away their hiding spot too soon. — We already have too many people. We don't need extra allies, especially since he looks pretty scrawny.

Almost everyone nodded in agreement, exchanging brief, knowing glances, but a frail guy in glasses shook his head faintly in response, his voice trembling as he tried to sound more confident than he actually felt. — I-is it really necessary? What makes us think killing gets us anything anyway? The girl smacked him on the back of the head, not particularly gently, the sound coming out unexpectedly loud in the tense silence, making a couple of their neighbors flinch and glance around warily. — Idiot.

Of course killing gets you points. The more we kill, the better our chances the Guilds notice us.

In the end, the whole team nodded in agreement, working out the plan, whispering and assigning roles through short, clipped gestures, as though long accustomed to operating together without wasting words, and one of them crept forward quietly, slipping between the tree trunks, trying to move soundlessly across the leaf-covered ground, sword held ready, knuckles white with tension, his breathing reduced to something barely audible, controlled to the very limit.

Once close enough, he swung his sword, putting the full weight of his body behind the strike, all his hopes for another victory riding on that single blow, but the young man spun around at that exact moment — the movement so fast it seemed almost imperceptible, as though reality itself had blinked for an instant — and thrust his hand straight toward the Player's stomach.

The team watched silently from the bushes, holding their breath, as their companion suddenly froze mid-swing, sword raised, as though time itself had stopped just for him, the blade hanging motionless in the air, never completing its arc, his face locked in an expression of utter, uncomprehending shock. Stolen story; please report. The girl clicked her tongue in irritation, frowning, rising onto her toes to get a better look at what was happening. — What's he waiting for?

Then came the whistle of an axe slicing through the air with a dull, heavy sound that echoed among the trees. Blood erupted from the Player's throat, dark and thick, splattering the nearby bushes and grass in dark red droplets that trickled down the green leaves in thin rivulets.

He staggered backward, clutching his throat with one hand, trying to stem the wound, blood seeping through his fingers, warm and sticky, but it was already too late — his eyes began to glaze over, his legs buckled, knees folding one after the other. His lifeless body crashed to the ground with a dull thud, kicking up a small cloud of dust and fallen leaves that scattered and slowly settled back down.

Right after that, the entire crowd of Players burst out of the bushes straight at the young man with piercing screams, weapons raised, trampling the underbrush and young saplings underfoot, but there wasn't a trace of surprise on his face — only a cold, detached calm, as though he'd long since expected exactly this turn of events and had already planned out every move that would follow. The guy in glasses lagged behind the rest, stumbling over his own feet in his panic, his heart pounding somewhere in his throat.

Then his eyebrows shot up, and he screamed, his voice breaking into a panicked shriek, having spotted something the others hadn't — a faint glow beginning to form somewhere near the young man's feet. — Wait, something's wrong here! But it was already too late.

The ground around them froze over in a rapid, spreading wave, locking even the Players' feet in place, instantly stripping them of any ability to move — thin white crystals sealed around their ankles, climbing higher with every passing second, wrapping their knees in icy patterns, and the cries of fury instantly turned into cries of terror, desperate attempts to break free, legs kicking uselessly against their frozen bonds.

Before they could even process what was happening, a piercing, rapid whistle cut through the air, and right behind that sound flashed a streak of green light, trailing a glowing emerald tail that traced an intricate, almost dance-like path through the air between the frozen bodies, weaving around them with inhuman grace.

Along with that trailing light came droplets of blood, scattering into fine crimson spray under the morning sun, hanging in the air for a moment like drops of rain, followed immediately by the Players' heads, one after another, severed with almost surgical precision, as though death itself had swept through the crowd in one swift, untraceable stroke, leaving no one the slightest chance of survival.

The guy in glasses trembled all over, pressed back against the nearest tree trunk, staring at the bloody scene that had unfolded before him in mere seconds — his companions' bodies dropping one after another, frozen in icy shackles, utterly helpless against this swift, merciless force he hadn't even properly seen coming.

A group of more than eight Players had been wiped out in the blink of an eye, the air filling with the iron scent of blood mixed with the frosty freshness of melting ice, blending into one sickening odor.

But then he remembered how, despite his weak, sickly appearance, they'd still taken him into their group, even shared their food with him when he'd gone hungry, how the girl he'd just watched get beheaded had once bandaged his wound without a single word of reproach, humming quietly to herself as she wrapped the dressing. His gaze suddenly hardened, veins bulging across his forehead, his hands now shaking not from fear but from a surging, blinding rage clouding his mind in red.

He immediately turned his eyes toward the dark-haired young man standing at the center of the carnage, axe still dripping fresh blood onto the frost-covered grass. — I-it's him. This is all him. Right, we need to take him down at least. Whatever it costs, this'll be revenge for them! The guy in glasses adjusted his slipping glasses with a trembling hand and raised his palm toward Lloyd...