Noah finally had a break in his routine.

  For weeks, he had been refining his combat skills, solidifying his influence, and ensuring he stood above the rest. Now, he had been assigned to co-lead a mission—one that, at first, he found insulting.

  Tracking down rogue parties wandering the tutorial? Hunting stragglers? It was beneath him. He was meant for greater things, not chasing after cowards too weak to stay in the fold.

  He had protested immediately. But then, the offer changed.

  “If your performance is good enough,” they had told him, “you’ll be one of the first in the tutorial to be blessed.”

  That caught his attention.

  Noah’s ambition burned brighter than any petty pride. If leading this mission meant ascending to the next level before the rest, then he would do more than track down the rogues.

  He would crush them.

  Noah led his unit out of the city gates, the weight of expectation settling onto his shoulders. The massive stone walls loomed behind them, a reminder of the order and control he intended to uphold. Outside, however, was a different world. It was untamed, unpredictable, and filled with those too weak or too foolish to survive within the system.

  Noah stood at the edge of the encampment, his arms crossed as he surveyed the group assigned to him. A mix of fighters, trackers, and magic users, some competent, most disposable.

  His co-leader, Ronan, was already barking orders, rallying the squad into formation. Unlike Noah, Ronan actually cared about working with others. Noah found it tedious, he wasn’t here to build camaraderie.

  He was here to prove himself.

  The target was a group of rogues—tutorial participants who had refused to follow the structure set by the central factions. Some were deserters, others were criminals, all of them were obstacles to order.

  Noah exhaled slowly. ‘How had they even lasted this long?’

  “Movement, north ridge!” one of the scouts called out.

  Noah’s eyes snapped toward the canyon path ahead. A flicker of motion—too fast for the wind, too deliberate to be an animal. They had found them.

  Ronan signaled for a cautious advance, but Noah was already stepping forward.

  “We’re not waiting,” he said coldly. “We strike now.”

  Ronan shot him a glare. “And walk into an ambush? Use your head, Noah. We—”

  Noah moved.

  Before Ronan could finish, Noah surged ahead, boots striking against the uneven rock as he closed the distance. If the rogues wanted to play hide and seek, they’d learn firsthand—hiding was pointless if your hunter didn’t care about the risk.

  And Noah? Noah didn’t care.

  Noah sprinted up the uneven slope, his breath steady, his pulse quickening—not with exertion, but with anticipation. The rogues were close. Too close. If they had any real sense, they would have scattered the moment they caught wind of a hunting party.

  But they hadn’t.

  Which meant they were either stupid or desperate.

  He’d enjoy breaking them either way.

  Behind him, the unit scrambled to keep up. Ronan cursed under his breath but followed, motioning for the others to spread out and cover the flanks. Always playing it safe.

  Noah smirked. Coward.

  Ahead, the canyon narrowed, the rocky path squeezing into a tight funnel between jagged cliffs. A perfect place for an ambush.

  Good.

  Let them try.

  A figure darted between the rocks up ahead, a blur of motion disappearing behind a crumbling outcrop. Noah adjusted his approach, eyes locking onto the movement.

  A sharp whistle cut through the air—then arrows rained down.

  Noah twisted, his reflexes honed from endless hours of training. Two arrows sailed past, one grazing his shoulder before embedding itself in the ground.

  Someone screamed behind him—a soldier falling as an arrow pierced his throat.

  The rogues were fighting back.

  Noah’s smirk widened. Good.

  “Cover fire!” Ronan bellowed from behind, raising his shield. The archers in their unit loosed a volley in response, forcing the hidden enemies to retreat behind their cover.

  Noah didn’t stop. He surged forward.

  He reached the outcrop where he’d seen movement and vaulted over the rock—landing face to face with one of the rogues.

  The man barely had time to react before Noah’s blade slashed across his chest.

  A choked gasp. Blood sprayed against the canyon wall. The rogue crumpled.

  Noah turned, already looking for his next target.

  The fight had begun.

  Noah barely registered the dying man at his feet. His focus was already ahead, scanning for the next target.

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  The canyon exploded with motion.

  Rogues emerged from behind boulders and outcroppings, a scattered band of survivors turned fighters. They weren’t trained soldiers, but they fought like cornered animals—wild, desperate, and dangerous.

  Good. That made it fun.

  Another rogue rushed him, a woman wielding a pair of short axes. She moved fast, her weapons a blur of steel as she swung for his ribs.

  Noah leaned back, narrowly dodging the first strike, then caught her wrist mid-swing. He yanked her forward, slamming the hilt of his sword into her stomach. She gasped, doubling over.

  Too slow.

  His blade flashed—a clean cut across her throat.

  She crumpled.

  A shadow shifted to his left—another rogue! Noah barely had time to react before a knife stabbed toward his side.

  A shield bashed into the rogue’s arm at the last second, sending the blade off course.

  Noah turned, spotting Ronan beside him, grim-faced and covered in dust.

  “Stop running off like an idiot!” Ronan snapped, blocking another strike with his shield. “This isn’t a game!”

  Noah just laughed.

  He kicked the disarmed rogue onto the ground, stabbing downward without looking.

  “It is to me.”

  Ronan scowled but had no time to argue—three more rogues were rushing in.

  Noah didn’t wait. He stepped forward, blade flashing.

  Steel clashed.

  The fight had only just begun.

  The canyon echoed with the clash of steel and the cries of the dying. Dust and blood mixed in the air, the once-still landscape now a battleground.

  Noah thrived in the chaos.

  A rogue swung a rusted longsword at him—wild, uncontrolled. Noah stepped into the attack instead of away, ducking just enough to let the blade whistle past his ear. Before the man could recover, Noah drove his knee into his stomach, forcing the air from his lungs with a harsh gasp.

  Sloppy.

  His sword punched through the man’s ribs, the impact vibrating up his arm. The rogue choked, blood spilling from his lips as Noah ripped the blade free, already turning toward his next opponent.

  He caught a glimpse of Ronan a few feet away, shield raised, sword deflecting an axe blow. Unlike Noah, Ronan fought with discipline, every move measured, every strike calculated for survival.

  Efficient. But slow.

  Noah moved like a predator, darting between enemies, cutting them down before they could react.

  One rogue tried to run.

  Noah exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing. ‘Not happening.’

  He kicked off the ground, closing the distance in seconds. The rogue barely made it three steps before Noah’s sword buried itself in his back.

  A scream. A struggle. Then nothing.

  Noah yanked the blade free and let the body drop. There was no place for cowards.

  “Damn it, Noah!” Ronan’s voice cut through the fight, angry and sharp. “At least pretend you’re part of a team!”

  Noah turned, wiping blood from his sword with a smirk. “I am. I’m just the only one winning.”

  Ronan’s glare could have burned through stone, but he didn’t have time to argue—more rogues were charging in, their numbers thinning but still desperate.

  Noah rolled his shoulders, grinning.

  Let them come.

  The canyon reeked of blood and dust. Bodies littered the ground, some twitching, most still. The battle had turned from a chaotic skirmish into something far more one-sided.

  Noah loved it.

  His breath came steady, even as sweat clung to his skin. Around him, the few remaining rogues fought wildly, lashing out, their desperation making them reckless.

  It wouldn’t save them.

  A rogue with a broken spear lunged at him. Too slowly.

  Noah sidestepped, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting. There was a sickening pop. Then a scream. Before the rogue could react further, Noah slammed his sword into his chest and kicked him off the blade.

  Another one down.

  His eyes flicked across the battlefield, scanning for his next target.

  The fight was almost over.

  But something felt… off.

  A low, ragged breath came from behind him. A survivor.

  Noah turned, sword raised, expecting a final, pathetic attack.

  What he saw made him pause.

  A young man—no older than seventeen—was crawling backward, one hand clutching a wound in his side. His face was smeared with blood, his eyes wide with pure terror.

  Noah stared down at him. The boy wasn’t even trying to fight anymore. He was just trying to live.

  Something twisted in Noah’s gut.

  Not guilt. Never guilt.

  Just… boredom.

  He flicked the blood from his sword and took a step forward.

  The boy flinched. “P-please—”

  Noah sighed.

  “Should’ve run faster.”

  He plunged the blade forward.

  But before he could strike—

  Ronan’s shield slammed into his shoulder, knocking him back.

  Noah staggered, blinking in shock as the sword strike missed, skidding across the dirt instead of finding flesh.

  The boy gasped, scrabbling away as Ronan planted himself between them, sword raised.

  “That’s enough.” Ronan’s voice was low, dangerous.

  Noah straightened, rolling his shoulder. The hit wasn’t hard, but the audacity of it made his blood boil.

  “Move,” he said, voice eerily calm.

  Ronan didn’t.

  Noah’s smirk vanished.

  The battlefield had gone silent. The last few survivors had either been cut down or fled. The other soldiers—his soldiers—watched with unreadable expressions.

  Ronan’s grip on his sword tightened. “We’re here to hunt traitors. Not to butcher children.”

  Noah tilted his head. “He was part of the rogues, wasn’t he?”

  Ronan’s jaw tightened. “He surrendered.”

  Noah scoffed. “And? We let him go, he’ll just try to kill us later.”

  Ronan’s glare didn’t waver. “There’s a difference between putting down an enemy and slaughtering the helpless.”

  Noah took a slow step forward. “Are you lecturing me, Ronan?”

  Ronan didn’t flinch. “If I have to.”

  A tense silence stretched between them.

  The watching soldiers shifted uncomfortably. This wasn’t just an argument anymore. This was a line being drawn.

  Noah’s fingers twitched over his sword hilt. For the first time since the fight began, his heart pounded for a different reason.

  If Ronan was challenging him now, then there were only two ways this could end.

  One of them would have to back down.

  Or one of them wouldn’t leave this canyon alive.

  Noah's gaze never wavered from Ronan. The battlefield was quiet now, save for the soft groans of the dying and the rustling of the wind through the jagged canyon walls. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, as if the very air was holding its breath.

  The young rogue—who had once been a threat, now a quivering wreck—crawled backward, eyes wide with terror. He didn’t matter. What mattered was the man standing between Noah and the world he intended to reshape.

  Ronan’s sword gleamed in the fading light, his stance firm, unwavering. "This ends here, Noah. No more bloodshed. Not like this."

  Noah's lip curled into a smile, but there was no humor in it. “You think you can stop me?” His voice was low, but the threat was unmistakable.

  Ronan met his gaze with a steely resolve. "I don’t want to stop you. I want you to see that this—this isn’t what we’re supposed to be."

  Noah’s smirk faltered. “And what exactly are we supposed to be, Ronan? Heroes? Saints?” He laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "We’re warriors. There’s nothing but the kill. There’s nothing but power.”

  “Is that all you see?” Ronan’s voice was steady, but there was a hint of sorrow in it, like he was watching a man walk toward a cliff and couldn’t stop him.

  Noah stepped forward, his eyes cold, but his voice barely above a whisper. "I see the truth. You’re just too weak to accept it."

  Ronan’s eyes softened. “You’re wrong.”

  A long moment passed.

  Noah’s hand tightened around his sword hilt, his knuckles white. He had fought for everything he had, clawed his way to this moment. He wasn’t about to let anyone—least of all Ronan—take that from him.

  But something inside him was tugging, pulling him toward a decision he couldn’t fully understand.

  Ronan took a step forward, but Noah didn’t move.

  And then suddenlyNoah exhaled sharply, lowering his blade. “This isn’t over, Ronan.”

  Ronan watched him, his stance still resolute but now cautious. He didn't lower his sword. Not yet.

  Noah turned toward the rogue, who was still shaking on the ground. His eyes, cold as stone, met the boy’s desperate gaze one last time.

  “You’re lucky,” Noah muttered under his breath. “Next time… there won’t be anyone to save you.”

  He turned away and began to walk toward the unit, each step a reminder of the path he had chosen. It was the path of blood, of ambition, of a hunger that would never be satisfied.

  Ronan watched him go, his sword still raised, but the weight of the decision heavy on his shoulders.

  Noah wasn’t done.

  The canyon was silent again, but for how long?