His real weapon wasn’t something he held. It was grown from his own body—a bone-white, savage-looking two-handed battle-axe. The haft seemed fused to the bones of his hand, the blade stretching from his elbow, joined to the bones of his forearm, giving off a pale, cold shine.

  This bone-axe was part of him. It swung with no drag at all, carrying a wild, purely physical kind of power.

  Second-rank strength, pumped up by a temporary potion, plus sharp fighting sense and lots of killing experience… This let him, once he crashed into the Quarry ranks—who relied on guns now useless in the close-in brawl—become like a wolf in a sheep pen.

  Thwack!

  The bone-axe swept sideways. A Quarry apprentice trying to block with a bayoneted rifle got chopped in half, weapon and all, guts and blood painting the ground.

  Crack!

  A backhand swing up. An alloy shield another apprentice threw up in a hurry split apart. The axe didn’t stop, biting deep into his shoulder, nearly cutting him diagonally in two.

  Screams came in waves. Blood sprayed and splashed like cheap paint over this green maze.

  He even grabbed a wounded apprentice who’d fallen, took the man’s shoulders in both hands, grinned a savage grin, and violently…

  tore.

  RRRIP—!

  The nasty sound of cloth and flesh ripping apart.

  The apprentice’s last scream cut off as he was literally pulled into two pieces. Blood washed out like a fountain, dyeing the wild plants red and spattering the man’s fierce, satisfied face.

  “Quarry maggots!” He shook the bone-axe, dripping with blood and bits, and let out a wild laugh. “You think you can take the garden? In your dreams!”

  The Quarry forces around him were equal parts terrified and furious. They couldn’t shoot—too close, fog too thick, too easy to hit their own. They had to rely on the physical push from their Corpse-Plague Acolyte path and whatever hand weapons they had, clenching their teeth as they tried to circle him.

  But even as fellow second-rankers, without a temp potion boost and with skills not all focused on close fighting, the two Quarry second-rankers who reluctantly stepped up could only barely block and dodge under his crazy attacks. They were in a bad spot.

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  THUD!

  The man saw an opening as one opponent’s move finished and drove a brutal kick into his gut. The guy flew back like he’d been hit with a sledgehammer.

  The man didn’t even look at the one he’d kicked away. His bloodshot eyes, high on killing and excitement, locked onto the last, now white-faced Quarry second-ranker like a starved wolf spotting a meal.

  Fear, like an ice-cold snake, bit into the man’s heart. He could see the plain cruelty and mockery in the other’s eyes, could feel the choking smell of death coming off the blood-dripping axe.

  The axe went up high. The pale edge caught a cold light. The next second, that edge would come down with a killing chill and take his head off…

  Right in the instant before the bone-axe fell, right as the Quarry apprentice’s pupils shrank to dots in despair, a scarlet, ornate two-handed sword, like a fang striking from empty air, punched without warning through the back of the laughing man’s neck.

  Silent.

  Clean through.

  The tip came out right at his Adam’s apple.

  The whole thing was fast. Silent. Weird. No huge noise, no crash of raw force. Just an ultimate, ice-cold precision.

  The weird part was—the blade went through the throat, but not a single drop of blood sprayed out. Like it hadn’t pierced flesh and blood, but a bloodless straw doll.

  The man’s wild laugh cut off sharp. The fierceness and cruelty on his face got swapped in a blink for a look of total, confused terror. His eyes went wide, eyeballs bulging. His mouth opened, letting out a “heh… heh…” sound from his throat, like air leaking from a torn bellows.

  He tried to turn his head, to see what had ended him this way. But his body felt drained of all strength, gone stiff and useless. He could feel the blood inside him rushing toward the scarlet sword in his throat at a crazy, frantic speed. Getting eaten up. Sucked dry. Not a drop wasted.

  He raised a hand on instinct, a useless try to grab his throat that bled nothing but felt agonizing and empty.

  The next second, the scarlet greatsword stuck through his throat jerked violently sideways.

  Shhhk—!

  A slicing sound so quiet it was almost drowned by the battle cries around.

  The man’s head lolled to the side, his face frozen in a last, twisted look with a hint of lingering unwillingness. The corpse stood stiff for half a second, then slumped forward.

  Only then did the scarlet greatsword pull slowly back. The blade still had no blood on it. The deep, dried-blood red color looked even brighter now. More “alive.” Wispy, thin tendrils of scarlet mist with a thick coppery smell steamed from the grooves in the metal, then quickly flowed back into the blade.

  The Quarry second-rank apprentice who’d just escaped death, the fear still on his face, hadn’t even had time to react before the leftover blood—finally spurting from the corpse’s neck as the blood-drinking sword left—soaked him from head to face.

  Warm, sticky, metal-tasting liquid covered his eyes, blurring everything. He wiped his face with a hand on instinct.

  His sight cleared. He saw the figure standing beside the headless body. The woman’s shape, outlined in the mixed-up light, looked a little unreal. Half her face seemed damaged, blurry. With the moon behind her, he couldn’t see her features clearly, only sensing a cold, serious killing intent.

  And a thread of… hard-to-name danger.

  Who was she? A hidden backup the Quarry had arranged? A strong player from another crew jumping in? Or just some mysterious passerby who’d decided to “help”?

  He wanted to say something. But the words caught in his throat.

  Before he could think any further, the sword-carrying stranger moved again.