Malik stepped over the body and kept moving, circling the camp.
He proceeded to take out the guards one by one, lobbing off their heads.
To them, he was no different than a ghost.
Not a single one saw him coming.
A quick slash, a stab to the kidney, a blade across the throat—silent, efficient, brutal.
By the time he was done, the outer edges of the camp were littered with bodies, and no one inside had a clue.
“Fourteen.”
Malik wiped the blood off his blade and turned his attention to the heart of the camp.
The tents, the cages, the smugglers, and the slavers who thought themselves as safe.
A slow, cold smile spread across his face as he started to close in.
‘You’re next.’
Malik crouched, hiding behind one of the outer tents for a short moment.
Each breath he took was purposeful, measured—like a predator preparing to strike.
Meanwhile, his prey was lively, unaware that their deaths were now a countdown.
“Nine.”
The first one sat near the perimeter, a lantern dimly illuminating his bored expression.
Malik crept closer, his shamshir drawn, the curved blade catching the faintest glint of light.
Just as the man scratched his neck and yawned, he moved in.
His hand clamped over the man’s mouth, cutting off a startled gasp, and his blade pierced cleanly into his kidney, inflicting as much pain as possible while staying just as quiet.
He let go, and the body slumped to the ground.
“Eight.”
Deeper in, he neared another.
“Fuuuuckin ay~… these cuties will make us a killing.”
A man leaned against a cage containing frightened captives, muttering to himself about the profits they’d make.
Malik approached from behind, using the sound of the man’s own voice to mask his movements.
A quick jab to the back of the neck with his blade severed the spine.
His body stiffened and fell onto the cage, fumbling down.
Malik stepped forward, catching it before it hit the ground, easing it to its final destination.
He glanced at the captives, his blank expression softening for a brief moment.
“…Soon.”
With that whisper, he melted back into the shadows.
“Seven.”
This one was patrolling near the supply crates.
He moved towards him, and the guard paused, sensing something.
But it was too late.
Malik’s blade pierced his neck and swung down, splitting much of him in half.
“Six.”
Pulling his shamshir free, he already began scanning for the next target.
Two of them this time, standing near the central fire, sharing a drink.
Malik slipped closer and hurled a small rock into the bushes to their left.
“Fuck was that?”
“Probably a critter. Go get it, didn’t eat fresh meat for a while now~!”
“Yeah, yeah… no way one came around here; it must’ve been the wind or something.”
When the weaker of them turned to investigate, Malik crept up and struck the still one.
His blade sliced through his neck in a single clean motion.
“Five.”
“Who—”
The second man turned back just in time to see Malik’s blade flash again.
His body toppled forward, lifeless.
“Four.”
A woman near the tents, sharpening a dagger.
Her focus was admirable, but it was her undoing.
Malik approached from her blind spot, driving his blade through her neck and into her heart.
She let out a soft gasp before collapsing.
He wiped the blade on her cloak and took the dagger.
“Three.”
It was a heavyset man who seemed to be in charge of guarding the cage keys.
Malik’s lips twitched.
‘Showing off, eh?’
He hid behind a nearby tent and waited.
The man walked directly past him, humming a tuneless tune.
“Hey.”
Malik stepped out, standing behind him.
“W-WHA—”
A single upward slash cut him from bottom to top, slicing him in half.
The keys jingled as they hit the ground, alongside his body.
Malik pocketed them before slipping back behind cover.
“Two.”
One of the men, a tent away from the leader’s, paced nervously, muttering about something or another.
Malik didn’t bother to register any of that, approaching him much slower than the others.
He walked behind a few tents to avoid the central campfire.
When close, he purposely made a noise, stepping hard on the grass.
Just as the man stopped moving and looked around, Malik lunged towards him.
He drove his newly ‘gifted’ dagger into the base of his skull.
“One.”
Nearing the final number, he dragged the body behind a tent, ensuring it wouldn’t be found.
For whatever reason, this man was nervous, so Malik doubted the leader to be any different.
The bastard might just decide to randomly exit his tent.
But, just as he was about to reach a small little hiding spot…
“Are you the fucker that did this?!”
A man’s scream echoed from the camp’s perimeter.
Ah… it appeared that someone was away in the hours that he scanned the place.
How unlucky.
‘Why do things never go smoothly?’
Sighing, Malik dropped the body and picked up a crossbow from his belt.
“No. I’m just lost.”
He aimed the crossbow at the man’s head.
“Don’t shoo—!”
Thwip!
Before he could even finish his plea, a loud arrow found its way into his neck.
“Zero…? Yeah.”
Malik looked at the crossbow, surprised that he actually managed it on the first try.
‘Guess I should’ve learned this instead…’
Shaking his head at that thought, he quickly hid behind the tent, knowing that the leader was about to come out.
And sure enough, out he came, tearing through the flaps, crossbow, and sword in hand.
His face twisted up, first in confusion, then in full-blown fear, as he spotted the bloodied figure standing not too far off.
His eyes darted around, taking in the carnage—his people, dead.
All of them.
Panic set in fast.
“F-Fuck…”
He tossed his weapons and scrambled at his belt, yanking out a Scroll.
Hands shaking like a leaf, he fumbled to activate it, his voice cracking as he shouted into it:
“Please, guild leader… We’re under attack! A-All my men are dead! We—I can’t see them, but they can see us… me. Please, for the love of God, help!”
Then he bolted, running out of the camp with Malik silently tailing him.
“Ghosts! I didn’t even hear any of my men die!”
He tightened his grip on the Scroll.
“I don’t wanna die! I want to go back… I NEED help! I NEED support!”
He stumbled, tripping over his own feet, but quickly scrambled back up, barely able to keep his eyes from glancing left and right.
“They showed up out of nowhere!”
The Scroll began to dim.
“Send help! Please. You don’t understand… seekers aren’t hunting us; it’s… ghosts. Ghosts!”
It dimmed completely, its light snuffed out, leaving him alone with his terror, his frantic words unanswered.
“No, no, no—don’t do this to me!”
The camp’s leader hurled it in frustration, his head snapping around—only to freeze.
Malik stood right in front of him, calm as death.
“Business is over today.”
Not “Business is closed.”
It was OVER.
“Why the hell are you doing this?!”
Desperation dripped from his scream’s every syllable.
Not caring for them, Malik stepped forward.
His shamshir that dripped blood, gleamed under the faint glow of nearby mushrooms.
A promise of death.
To the man, he looked like a reaper, one Hell-bent on claiming his life.
And his voice was as dead as he was soon to be.
“For Sinbad.”
Schwing!
There wasn’t even time for another scream.
One clean flash of Malik’s blade and his head hit the ground with a dull thud.
“You’ll regret… this… I…”
Somehow it spoke its last words even without a neck.
It stopped only after its body followed suit, crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut.
“…Fuck.”
Malik exhaled sharply, flicking his blade to send blood splattering onto the dirt.
Then, as he looked down at the pale corpse, a small, bitter smile crept onto his face.
“Old man…”
He muttered to himself.
“You’re wrong.”
He sheathed his blade, his voice as cold as the steel at his side.
“If revenge feels hollow… you just haven’t suffered enough.”
