The Pureblood hissed as its severed stump quivered, blood pulsing unnaturally from the wound. In seconds, that blood hardened, bone knitting back together, muscle weaving into existence, and pale flesh sealing over. Soon, a fresh arm stretched outward, clawed fingers flexing as though mocking Marcus for daring to cut it away.
Its golden gaze locked onto Marcus, no longer playful, no longer smug. The demon’s voice ca low, guttural, and vibrating with restrained fury.
"...Who are you?"
Marcus tilted his head, strands of his ssy bun slipping loose, a smirk tugging at his lips. For a mont he chuckled under his breath, then louder, until it beca a sharp laugh that filled the ruined bar. His crimson eyes glead with amusent, his saber spinning once in his hand.
"Why should I waste ti talking..." He leaned forward, the shadows around him writhing like a storm ready to burst. "...when I can just show you?"
He launched forward in a blur.
The floorboards cracked beneath his push, and before the Pureblood could react, Marcus was upon it. His saber carved a black streak through the air, forcing the demon to jerk back. The blade missed its skull by a hair, yet shadows licked across its face, burning lines into its cheek.
The Pureblood snarled and retaliated, spikes of blood bursting from the floor in jagged spears, aiming to impale Marcus from below. Marcus twisted midair, his body folding with feline grace, flipping over the spikes. As he landed, a shadow-tentacle lashed downward, shattering the spears before they could follow him.
"Too slow," Marcus taunted, grin wide, teeth flashing.
The demon lunged, claws like hooked scythes slashing at him in a frenzy. The air scread with each swipe, the force alone tearing through tables and walls. Marcus slid between them, each dodge fluid, mocking, as if the fight was a dance he led. One claw ca dangerously close—he tilted his head just enough to let it pass, hair whipping in the gust of its strike.
"Close," Marcus murmured. "But not close enough."
His saber slashed upward, cleaving through the demon’s chest in a spray of darkened blood. The Pureblood staggered, but only for an instant; flesh knitted, muscle sealed, the wound closing almost as quickly as it ca. It hissed and thrust its arm forward, blood hardening into a blade-like spear, stabbing toward Marcus’s gut.
Marcus’s shadow-tentacle shot out, wrapping around the blood-spear, halting it mid-thrust. With a flick of his wrist, he shattered the construct into crimson shards. Then he surged forward, saber plunging into the demon’s side, cutting clean through before ripping it out again with a vicious twist.
The Pureblood roared, its body already sealing, but Marcus didn’t relent. Another slash. And another. Each stroke of his saber was precise, almost surgical, carving into the demon’s regenerating body faster than it could heal. Its arms were severed, only to regrow; its torso split open, only to knit back together. Yet Marcus’s pace never faltered. Every ti it healed, he was there, cutting again, turning its regeneration into a cruel cycle of agony.
"You heal well," Marcus said through a laugh, his saber dripping shadows. "But let’s see how long before I carve the smile off your ugly face."
The demon’s patience snapped. With a guttural roar, it unleashed a barrage—spikes erupting from walls, floor, and ceiling, converging on Marcus from every direction like a crimson storm.
Marcus’s grin widened. He spun, his saber tracing a circle, shadows bursting outward like a living shield. The spikes shattered against the darkness, fragnts raining around him. Without pause, he propelled forward, his body moving like a phantom.
The saber slashed across the Pureblood’s thigh, severing its leg at the knee. Before the demon even hit the ground, Marcus’s tentacles lashed out, seizing its torso and yanking it upward like a ragdoll. With a brutal swing, he slamd it against the wall, cracking stone, then dragged it back across the floor with a screech of claws and broken wood.
The demon shrieked, regenerating its leg mid-drag, and lashed out, claws slicing for Marcus’s throat. Marcus ducked under, his saber cutting through its wrist before it could land. The severed hand spun in the air before splattering against the ruined floor.
"Persistent," Marcus mocked, stepping back just as the demon’s body reford yet again. His shadow-tentacles slithered across the walls, ceiling, and floor—covering every angle. His grin widened. "But I like persistent. Makes the ga more fun."
The Pureblood, panting though it didn’t need air, flexed its newly grown limbs, glaring at Marcus with unbridled hatred. Its wounds healed, but the weight of Marcus’s relentless assault was clear. Every step forward had been punished, every attempt countered, and every regeneration turned into tornt.
Marcus twirled his saber once more, resting it against his shoulder, eyes burning with silver glow.
"Co on then," he called, voice low and dangerous. "Show if you can keep up."
The demon roared and charged, blood shaping into massive claws around its hands as it lunged for him.
Marcus welcod it with a laugh, his saber already rising in another deadly arc.
***
The clash dragged on, steel against claw, shadow against blood. A minute passed. Then another. And with each passing breath, Marcus grew more vicious. His strikes ca faster, heavier, almost gleeful in their brutality. Every slash of his saber carried not only precision but savagery, as though he wasn’t simply fighting but punishing. His laughter mixed with the sound of tearing flesh, the grin on his face widening each ti the Pureblood shrieked in pain.
The Pureblood tried to et him blow for blow, tried to adapt, but Marcus was always a step ahead. His movents were fluid and unpredictable, filled with a predator’s delight. A cut across the thigh was followed by a thrust through the shoulder. Before the demon could heal, Marcus carved through its side again, forcing it to stagger, only for the saber to whip upward and slice off its jaw. Even as it reford, he was there, striking again and again, as though daring the creature to keep standing.
And with every wound, with every roar, the Pureblood’s mind began to drift—not willingly, but through fear.
He rembered whispers. The words of other Purebloods spoken in hushed tones, never with arrogance, but with unease. There is a man among them. A dark mage who does not run, does not hide, but rather... he hunts.
Unlike the others of his kind, this one was different. He was not prey. He was not fragile. And he was definitely not destined to fall beneath their fangs. No—he was the predator, and they were the quarry. Stories told of him ruining Pureblood plots, of cutting down Redblood packs as though they were dogs. And worse... there were tis when even demons spoke his na with dread.
And it wasn’t only demons. Humans of the underworld, the traffickers, the cri lords, the smugglers, they too spoke of him. Not with respect, not with admiration, but with fear. To them, he was not a savior nor a hero. He did not deliver justice for the weak or the innocent. No—he stalked them, made them suffer, ripped apart their empires piece by piece. To them, he was not a man but a curse, a shadow that crept into their dens, always smiling, always mocking as he destroyed everything they had built.
They feared him more than they feared the law, more than they feared the three kingdoms of Amthar. More, even, than demons themselves.
The Scourge.
That was the na. The unavoidable consequence of evil.
And now, watching Marcus fight—no, watching him ravage—the Pureblood’s golden eyes widened in horror. The way he laughed, the way he cut, the way he never let his prey breathe... There was no mistaking it. This wasn’t just any dark mage. This wasn’t chance. He was fighting him.
He was fighting Scourge.
Marcus, noticing the shift in the demon’s face, his widening eyes, the dawning realization that struck like ice through its veins, only grinned wider. In a blur, he appeared at the demon’s side, shadows curling off him like smoke, and leaned close, voice dripping mockery.
"Figured sothing out, have you?"
The Pureblood roared and swung its arm, claws ripping through the air. Marcus moved barely an inch, and the attack missed by a hair. His saber flashed, and the arm fell to the ground with a wet slap.
The demon bellowed in pain, louder than before, as though this wound burned differently than the rest. Its regeneration faltered, slowed, and where the cut had been, black tendrils of darkness hovered, writhing, keeping the flesh from sealing cleanly. It forced its body to nd itself, shuddering as the tendrils burned away with effort, until at last the arm reford—though the process left it shaking.
Marcus straightened, saber dripping shadow, his onyx eyes gleaming. He chuckled low, like a predator amused by its prey’s desperation.
"There it is," he said, voice teasing, cruel, every word laced with nace. "That look. The realization."
He twirled the saber lazily, stalking closer, each step echoing in the ruined bar. His grin widened, wolfish.
"I’ve seen it on Purebloods before. On Redbloods too. That exact expression, when the truth sinks in—that no matter how hard you claw, no matter how fast you heal... your death is inevitable."
The demon stood frozen, caught in its trance of fear and realization, blood trembling on its claws as if even its body knew.
Marcus tilted his head, shadows slithering around him, his grin a jagged thing that could cut deeper than his blade.
"And let tell you... watching that mont? Watching predators like you finally understand what prey feels like? That’s always... a delight."
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