Crossworld Swordplay

Damon took a deep breath.

"So I really can't outrun you," he said with a trace of melancholy, unsheathing his sword.

"Isn't there a way for us to work this out?"

He asked—but the only answer was a claw swiping straight for his guts.

How's he that fast?! Damon cursed inwardly, twisting just in time to avoid being gutted.

"Think I'd talk after you killed my men?" snarled Cavain Mercer, the right hand of a third-rate mercenary outfit now aiming for Damon's bounty.

Another strike came screaming for his skull.

Damon pivoted, yanking his sword horizontal to block. Steel met metallic blades of hardened keratin supported by dense muscle and bone.

CRACK!

The impact lifted him clean off the ground. Too strong. Panic clawed at his throat.

Cavain arched his body mid-swing, aiming to slam him into the dirt—and in that heartbeat, Damon knew: If he got pinned, it was over.

"Dammit!!" he roared.

His knee shot up with all the strength he had—slamming into Cavain's jaw at the same time his blade followed through with a savage upward thrust aimed at the monster's mouth.

Steel carved upward in a diagonal arc—too fast, too close.

SHRRAAK!

Blood sprayed in a sharp line as the blade sliced across Cavain's snout, splitting through fur and skin. The mercenary beast reeled back, snarling in pain.

"RRRGHHH—!" Cavain's scream twisted into something feral. One eye shut, his muzzle now streaked red and twitching from the gash.

"You little—!"

Damon didn't wait. He rolled across the forest floor, boots digging into damp soil as he tried to create distance. His lungs burned. His hand still buzzed from the impact. But he could see it now—

The beast could bleed.

And maybe… it could die.

His hand darted into his satchel. The shadow was already at his heels. He pulled free a small pouch of salt—stolen from the manor, meant for ritual use.

He loosened the string with trembling fingers—

—and tossed it behind him with all the strength he had.

Salt burst out in a shimmering arc, glittering like pale stardust beneath the moonlight.

Cavain charged straight into it.

SSSKKHH!

The reaction was instant.

The beast howled—his claws skidding against bark as his limbs buckled mid-pounce. Smoke rose from his fur where the salt had made contact, sizzles like boiling oil crackling through the trees.

"AGHHHH—!"

His snout twisted sideways, jaw snapping in fury as he clawed at his own face. Patches of fur sloughed off, revealing blistered, blackened skin beneath.

Damon flinched.

The reaction wasn't normal—there was nothing mixed into the salt, yet it had burned Cavain's skin like acid.

What's going on? he thought, hand darting back into his satchel.

His fingers brushed against the jagged, blood-hardened salt he had used during the ritual—the ones he'd used to circle himself in the binding ring.

He gripped a shard, heart pounding.

Behind him, Cavain's voice tore through the trees:

"Bastard!!" Cavain howled.

His muscles bulged, bones cracking beneath the strain—not just from fury, but from something else.

A second roar followed, louder and deeper—something primal slipping through his voice.

"I'LL RIP OUT YOUR SPINE AND FEED IT TO THE WOLVES—!"

Damon smiled.

The world shifted, draining of color into a dull gray-blue hue.

His heart thundered. His breath slowed.

It's the full moon, he told himself. 

He closed his eyes.

Turn… turn… turn…

Adrenaline surged like fire through his veins.

The rustle of leaves, the thud of a heartbeat, the whine of tension tightening in his legs—

He stepped forward and slashed with his sword.

Pulse.

His mind's eye opened.

And there, suspended in the dark—

—floated the Sigil Stone, pulsing in inky void.

His eyes flew open.

Moonlight kissed his skin, while his palm sizzled with heat.

Cavain's claw came into view first—arcing toward his face, slow-motion.

Damon's leg muscles tensed, writhing beneath the skin.

Slash!

The shard of ritual salt tore through the air and bit into Cavain's muzzle—slicing a burning red line across his fur.

Damon didn't hesitate.

His sword snapped back, tip gleaming beneath the moonlight—then drove forward.

Pierce.

The blade stabbed deep into Cavain's stomach, then yanked it free before the beast could react—and struck again.

And again.

Each thrust was frantic in its calculated violence.

With a snarl, Damon twisted the salt shard in his other hand and lunged—driving it for Cavain's eye.

It missed—just barely grazing flesh—as Cavain leapt back with inhuman speed.

"How'd you—" Cavain began, eyes wide—

But the words never finished.

The crimson blade was already flying toward his head.

... 

Patches of coarse gray fur erupted across Cedric's arms, his body twisting into something all too familiar.

Damon couldn't help but chuckle.

His hand reached for the salt pouch tied to his waist.

Isn't this ironic.

His own body began to shift in answer.

His mouth elongated.

His tailbone split and stretched, black fur sprouting across vein-laced skin.

The bandages on his left shoulder tore open—revealing a blood-red Sigil, faintly pulsing with heat. It gleamed with a ruby sheen, each line etched like fire into his skin.

His body grew more canine—muscles tightening, his stance low and his eyes sharpened, a sickly yellow bleeding into the whites, while his equine pupils stretched—elongating into slits that gleamed with something no longer human.

Gasps turned to shrieks.

From the back of the courtyard, someone screamed, "Werewolves!"

"No—Lycans!" another shouted, backing away in terror.

Students stumbled over one another, scrambling for distance as the sight of Damon and Cedric—neither fully human nor fully beast—etched itself into their memory. The rain, once background noise, now fell like gunfire on stone, amplifying every heartbeat.

A girl near the front dropped her umbrella and fumbled with the camera at her disposal—a compact, brass-framed device with intricate gears and a cracked leather bellows that hissed softly as it adjusted its lens. An innovation of the era, designed to capture high-resolution images despite its age and wear.

Click. Flash. Click.

The lens snapped shots of Damon's transformed body—his elongated frame, the blood-red Sigil pulsing on his shoulder, and those slit pupils gleaming like blades beneath the curtain of rain.

"Excuse me, young lady," Kael said, stepping forward and calmly placing a hand over the lens. His voice was low but firm. "I'd be grateful if you stopped with that."