Chapter Sixteen: Caught You

"Found you."

Sven extinguished the flames. Beneath their glow, no rat could escape his gaze.

He spotted the figure hiding atop the roof and prepared to dispatch him with ruthless swiftness. But behind him, another crossbow bolt whistled through the air.

He reacted instantly—years of combat honed his instincts. With a swing of his longsword, he knocked the arrow aside.

It was that corpse—the upper half had not yet been consumed by fire. Reducing a body to ashes was never a swift task, but something was strange: only the left hand remained untouched by the flames.

He realized now that the fellow had stuffed snow into the left sleeve. Melted snow soaked the woolen sweater, staining the entire left sleeve a deep brown.

Sven’s eyes fell on the thick glove. It concealed the crucial spot, making it impossible for him to see the trick at first.

Now, he could. Beneath the sleeve, another crossbow was hidden.

He lingered in place, thinking it through. He understood—this was some kind of contraption or clever ruse.

Those who walk the path of vocation possess all manner of strange talents. Beyond the common professions, some rare and little-known callings granted unpredictable abilities.

That someone could set such a snare was no surprise.

This was a double-layered trap—the first attack a feint, the second the true killing blow.

Just when Sven believed he had found his foe, a treacherous strike came from the shadows.

Who could say if the tip of that bolt was not smeared with deadly poison?

A cunning wretch.

But this revealed something else: the man did not dare face his foes head-on.

Even against Sven’s subordinates, he lurked only in the darkness, relying on arrows and stabs from behind. He lacked all courage, unworthy of the title of warrior.

See—he was already fleeing.

One failed strike, and he scurried away like a rat confronted by a cat.

Cowardly, timid, lacking both bravery and strength—capable only of petty tricks.

And yet, such a man had cost Sven a chief oarsman?

Sven’s anger only burned hotter. He regarded the pirate crew as his property; oarsmen and sailors alike belonged to him.

Anyone who caused him such loss must pay the price!

Sword in hand, Sven gave chase.

Wherever the man ran, the fire's glow marked his passage—he could not hide.

If not for that second crossbow bolt, which had disrupted his movements, Sven was certain that weakling would already have perished by his blade.

He pursued like a wolf hunting its prey, radiating murderous intent.

Veed, running ahead, sensed it—the pirate leader was on the move.

So fast.

Veed was pushing himself to the limit, and he’d had a head start, yet the gap between him and the pirate chief was closing rapidly.

He fancied himself no slow runner—his legs pumped heedless of the risk of shattering bones. Since becoming a skeleton, he’d never run with such desperate vigor.

He was dozens, if not a hundred pounds lighter than the living. His bones were light, and with all his cracks repaired, his strength was no less than any grown man’s.

With all these advantages, and a ten-second lead, he still could not control the pace.

No wonder the man was called a professional—if he entered a hundred-meter dash, he’d surely shatter world records.

But whatever happened, Veed had to reach the finish. Without getting to that place, his plan was worthless.

He darted between buildings, racing toward the thatched hut with the awning.

He could see Mia now—her light blazed like a beacon in his sight. He hurled himself forward and rolled beneath the shelter of the hut.

Sven arrived a breath later.

“Caught you.”

Sven raised his sword. The column of fire elongated, forming a blade of flame that slashed at Veed.

The flames struck Veed’s clothing but did nothing. Beneath his helmet and hooded sweater, every pocket and crevice was packed with snow.

He had taken off his woolen hoodie, gathered a mound of snow from the ground, and packed it tight as stone.

To keep the snow from falling out as he ran, he tied the garment tight with rope.

The snow absorbed the heat, keeping him from harm.

Until all the snow inside evaporated, he would not ignite. Veed knew this well.

Even a sheet of paper can be used to boil water. If you take a waterproofed sheet, lay it flat, scoop on some water, and hold it over a candle, the paper will not burn until the water evaporates, no matter how blackened it becomes.

Water boils at a lower temperature than paper burns; as long as water remains, the fire can only make it boil.

The melting snow soaked the hoodie that covered Veed’s entire body.

The temperature rose, but it could not harm him.

Had he been alive, his skin might have been scalded, but Veed was a skeleton. Even a cauldron of soup needs a night’s simmering to dissolve bones; a mere brush with open flame could do nothing.

Watching Veed roll unscathed through fire, Sven grew even more enraged.

If fire was useless, then steel and strength would have to serve.

“Die!”

He gripped his sword, swinging it down like an axe. His corded muscles bulged, veins standing out—this was a blow that could cleave a man in two, or shatter a boulder. He’d once pounded a knight, armor and all, into a crumpled heap with this very sword.

Veed rolled beneath the thatched shelter like a rolling pin. He could not fully evade—the sword crashed into his ribcage, and he felt his right chest snap with a crack.

It didn’t matter—his aim was met.

The ground beneath both of them suddenly gave way. The force of the strike was too great; the sealed layer of clay and wood could not withstand it. Even the thatched roof, meant to block wind and snow, collapsed.

Both plummeted downward, splashing into the water with the debris.

The flaming sword, too, met the icy depths and was submerged.

Clouds of steam rose, hissing. The communal reservoir, some five meters wide and deep, became a steambath—and worse, the sword’s fire was doused.

Light vanished, darkness wrapped the world anew.

Veed shrugged off his hoodie and began to swim beneath the surface.

He had asked Mia to find the village reservoir. On his way, he’d seen no frozen streams—a village far from the river would surely have a well or reservoir.

The hut appeared ordinary, but the ground was not solid. It was the roof atop a stone chamber, below which lay a hollow reservoir beneath the frozen earth.

It once housed sheep—the livestock’s warmth kept the water from freezing. In winter, the villagers drew their household water here, saving charcoal. In spring, summer, and autumn, it stored rainwater.

Veed had lured the pirate chief here on purpose, having learned the reservoir’s depth from Mia and planned accordingly.

Now, the professional’s fire was out. He was trapped in a five-meter-deep pool, surrounded by darkness. He could no longer see Veed’s movements, could not keep his balance in the water, and had nothing firm to grip for leverage.

Even a lion, plunged into water, would struggle against a circling shark.

Though Veed’s right ribs were shattered and his left arm gone, as long as his skull remained intact, a skeleton could not be truly slain.

He read the wild, flailing strokes of the pirate and circled him like a fish.

He could not swim like a shark, but his water skills were enough.

Darkness was his domain.

He needed neither light nor breath. The pirate’s movements, to his eyes, were riddled with openings.

If only Veed could speak, he would have whispered, in a chill voice, into the pirate’s ear:

“Caught you.”