chapter 2 : BLOOD REAPERS2
1502 Words
The afternoon sun spilled over the cobblestone paths of Azurh Academy campus in a warm, golden hue. A fourteen-year-old boy with a well-built frame and fair complexion strolled leisurely down the path. His tough skin glistened faintly, and his bright blue eyes shone like the sea.
“I think I spend too much time reading,” he muttered to himself. “It should already be past two p.m.”
He felt a strange unease creeping over him.
“Why does it feel like someone’s looking at me?” he whispered, glancing around.
Whoosh.
At first, he thought it was just his imagination—but no. Someone was following him.
“Did this kid just see me?” a voice hissed from the shadows. I will take action now. He thought.
Then __
A dagger sliced through the air toward him. It was unexpected, but Roso reacted instinctively, blocking the attack. Perhaps it was that unsettling feeling earlier that made him ready.
Though Roso knew he hadn’t offended anyone, his mind raced.
Who could it be? Did I anger someone’s older brother because I outperformed them in class?
A tall man emerged from the darkness, two daggers glinting in his hands.
“You seem confused, kid,” the man said calmly. “But you parried my first strike. Impressive for someone your age.”
Roso stepped back, cautious. The man had come out of nowhere, and his presence radiated killing intent.
He doesn’t seem related to anyone I know, Roso thought, scratching his head. Then aloud, “And who might you be?”
The stranger smiled coldly. “A Blood Reaper.”
Roso blinked. “A… Blood Reaper?” He glanced at the crimson aura flickering faintly around the man’s blades. “I think you’ve got the wrong person.”
The man chuckled. “Oh no, kid. It’s not for you to decide whether I have business with you or not. You’ll understand soon enough—when you die quietly.”
Roso’s expression hardened. The man’s intent was clear—he had come to kill him.
---
The Blood Reaper moved first, hurling his dagger with frightening speed.
Whoosh.
Another sneak attack.
Vortex Clash, Roso thought.
He raised his right hand, channeling energy. The air around him swirled violently, forming a spiraling gust.
Whorl. Clang.
A shockwave burst out as his vortex met the dagger midair, deflecting it. Dust scattered across the street.
“Interesting,” the Blood Reaper said, tilting his head. He threw again—and again. Each dagger seemed to multiply, filling the air.
“What about this?”
It looked as if dozens of daggers were flying toward him, but Roso didn't realized—it was an illusion. The same dagger replicated under some kind of technique.
Still he countered them all, wind and steel clashing in rapid succession.
Swish.
Clack.
Shriek.
Whirl.
And the long range fight kept going on.
What is he doing? Doesn’t he see his attacks aren’t working? Roso thought, growing uneasy. The repetition made no sense.
But the Blood Reaper wasn’t throwing daggers at him. He was only throwing the same dagger at Roso while he didn't even use the second dagger.
He’s plotting something, Roso though.
---
Roso was a wielder of magic power. The Blood Reaper, however, was a martial artist who cultivated Strength Flow—and he was at the peak of the Second Stage: Inner Reinforcement.
The fight’s intensity grew. The Blood Reaper’s attacks became faster, stronger, more refined. The same dagger he threw came with crushing pressure.
And each of the numberless dagger produce by it under the influence of his technique held the same crushing pressure.
Roso was forced to go on the offensive, using his magic not only to counter but to strike.
“What’s going on?” Roso muttered. “His attacks keep getting stronger and faster!”
Indeed, the Blood Reaper was reinforcing his body, speed, and daggers through inner energy.
“Not bad, kid,” the man said between strikes, almost leisurely. “You’re skilled.”
He thought to himself: How could someone this talented grow so powerful without the Organization noticing?
Roso smirked, voice steady. “You too but your leader made a grave mistake sending you alone. You might not die here—but you won’t be leaving either.”
The Blood Reaper raised a brow. “Aren't you implying that neither of us is stronger than the other, but you have some means to stop me.
"Ha ha ha." He laughed at Roso. "I haven't even taken things seriously yet."
Roso shrugged. “Who said we are equal in strength?”
Then the Blood Reaper after he had said let take things a little seriously he lunged.
---
And in an instant, he was before Roso, his right arm raised, dagger gleaming in a diagonal s***h.
But Roso’s senses were sharp. He felt the killing intent, traced the dagger’s angle, and prepared a counter—Vortex Spiral Wave.
Shroom.
Wind coiled around his hands, ready to strike back. But before his move could land, everything blurred. The next moment, he was on the ground.
What happened? Why am I down?
Pain surged through his body. He reached for his shoulder—blood.
So that’s it.
During his attack, the Blood Reaper had feinted, changing his dagger’s direction mid-strike, cutting upward instead of downward. The blade tore through Roso’s left trapezius—a deep, burning s***h.
Half his trapezius muscle was gone, pain radiating through his neck and shoulder.
The Blood Reaper’s dagger shimmered faintly red. It carried a Blood Technique—one that amplified nerve pain. The agony made Roso lose consciousness briefly, just long enough for a brutal kick to send him crashing to the ground.
When he came to his sense, the assassin was approaching again.
“Hmm,” the Blood Reaper mused. “Was it the impact that woke him? What a hassle. I was planning to extract his blood essence without making him suffer.”
Roso couldn’t catch his muttering but felt the menace in his tone.
I’ll have to go all out, he thought, raising his hand.
---
He conjured a protective spell—Vortex Engulf.
Whoosh.
A storm of wind blades surrounded him, moving at chaotic, high frequency. It acted both as a barrier and as a weapon.
The Blood Reaper attacked relentlessly, his dual daggers flashing.
“Have you decided to hide behind a turtle shell?” he mocked.
His strikes clanged uselessly against the swirling barrier. It was the first time Roso had fully activated his defensive technique.
But suddenly, Roso coughed—blood spilling from his mouth.
Splash. Cough.
The barrier flickered and vanished. His body was covered in wounds.
“What… how?” Roso gasped. “Why am I bleeding?”
The Blood Reaper smirked. “Why? Because it’s your own blood.”
Roso froze. “What are you talking about?”
The assassin sighed. “Don’t tell me your IQ is that low. My techniques revolve around blood. Didn’t it cross your mind that I can control it?”
Realization struck Roso like lightning. “You mean…”
“Exactly. I wasn’t breaking through your barrier—I was manipulating your blood inside your body. Every drop that spilled earlier became my weapon. While you were distracted by my dagger play, I was slicing you up from the inside.”
He grinned wickedly. “Quite the show, wasn’t it?”
Roso’s eyes narrowed. “I see. But if you could do that from the start, why didn’t you?”
The Blood Reaper shrugged. “Just wanted to have some fun.”
Roso clenched his fists, grimacing. Then, channeling his magic, he tore open his old wounds with raw power.
Splat.
“Did someone ever tell you that you’re insane?” the Blood Reaper said, watching him.
“I’m just taking precautions,” Roso replied, forcing some blood out of his body and coating his body in a visible aura of magic.
---
“Let’s end this,” Roso said coldly. “Vortex Impact!”
Swirl.
A concentrated spiral of wind energy formed, then shot forward like a thunderclap, striking the Blood Reaper in the abdomen.
Splorch.
The blow tore open his stomach, but the man barely flinched. He used his blood technique to rapidly heal the wound.
Roso didn’t stop.
“Vortex Impact! Vortex Impact!”
“Won’t even give me a moment to breathe, huh?” the assassin growled, half-laughing. “Fine. Let’s make it interesting.”
He released another blood technique—Blood Spark. His blood ignited on contact, turning every droplet into an explosive.
Boom! Boom! c***k! Fwoosh!
Explosions rocked the campus. Roso’s wind clashed with crimson flames, the street trembling under the force of two opposing powers—wind and blood, clashing in a storm of fury.
When the dust finally settled, the air reeked of iron and ozone. The boy and the assassin stood facing each other, battered but unyielding.
Neither had won—yet.
- Writer
