A couple [Shadow Steps] could theoretically help him cross certain distances without being seen at all. Not that Adrian knew how far it would take him. The original had out right refused to use any of the Shadow Mark skills.

One of the larger Orcs broke free from the group harrying the militiamen. It matched Adrian’s height and width in sheer ferocious frame. Crude iron, adorned with bones, skulls, and clinking trinkets, hung loosely off its shoulders. Not strapped in, but rather a statement of fashion, even if it was a hideous declaration. White and red war paint twisted across its tusked face, a symbol of its clan, not that Adrian had cared for which it was.

Orcs are meant to be killed. What does it matter if they were part of Sqwackfoot and Trampledstone. Racists, or was it speciest, but in a world of kill or be killed without hesitation, it didn’t matter. Not on the battlefield.

It roared a mighty battle cry, Axe cleaving an unlucky militiaman that had turned away from it. The rest of them stumbled backwards. It charged through the mud, somehow finding solid purchase on the treacherous ground. Its massive frame ate the distance between them with agility that should not have been possible of something so large and brute.

Adrian dropped into a defensive stance quicker than his thoughts could react. Muscle memory forced his large shield up. He braced for the charge. The armor’s weight was distributed oddly, much unlike what he expected with a lighter upper body, but its thickness promised him protection beyond what he could imagine.

He took a deep breath, Mark Energy surged through his limbs. Mentally, he prompted [Fortify Body] and felt it make him heavier, sturdier, capable of standing before a charging tank. The pathways cleared with no problem, years of training making it as easy as breathing. A part of his Father’s legacy, the birthright of House Sterkhander. His failure.

Adrian Sterkhander shouted an unintelligible battle cry of his own. Memories of watching everyone from his family achieving breakthroughs while he couldn’t get past the basics. He stepped forward. Shield braced for impact.

Adrian roared again.

The sound rippled from his throat with primal ferocity. The echoes of his voice momentarily drowned out the chaos around him, reverberating off the burning walls and collapsing structures of the village square. He could wallow in self-pity another day. No, another life. Whoever Adrian Sterkhander had been before, he wasn’t that man anymore. The weight of his failures. The shame of his squandered legacy. The expectations that had crushed him, none of it would find any purchase here. He gritted his teeth, his indignation boiling over like a storm in his veins. If the previous Adrian would have been disgusted by what he was about to do, so be it.

He would use the Shadow Mark, no matter how vile or unworthy it made him feel. The past was dead. Burned like the village building husks that littered the muddy ground at his feet. Ash and soot. The present was now, and now, Adrian would survive. No matter the cost.

The orc charged him like an enraged bull. Massive shoulders lowered, head tilted slightly to lead the blow. Adrian settled the shield and allowed his body to coil, braced himself instinctively. The impact was monumental. A thunderous collison echoed through the night. Louder than any car crash he had ever heard. It drowned out the crackling fire and the distant screams of the dying for a brief moment.

The force rattled Adrian’s bones, pain radiating out from his ribs—he’d forgotten about the injury, and now it screamed in protest. Another lanced through his torso, sharp and unforgiving, but he clenched his jaw and refused to falter. His body gave ground under the force. Thick metal boots skidding backward through the mud. Leaving deep tracks that kept getting deeper. His shield arm trembled from the sheer power of the blow.

The orc, however, paid dearly for its reckless assault. The beast’s own momentum betrayed it. Adrian’s braced stance held firm filled with Mark Energy. It had slammed into an unmovable wall. The collision sent the creature flying backwards in a heap of limbs. Body smashing into the ground with a dull, wet thud that was characteristic of limp bodies. Mud splattered into the air. It mingled with the blood and ash even more thoroughly.

The orc’s heavy war axe slipped from its grasp and landed with a solid clang nearby. Its axe head digging deep into the soft mud like it was butter. Feathers from the decorations in its hair drifted lazily through the air. Chips of broken bones from its armor and trinkets that were loosely tied either shattered or were ripped off its body in the crash. As if mocking the savage brutality of the moment. Its crown of feathers was now a mess.

Adrian was left in shock as the orc tried to get back up, clearly only stunned for the moment. The beast was only dazed, struggling to get its bearings. No broken bones to be seen, no vital injuries on its body, the metal didn’t even seem to bruise its face which took the brunt of the hit. His eyes drifted to his shield, to deep groove marks where the tusks had dug in remained on its thick metal surface.

“What the–” He muttered to himself, only to notice the orc try to dizzily crawl towards its axe.

He stepped forward. And swung his massive longsword. Armored boots splashing through the muck as he grunted with effort in an attempt to cut the things head off in a single stroke. The weight of the blade felt reassuring in his hands, but his ribs flared in protest as he flexed his body into the strike. He could only push the pain away to deal with later There was death to be had.

The orc, dazed and flat on its stomach, had barely begun to get its bearings when Adrian brought the blade down in a vicious arc. It was a killing blow, or so he thought. The orc rolled to the side, its instincts saving its hide from certain death. It barely dodged the edge of his blade. Adrian pressed his momentum. Swinging with reckless abandon, hoping to kill it without giving it a chance to get up.

Seven strokes before his sword slammed into the earth. It sunk deep into the mud. He cursed under his breath and wrenched the blade free. The weight of the mud clinging to the weapon was a minor annoyance. A quick flick sent it spraying back towards the orcs face, it reminded him of how savagely filthy this fight was.

I’ll clean the blade by driving it through its fucking chest! A part of his mind, dark and primal, reared its head. The suggestion was brutal in ways he could not decide on. He shivered at the thought. It wasn’t disgust or disdain; it was the realization of how easily such brutal logic came to him now. Orc blood was easy to clean off of their special blades, supposedly.

He lunged forward again, there was no time for hesitation.