Chapter 954: Wasted Potential

The demonling tried to answer the loss of its first arm by driving another fist into the forest floor. Vask stepped aside before it landed, moving just far enough for the blow to pass him. Dirt burst against his boots, but he was already inside the creature’s reach when its arm struck the ground.

His sword crossed its abdomen in a flash of Holy light. The edge passed through flesh, thorns, and the hardened black growths beneath them, leaving a narrow line that opened as the demonling tried to straighten. Its scream had barely begun when Vask turned his wrist and cut through another arm.

The severed limb struck the ground hard enough to throw dirt across the soldiers behind him. Harven flinched at the impact, then looked back toward the fight. The creature that had charged their formation was losing pieces faster than he could decide where Vask intended to strike next.

Vask moved around another swing and cut through one leg at the knee. The demonling dropped sideways, catching itself with two of its remaining arms before its body could hit the ground. It swiped at him from that awkward position, but he ducked beneath the claws and took three fingers with the returning stroke.

Vlad watched the fingers tumble through the air. He had spent Aura cutting through the smaller Demonlings, while Harven had fought beside him until sweat soaked his clothes. Several soldiers were wounded, the priests had exhausted themselves suppressing the corruption, and their retreat had nearly ended beneath this creature’s fists. Vask looked as though the most demanding part of the encounter was waiting for it to stop moving.

The demonling dragged itself upright on its remaining leg. Black miasma spilled from the growths along its back, spreading between its shoulders as it raised another arm. Vask passed beneath the swing and brought his sword through the supporting knee.

This time, nothing caught the creature’s fall. Its chest struck the earth with enough force to shake the nearby trees, and its remaining limbs scrabbled against the ground as Vask approached its head. One arm came between them. He cut through it, stepped onto the creature’s shoulder, and looked down at its malformed face.

Its eyes followed the blade. There might have been fear beneath the rage by then, though Vask saw no reason to spend time deciding. He brought the sword down through its neck, and Holy light followed the edge until the head separated from the body.

Black blood poured across the earth. The body twitched twice beneath his feet, then settled. Vask stepped down from the corpse while the last traces of corrupted flesh burned away from his sword.

For several seconds, nobody spoke. The soldiers watched him examine the blade, then the enormous thing lying at his feet. When he frowned, Vlad found himself studying the expression more carefully than the corpse.

The boy looked irritated. Nothing in his posture suggested pain or exhaustion, and he showed little interest in the soldiers staring at him. Harven opened his mouth, but Vlad raised a hand before the knight could speak. Whatever he intended to say, the captain wanted him to consider it for longer than usual.

Neither man understood what was bothering Vask.

His attention had moved to the faint blue interface at the edge of his vision, where unspent points still waited to be assigned. He had deliberately left much of the Hero’s remaining potential untouched until he understood exactly where he wanted to invest it.

Even with that restraint, the demonling had been easy. Had it reached the formation, its first charge would have broken the shield line and left the soldiers beneath its arms. Vlad and Harven might have wounded it with Aura, and the priests and mages could have helped, but none of that would have happened quickly enough for everyone caught in front of it.

Vask looked over the men standing behind their shields. Half might have died before they injured the creature properly, with more lost before they brought it down. He had taken it apart without receiving a scratch, and he was still learning how to use what he had stolen.

Hiro had possessed far more.

The thought brought his attention back to the interface. There were advantages here that people spent entire lives trying to acquire: growth guided by a divine path, rewards for following it, a body strengthened beyond ordinary limits, and power particularly suited to fighting the things the Hero was expected to kill. Hiro had received all of that, along with the Holy Order’s support and the attention of gods.

Then he had spent far too much of it making himself more pleasant to look at.

Vask had seen the choices. Charm, appearance, Charisma, improvements meant to hold an audience’s attention or make women more agreeable. Hiro had treated the opportunities attached to his position as though their purpose was to improve the experience of being admired. Becoming capable of surviving an enemy who refused to admire him had apparently seemed less urgent.

If even half that effort had gone toward fighting, killing him might have been considerably more difficult. Hoyo might never have gotten him onto the table. There might have been enough resistance to turn the attempt into something dangerous, perhaps even enough to make him abandon it.

Instead, the Hero had ended as organs, bones, flesh, and useful grafts. Vask knew exactly how much value had remained inside him because he had been the one taking it out. It was difficult to respect a man whose potential became more useful once someone else began removing it.

His mouth tightened as he closed the interface. Harven saw the expression and looked away, apparently deciding that Vask had remembered being called a coward. Vask noticed the mistake but saw no benefit in correcting it. The knight’s opinion had occupied very little of his attention before the fight, and surviving the encounter had done nothing to make it more interesting.

He returned his attention to the sword. The rust was gone completely, leaving a plain, well-made blade that looked far less remarkable than its performance suggested. There were no gems in the pommel or golden wings spreading from the guard, only a practical weapon saturated with enough Holy power to burn corrupted flesh as it cut.

It was not Hiro’s sword. The true weapon of the current Hero remained with the Council of Betrayers, while this one had belonged to someone chosen much earlier. That Hero had eventually crossed the Council, apparently under the impression that divine approval prepared a man to challenge things older than the kingdoms worshipping his patrons.

The Council had kept the sword after killing its owner. Vask was beginning to suspect that their collection contained quite a few similar lessons. Being told the world needed them seemed to encourage Heroes to forget that parts of that very world had managed perfectly well before they arrived.

He slid the blade into its scabbard, hiding the remaining Holy glow, and turned toward the soldiers.

"The creature is dead. We can keep moving."

Several men looked from him to the corpse before remembering themselves. Harven’s jaw tightened, and for a moment it seemed he might finally find something to say. An apology would have been appropriate, though Vask had already begun walking toward the group without waiting for one.

That unsettled the knight more than a boast would have. Vask could have reminded everyone who had called him a coward or asked whether Harven still wanted him standing at the front. The soldiers would have understood that reaction. Some might even have laughed, relieved to discover that the young man was merely proud and offended.

Instead, he let the insult pass without comment. To men who had just watched him save their formation, that looked generous. Vask had no intention of explaining that he simply did not care enough to hold the argument against anyone.

Father Pedri approached before he reached the others. Concern settled naturally across the old priest’s face as he examined Vask’s arms, shoulders, and clothing. Vask tolerated the inspection, although Clementine had watched the fight closely enough to know precisely how little had touched him.

"Did the thorns catch you anywhere? Or the miasma?"

"No injuries. Nothing from the miasma worth mentioning."

Pedri rested a hand against his shoulder and passed a small amount of Holy energy through him anyway. It was a reasonable precaution for a priest to take, especially with soldiers and three fellow clergy watching. He finished with two gentle taps against Vask’s shoulder.

"You did well."

Vask studied the concern that remained on his face. Clementine appeared entirely comfortable playing the humble priest relieved to find his young charge unharmed. He was probably enjoying himself.

"You’re getting good at this."

"Years of experience."

Pedri’s faint smile could have meant almost anything. He gave Vask’s shoulder a final reassuring squeeze, then turned toward Vlad and the men beginning to gather around their wounded.

"We should leave, Captain."