Someone was crying, and people were dying.
Amid the crying and the horrifying sound of blood bubbling from wounded throats, Vitus threw Silencer—once precious to him—onto the ground. He knew it would be damaged, but he thought it would not blame him.
He swung his right hand with all his strength. At the end of that hand was a sword, a sword left behind by the father he had never met. Though an outdated model, its disruption field now burst forth with a terrifying phosphorescent glow. Vitus watched it cut across someone's neck—someone he had never known—then saw blood and shredded flesh.
Excellent, he thought, slightly dazed. Instructor Tal would whip me for that unacceptable one-handed strike.
His thoughts were absurd, but his body was impossibly nimble. Before the blade had even completed its arc, he had instinctively stepped back twice, avoiding the chop of an axe. He then reversed his grip and slashed open the man's abdomen. Yet that did not seem to stop him completely. Beneath his ballistic helmet, those eyes still gleamed with brutal savagery.
Vitus realized it a moment too late, but his rigorously trained body had already put more force into the strike, cleaving through the man's chest and head in one blow.
The axe hit the ground heavily, and the shriek of incoming shells came from beyond the crude concrete fortification.
Vitus dropped flat by reflex, but kept his eyes fixed on the fortification's only entrance. Rubble and the axe dug painfully into his ribs, but he had no time to care. He merely stretched out an arm, seized Silencer, and deactivated his Power Sword.
The crying continued. He ignored it. Shells kept falling. He ignored them. Sweat and blood conspired with dust, running into his eyes. He still ignored it.
He held his