Mordred did not see his target again.
He lay on the ground, his black blade still raised, his eyes staring at the empty space where Gareth had been. The weight was gone. The warmth was gone. The contact the real, tangible contact was gone.
A great wave of confusion hit his mind.
What just happened?
He did not move. Did not rise. Did not attack. He lay there, his thoughts churning, his mind racing through possibilities, explanations, impossibilities.
In battle, he thought, there are many aspects that always have to be monitored. In order to make sure you win.
He ticked them off in his head.
The strength of the opponent.
A pause.
And most especially... the mental state of the opponent.
His eyes narrowed.
If the mental state of the opponent is not balanced, then the battle is always won.
He considered his own mind the confusion, the frustration, the anger that was building in his chest.
But was my state of mind destroyed?
He thought about it. Really thought about it.
Well...
A slow smile crossed his face.
The answer is no.
He pushed himself up slowly, deliberately and sat on the sand. His blade rested across his knees. His eyes scanned the battlefield, searching for Gareth, for the devil who had disappeared.
It only built up conviction for me. His smile widened. And a very deep anger in my heart.
He stayed in one place.
He did not chase. Did not search. He simply sat there, his blade across his knees, his eyes closed, his mind working.
Well, he thought. I've found out at least one secret.
He opened his eyes.
He's using killing intent.
His brow furrowed.
But not in the way it is normally used. His usage of it is... ironically...
He searched for the word.
Manipulative.
He shook his head.
But I still don't know how it can be used like that.
Killing intent, he thought, his mind diving into the theory of it. The manifestation of the desire to kill. The manifestation of this desire is as strong as the desire itself.
He had known this since he was a child. Had felt it from his enemies, from his allies, from his own heart when the rage took him.
It can be used in mental battles... as well as being a lethal weapon.
He touched his chest where Gareth's hands had pressed, where the contact had been made.
Of course, if one is killed in the mind...
His voice dropped.
...death is no longer far from them.
He looked at the empty space around him.
This truly is dangerous. But why? Why and how is he using it like that?
Mordred started to break it down.
When he attacks me, I feel it. Every action made is being felt. And not just being felt it's impacted to a high degree. A very dangerous one.
He replayed the moments in his head the sword strikes that had almost killed him, the hand that had grabbed his face, the head that had smiled at him from the ground.
Using killing intent does this.
He paused.
But we also have to factor in that Gareth is not a master of killing intent.
He thought back to his childhood to the training sessions, to the lessons, to the man who had taught him how to hold a sword.
During the time he was alive, when I was young, he didn't use it to the potential that existed on a high level. The highest he could use it was to temporarily put fear into his enemies... and capitalize on that fear to bring them down.
His brow furrowed.
But this...
He looked at his hands at the hands that had driven a blade into Gareth's heart, that had felt the flesh part, that had known the kill was real.
...this is on a whole other level.
He shook his head.
Is it that
He stopped.
No.
He closed his eyes.
As Mordred kept checking what was going on, nothing made sense. There was no singular action that could be pointed to. No moment he could isolate and say, This is where it happened. This is where he tricked me.
His mind churned.
Think.
Think.
THINK.
Then like a rock dropped into still water it hit him.
During their earlier battle.
His eyes snapped open.
When I was choking Sir Gareth... he sprayed blood into my face. Multiple times. After biting his tongue.
The image came back to him the blood, warm and thick, splashing across his eyes, his nose, his lips. He had thought it was just defiance. Just hatred. Just a dying man's last fuck you.
But it was more.
It was the trap.
Mordred relaxed his entire body.
His shoulders dropped. His jaw unclenched. His breath slowed.
He now knew the reason Sir Gareth was called the devil.
Ever since the moment I crossed blades with him, Mordred thought, the plan has been underway.
He looked at the battlefield at the empty space where Gareth should have been, at the impossible absence of the man he had killed.
He lured me into his trap.
Mordred's voice echoed in his own head.
The devil walks in the shadows and controls the hand of man.
He remembered the stories the whispers he had heard as a child, the fear in the other knights' eyes when they spoke of Gareth.
He lives in the heart of man as he controls our actions.
He touched his chest over his heart and felt it beating. Steady. Alive. But was it his? Or had it been claimed?
He whispers into our ear as he prepares us for death.
The blood on his face. The warmth of it. The way it had lingered.
He temps us with good to kill us with bad.
The smile on Gareth's severed head. The peace in his eyes. The victory even in death.
The devil walks amongst men. And he lives within men.
Mordred looked up at the grey sky.
Such is Gareth.
His voice was barely a whisper.
The devil who walks amongst men.
Mordred sat on the sand, his blade across his knees, his eyes open.
And somewhere in the shadows, Gareth waited.