The Pathfinder's Oath

The initial attack from Aiden, a chilling blur of intent, was still a fresh shock, but he didn't pause. The dagger, which had just grazed Miriam's arm, flashed again, already retracting and striking with blurring speed, a dark whisper through the distorted air.

This was no longer a lesson; it was a lethal dance, a hunt where the hunter knew every move their prey would make, every instinct they possessed. His attacks were precise, designed not merely to wound but to incapacitate or kill, striking with terrifying accuracy at arteries, joints, and vital organs.

He moved like a ghost, a ripple in the distorted air, seeming to teleport just a few feet at a time, each "Path-step" placing him in a perfectly advantageous position for a killing blow. His sleek, full-face helmet remained impassive, an empty void that offered no clue to his intentions, no flicker of emotion or hesitation.

The silence of his assault was almost as chilling as his speed, a terrifying counterpoint to the desperate clangs of steel and the ragged gasps of his former students.

Miriam, sprawled on the ground, gasped, a choked sound as the dagger flicked towards her throat. Her body, hyper-aware from days of relentless training and supercharged by the elixir, reacted an instant before her mind fully registered the mortal danger.

She rolled, a desperate scramble that was clumsy but agonizingly effective, feeling the whoosh of displaced air as the blade sliced inches from her ear, the wind of its passage a chilling caress.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of terror, but amidst the raw fear, a strange, crystalline clarity began to emerge. This wasn't a game, a drill, or a theoretical exercise.

This was real, cold, lethal intent. And Aiden, the stoic teacher who had unveiled himself just moments ago, was now the predator, a silent, unfeeling force of death. She pushed herself up, staggering, her eyes wide, every nerve screaming.

Sascha, a guttural roar tearing from his throat, brought Excalibur down in a furious arc. The legendary blade, usually so eager to meet an enemy, found only empty air as Aiden vanished from beside Miriam, reappearing behind Sascha with chilling speed, a dark phantom.

A cold steel kiss brushed Sascha's kidney, a shallow cut that burned more from the shock of the attack than the wound itself, a stark reminder of Aiden's impossible precision. Sascha pivoted, his muscles screaming in protest, Excalibur humming a desperate song of defense, vibrating frantically in his grip.

Sascha swung again, wider this time, trying to force Aiden back, to create space, but the Pathfinder was too quick, flowing around his powerful, but comparatively slow, movements like water around a stone.

The training, the abstract notion of "listening" to Excalibur's subtle guidance, suddenly gained a brutal, life-or-death context. He felt the sword thrumming not just to distortions in the environment, but to the imminent threat, guiding his parries, urging him to anticipate.

He shifted his stance, moving with a subtle sway the sword seemed to suggest, narrowly avoiding a precise thrust aimed at his exposed knee. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision narrowing to the deadly dance.

Sona, who had instinctively unleashed a wild burst of uncontrolled magic in her initial panic, found her spells dissipating into the Thicket's chaotic energy before they could even reach Aiden, absorbed by the ambient distortion.

Panic threatened to overwhelm her, a cold wave of helplessness washing over her as her power seemed useless. But then, Aiden's teachings about ambient manipulation and weaving magic around ripples slammed into her consciousness with the force of a physical blow.

She wasn't just fighting the Thicket's distortion; she was fighting Aiden, who used the distortion, who flowed with it. As Aiden lunged towards Sascha, creating a momentary, localized warp in space around himself, Sona saw it—not with her physical eyes, but with her newly heightened arcane senses, now sharpened by the elixir. A flicker, a momentary weakness, a seam in the Thicket's interference around him.

Instinct took over, overriding her fear. Instead of a large, unwieldy blast, she focused a concentrated burst of raw, unshaped arcane energy through that precise, fleeting window, a needle-thin spear of force.

It wasn't an attack designed to cause physical harm, but a sudden, intense disruption aimed purely at the space Aiden occupied. It hit, not physically, but vibrated through the air around him, a discordant hum that made him stumble for the barest fraction of a second, his lethal momentum momentarily broken, his seamless flow interrupted. It was a fleeting victory, but a victory nonetheless.

Lucille, her initial shock giving way to desperate, frantic analysis, barked orders, her voice gaining a sharp, commanding edge despite its tremor. "Sascha, don't overcommit! Guard your flank! Miriam, stay low, anticipate the re-entry! Sona, focused disruptions, look for the seams!" Her mind, forced into overdrive by the sheer, unbridled lethality of Aiden's assault, began to frantically update her mental maps.

Aiden wasn't just fast; he was using the Thicket itself, bending its reality to his advantage. His "Path-steps" were now weaponized teleports, appearing and disappearing at will. "He's using the distortions as cover and a method of movement!" she yelled, her gaze darting.

"Anticipate the bend in reality before the strike! Look for the displacement in the air, the subtle shimmer that gives him away!" Lucille eyes darted, not just at Aiden himself, but at the air around him, at the faint ripples and shifts that preceded his impossible leaps.

As Aiden feinted towards Miriam, a sudden blur that threatened to overwhelm, Lucille shouted, "Miriam! Back and to the right! He'll come from your six, low!" Her voice was strained, but piercingly clear, guiding Miriam away from a follow-up attack she couldn't possibly see with her eyes alone, a grim testament to her evolving tactical genius.

Miriam, fueled by adrenaline, the potent elixir, and the sheer terror of Aiden's relentless assault, found her rogue's agility honed to a razor's edge. She was no longer just dodging; she was predicting. Her senses, sharp as flint, picked up on the pre-cognitive whispers of the Thicket.

Miriam moved with an eerie fluidity, her body becoming a blur as she flowed through warped space, just as Aiden had taught her, but now applied in a life-or-death context. He lunged, a sudden, impossible lunge, and she anticipated, twisting into a defensive crouch, letting the dagger slice through the air above her head, the whistling sound a chilling reminder of how close she came.

She saw the next subtle flicker in the Thicket, an almost imperceptible shift in the light that betrayed Aiden's next Path-step, and instinctively rolled, throwing herself behind a massive, gnarled root that pulsed faintly with dark energy, using the environment as a shield. Her mind screamed for escape, but her body was learning to fight this impossible threat.

Arianne, seeing the brutal, undeniable reality of the situation, pushed past her initial shock, her paladin's instincts overriding her personal feelings. She couldn't fight Aiden directly; his skill was clearly beyond her, but she could protect. Her paladin's instincts, combined with her "combat medic" drills that had taught her battlefield awareness and positioning, kicked in with surprising force.

As Sascha parried a furious sequence of strikes, his heavy swings too slow for the Pathfinder, Arianne moved. She wasn't attacking, but positioning, creating lines of sight for Sona's arcane disruptions, pulling Miriam back from a vulnerable, exposed spot, her movements surprisingly swift and decisive for her age and typical combat role.

She was a moving shield, a strategic presence that, despite being unarmed, subtly shifted the chaotic flow of combat, her gaze constantly sweeping, assessing threats and vulnerabilities.

The initial clumsy reactions, the flailing panic, were gone. The fear was still undeniably present, a cold knot in their stomachs, a primal terror that clawed at their throats, but it was now overlaid with the sharp, instinctive reflexes that Aiden had painstakingly hammered into them.

This was the true test, the deadly exam. And they were passing, barely, surviving by the grace of their brutal, unconventional training.

Aiden was not just attacking their bodies; he was attacking their minds, dissecting their fear, forcing them to use every lesson, every honed sense, every new perception, to survive. This was the hunting ground, and they were the prey learning to bite back, their survival instinct sharpened into a weapon.

Aiden continued his relentless assault, a silent, deadly whirlwind of precise strikes and reality-bending shifts. The Thicket groaned around them, a living nightmare that resonated with the furious clangs of steel and the desperate, bewildered cries of the White Eagle Party.

They moved with a newfound, if terrifying, grace, their enhanced senses tingling, anticipating Aiden's every lethal lunge. Cuts appeared on their armor and skin, shallow gashes and angry scrapes, but they were minor, deflected or narrowly avoided thanks to the brutal lessons of the past two days.

They were surviving, adapting with astonishing speed, but the why remained a horrifying enigma, fueling a desperate, rising indignation that began to mix with their pure, unadulterated fear.

"What in the blazes are you doing?!" Sascha roared, the clang of Excalibur meeting Aiden's dagger echoing like a death knell through the gloom. He gritted his teeth as Aiden flickered past him, a blur of dark armor, the air rippling in his wake.

"This isn't training! You're trying to kill us, you madman!" Sascha voice was raw, a desperate mix of fury and bewildered disbelief, unable to reconcile their quiet, weary teacher with this lethal, unfeeling hunter.

He swung Excalibur in a wide, desperate arc, trying to catch Aiden, feeling the sword vibrate furiously as Aiden effortlessly stepped through a micro-distortion, reappearing behind him, too fast, too precise.

Miriam, weaving through a volley of rapid thrusts that would have been impossible to dodge days ago, movements almost too quick for the eye to follow, let out a frustrated cry that was half snarl.

"Are you out of your mind, Aiden?! We just took your damn elixirs! Are you testing their healing properties?! Because if so, this is a terrible way to do it!" Miriam ducked under a horizontal sweep aimed for her midsection, her voice sharp with a mix of fear and genuine outrage, desperation coloring her words. "What is wrong with you?! What is the point of this massacre?!"

Sona, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and nascent, uncontrolled power, struggled to focus her arcane disruptions. She managed to hit the air where Aiden had just been, causing a ripple of static electricity and momentarily fuzzing his image, but it was not enough.

"Aiden, please stop!" Sona pleaded, her voice trembling, on the verge of breaking. "Why are you doing this?! We trusted you! We listened to you!" Her magic flared, unfocused, a desperate plea rather than a calculated attack, the raw emotion disrupting her arcane flow.

The idea that their protector, the one who had just shown them his weary, human face, could turn so suddenly, so lethally, was shattering her timid composure, tearing at her faith.

Lucille, dodging a lightning-fast feint that ended with a dagger inches from her ear, stumbled back, her face a mask of shock and frantic, desperate calculation. "This... this makes no sense!" she gasped, her voice strained, bordering on a cry.

Her mind raced, a furious, desperate attempt to find the logic, the tactical reason for this sudden, murderous assault. "We're not ready for this! This isn't a test, it's a... a slaughter!" She barked out a warning to Sascha, her voice holding a note of pure, utter confusion. "He's not fighting tactically, he's just... hunting! What's the objective here?! What is the ultimate goal?!" The cold precision of Aiden's attacks defied her understanding of proper engagement, of any known battlefield strategy.

Arianne, her face etched with grim determination, moved instinctively to shield Sona from a sudden, brutal lunge. She saw the flash of Aiden's dagger, aimed for Sona's unarmored side, and instinctively put herself in the way, narrowly avoiding the strike by a hair's breadth, feeling the chill of its passage.

"Aiden! You said they needed experience, not execution!" Arianne cried out, her voice filled with a paladin's righteous anger mixed with a mother's fierce, protective rage. "This is beyond a lesson! This is barbarism! What is your purpose here?! What demon possesses you?!"

Her confusion was profound; she had seen the genuine care, however harsh, in his eyes just moments before, and now this, this utterly cold, murderous intent.

Their questions, their pleas, their furious demands, were met with absolute silence. Aiden was a machine, a phantom of deadly intent, his every move a testament to his unmatched skill and an unreadable, horrifying objective.

The only sounds were the whistling of his daggers, the grunts of the party, and the increasingly frantic thrum of the Thicket itself, as if the corrupted forest itself was holding its breath, observing the brutal trial.

The Thicket pulsed, a living nightmare that resonated with the furious clangs of steel and the desperate, bewildered cries of the White Eagle Party. They moved with a raw, unrefined grace, their newfound senses tingling, anticipating Aiden's every lethal lunge.

Cuts appeared on their armor and skin, minor, superficial wounds that nonetheless stung with a sharp pain, but they were deflected or narrowly avoided thanks to the brutal lessons of the past two days, their bodies reacting faster than thought.

They were surviving, holding on by a thread, adapting with astonishing, terrifying speed, but the why remained a horrifying enigma, a burning question in their minds.

"Aiden, for the love of all that's holy, explain yourself!" Sascha bellowed, his voice raw with exertion and frustration as he parried a strike that would have gutted him.

Excalibur sang, a high-pitched wail, warning him of a flicker to his right, and he pivoted just as Aiden's dagger whistled past his ear, too close for comfort. "What is this?! What's the point of trying to murder us?!" His fury was matched only by his utter bewilderment.

Miriam, flowing through a rapidly shifting pocket of warped air, her form almost blurring, barely avoiding a downward chop that aimed for her head, snarled, "Is this your idea of a field trip, Pathfinder?! Because I'm getting mixed signals here! Why are you doing this?!"

Her movements were becoming more fluid, less reactive, more anticipatory, but her voice crackled with fury and profound confusion, a desperate need for answers.

Sona, mustering her courage, her face pale but her resolve hardening, managed to disrupt a "Path-step" that would have put Aiden behind Lucille, creating a localized void of energy.

The air shimmered violently around Aiden, causing him to momentarily hesitate, his seamless flow briefly broken. "Please, Aiden! Tell us what you want! What is this for?! What is the purpose of this madness?!"

Her voice was a desperate, pleading cry amidst the chaos, her magic now more focused by her desperate need for understanding.

Lucille, dodging a lightning-fast feint that would have ended her, stumbled back, her mind reeling, trying to compute the sheer, unbridled lethality of Aiden's actions. "He's not engaging, he's testing! But for what?! This isn't a drill! There's no logical conclusion for this level of aggression without a clear objective!" Her voice was strained, on the verge of breaking. "Give us a purpose, Aiden! Give us a reason!"

The cold precision of Aiden's attacks defied Lucille's understanding of proper engagement, of any known tactical theory.

Aiden, a dark wraith amidst the distortions, suddenly skidded to a halt. He stood perfectly still, his helmeted gaze sweeping over them, acknowledging their growing competence, their still-shaky but undeniable ability to anticipate his killing moves.

The air around him seemed to thicken, the Thicket holding its breath, a silence descending that was heavier than the chaos.

Then, he spoke. His voice, flat, devoid of emotion, sliced through the tense quiet like a shard of ice, carrying a chilling finality that made every member of the party's spine shiver.

"Survive."

The single word hung in the air, cold, stark, brutal, a horrifying revelation. Miriam's breath hitched, a choked sound. Sascha's grip on Excalibur tightened, a dawning horror in his eyes as the true meaning slammed into him. Sona's desperate plea died in her throat, replaced by a silent scream. Lucille's analytical mind, for the first time, snapped everything into horrifying focus, the pieces of the puzzle falling into a terrifying pattern.

Arianne, however, felt a sickening lurch in her gut, a wave of cold dread washing over her, confirming the unspoken, horrifying truth she had instinctively sensed. This was what Aiden had meant by "first-hand experience."

Not training against other entities, but surviving him. Surviving the ultimate, unpredictable threat. Her heart ached with the brutal realization, the cold calculation behind his words. She had sought to ease his burden, to offer respite, and he had used that moment of trust to begin their deadliest trial.

"Aiden, no!" Arianne cried out, stepping forward, her hands outstretched in a desperate, pleading gesture. Her voice was raw with anguish and moral outrage. "There must be another way! This is too much! They are not ready for this kind of... a trial! This is too brutal! Use another option! Please, Aiden!"

Aiden's head tilted, his helmet still impassive, utterly unreadable. But the shift in him was palpable, chilling. The slight hesitations, the almost imperceptible adjustments he had made previously to allow them to "anticipate," to learn, vanished. He didn't confirm nor deny Arianne's plea; his silence, his continued posture of coiled predation, was confirmation enough.

He zoned in.

The casual, almost relaxed fluidity of his previous attacks vanished, replaced by an absolute, terrifying focus, a machine-like precision devoid of any human element. He moved, not just with speed, but with an impossible grace that seemed to bend the very fabric of the Thicket around him, making the air warp to his will.

He wasn't just using "Path-steps"; he was becoming the path, a living embodiment of the distortion. He wasn't navigating distortions; he was moving through "The Path" fully, a seamless dance through the momentary pockets of true reality, appearing and disappearing with such impossible precision that he seemed to exist in multiple places at once, a dark, flickering presence.

His daggers were no longer just strikes; they were extensions of the Thicket's own chaotic energy, appearing from unexpected angles, their trajectories shifting mid-arc, designed to find the gaps, to end the lives.

This was not training. This was Aiden, the Pathfinder, moving at his full, terrifying potential, demonstrating the true, brutal meaning of "survive." The test was no longer about learning; it was about living.