Gareth jumped up far high at such a great speed that he could not be seen by the human eyes.
His body launched from the broken ship soaring into the storm-dark sky, cutting through the rain, ascending like a comet of darkness. The wind screamed past his ears. The rain lashed against his face. The world below shrank to a patchwork of blood and wood and death.
The soldiers at the top of the great vessels that surrounded the entire area all saw it as just a blur. A shadow. A flicker of something that should not exist.
One of the navy men saw him.
His eyes widened. His mouth opened. His heart stopped. Fear seeped throughout his entire body like ice water through a cracked vessel.
The devil, he thought, his inner voice a scream that never reached his lips. He looks like a devil in the sky.
As Gareth had jumped in that very second, he released a very large amount of killing intent. It spread like a huge wave crashing against the ships, washing over the men, drowning their wills in a sea of terror.
He used the first wave of the killing intent to establish something that he would use as the foundation for his victory. As he spread the killing intent, he formed it in a way that it was pure terror not the fear of death, not the fear of pain, but something deeper. Something that crawled into the mind and nested there.
Men that saw him saw a twisted version of something that they could not understand. It was like the figure of a human and many beasts that had come together a fusion of nightmare and flesh, a monster that should not exist.
He went to one ship, landing at the rear like a boulder that had been thrown there. His feet slammed against the deck CRASH! splintering the wood, shaking the vessel, announcing his presence.
He sliced through the bodies of two men that were in his front.
SHLIK! SHLIK!
Their blood sprayed across his face, painted his armor, fueled his rage. He used their blood as cover, making another attack his body twisting, his spear extending, his will absolute.
Bending his body, he placed the spear in one hand and stabbed from afar, making long-ranged attacks. He aimed just at the points he needed to hit throats, hearts, eyes each strike precise, deadly, efficient.
They swarmed him.
Like ants, wanting to tear him apart, they came from all directions their blades raised, their faces twisted, their fear overwhelmed by the desperation of the moment. They were like the waves of the Infinite Sea overwhelming, raw, nerve-calm.
But unlike them, Gareth was like still water.
In still water there is death. The unknown lies in it, unable to be approached. Not being known, being calm, he was careful enough. He did not waste movement. Did not waste energy. Did not waste anything.
About thirty men were all close to him, and within that tiny enclosure, he was able to pull off a series of attacks using the spear in ways that weapons are not normally used.
He spun the shaft deflecting a blade, tripping a soldier, opening a path. He thrust forward piercing a throat, retracting the weapon, turning it around. He swung the blunt end cracking a skull, knocking another soldier off balance, creating more space.
His movements were fluid, graceful, impossible. He was not fighting he was expressing. The malice that had filled him, the power that had transformed him, was flowing through every fiber of his being.
He killed twenty of them.
The rest lost their limbs arms severed, legs shattered, bodies broken. They were as good as dead.
He stood there.
His chest rose and fell. His breath was steady. His heart was calm.
He noticed something odd with his body.
During the fight, he had tired his best to make sure he reserved energy. Every movement was calculated. Every strike was measured. He had not wasted a single ounce of strength.
But nothing went wrong.
He did not feel tired. In fact, from the very beginning, it felt as if he had no energy and yet he had all energy. It was a paradox, a contradiction, a miracle.
He looked at the blood-soaked spear in his hand intently.
He smiled.
He looked up.
So this is the power of malice, he said to himself, his inner voice quiet, almost reverent. That your blade Arondight had.
He spoke aloud.
"See, god." His voice was calm, steady, devoted. "I have killed them."
He paused.
"It's only possible because of the power you gave me."
Darlington watched.
He could not help but be entertained the spectacle of it all, the dance of violence, the will of a man who had been broken and remade. But beneath the entertainment, there was something else.
Caution.
He watched Gareth's movements the efficiency, the precision, the lack of fatigue. He saw the malice flowing through him, the power that had been gifted by Lancelot's blade, the potential for something more.
This pawn, he thought, his inner voice quiet, calculating, uncertain. Is becoming something I did not expect.
He leaned back.
I must be careful.
He is still useful.
But useful tools can become dangerous weapons.
Gareth stood on the ship.
The bodies lay around him.
And the sea roared.