Ichor Cell-Chapter 40: Always running

The forest road unspooled in ribbons of damp black dirt, covered with dew and interspersed with roots that rose like knuckles in the moonlight. The cart rattled and protested at every bump. Grenil protested louder.
“Careful!” He shouted, both hands white-knuckled on the cart’s sideboard as it bounced over a shallow rut. “I didn’t live this long to be shaken to death!”
Alex’s reply was to dig his boots in and haul harder on the handles. The axles squealed, the boards creaked, and the cart leapt forward like a spooked mule. Branches scraped the canvas cover and sent a scatter of droplets pattering across its occupants.
From the back, Duran’s voice drifted forward, the one-armed man sounded almost bored. “Don’t worry. With Alexander here, dying would only be a mild inconvenience. Nothing to worry about.”
“Regardless of circumstances, death is never “Nothing to worry about”!” Grenil complained, His heart jumping between his throat and his stomach. “And we don’t know if it’ll work on someone as old as me!”
Alex angled them around a bend that the moon hadn’t got around to lighting yet. The cart skidded through damp leaves, kissed the lip of a ditch, and came down again, thumping. Behind them, men shouted in bursts—the sound traveling faintly through the trees.
“Persistent bastards.” Alex swore as he dodged around a particularly large root. “Why can’t they just leave us alone? It’s been two fucking weeks since they started hunting us. One group after another, after another, after another, like damn! Go away!”
He kept running. A frog tried to leap out of his way only to get flattened by the trundling wheels behind him.
“Shit, sorry!” Alex winced as he ran by, the cool night air dragging against his skin.
The weather had been getting progressively colder and more humid the further north the trio travelled; a welcome change after the dry and arid climate of Orenthia. The trees were thick and deciduous; their leaves made a ceiling that the moon had to thread its way through, splashing silver where it could.
The shouting came again, sharper now, closer. Alex angled the cart off the road, into the firmer carpet of old leaves beneath a stand of oaks. Almost immediately, a fallen log barred their path, threatening to stop them in their tracks. Filling his arms with mana, he yanked on the handles, lifting the cart into the air and making it feel weightless for a dozen strides.
Bringing it crashing back down, Alex continued running, the noise no doubt having helped their pursuers locate them.
“We need a place to hide you guys!” He shouted over his shoulder. “I can’t get rid of them until I know they won’t use you as hostages!”
Grenil yelled back, his voice barely audible over the rattle of the cart. “Then stop running in circles and find somewhere already!”
“Do I look like I have a map of every bush in this forest!?” Alex snapped.
“Apparently you have a map of every ditch,” Duran said, bracing himself as the wheels slammed into another one. “It certainly feels like we’ve hit all of them so far.”
“Don’t tempt me to drop you,” Alex threatened.
The undergrowth thinned. Ahead, the forest dropped into a shallow ravine, its bottom glimmering faintly where moonlight struck water. The sound of shouting had faded from behind them, but it was only a matter of time until they picked up on the cart’s path through the woods.
“There!” Grenil jabbed a finger toward a cluster of boulders at the ravine’s edge. Moss-covered, half-sunken, and irregularly spaced—like something had peppered the ground in car sized grapeshot. “Behind those!”
Alex swerved sharply. The cart tilted, nearly throwing Grenil out before slamming into level ground again. “Hold on!” he barked. Mana flared faintly along his arms as he dragged them over a bush, through the gap between two boulders, and into the narrow space beyond.
The ground dropped steeply. The cart lurched downward, scraped along a stone, then wedged itself between two rocks in a jarring stop. Dust rose around them as his passengers groaned.
Grenil wheezed, gripping his chest. “If I die from this, I’m haunting you.”
Alex crouched low, listening. Shouts echoed faintly through the trees again, too close for comfort. They had slowed down now, moving cautiously, the barked orders sharp and disciplined.
He turned to Duran. “Watch him.”
Duran raised a brow. “You’re going to fight them alone?”
“Why are you asking questions you know the answer to?” Alex shot back. “This isn’t the first time this has happened, and as far as I’m aware, neither of you are very helpful in a fight.”
Duran frowned and glanced down at his missing arm.
Grenil wiped sweat from his brow. “Don't look at me. I have no intention of spilling any blood. You can do it all for me.”
Alex didn’t respond, but his expression sharpened into something predatory. “Stay here.”
He slipped into the darkness without another sound.
Alex didn’t need to put much effort into finding his prey. The hunters were doing the hard work for him: shouting orders, breaking branches, stepping too heavily in boots that hadn’t been made for silence.
Seven of them. Two bows. Two swords. A staff. Of the last two, one had a pair of knives and the other appeared to be unarmed—a pugilist. They all wore what he had learned was the traditional Orenthian military garb, which was decidedly unsuitable for this climate, judging by their shivering.
“Fucking beast.” One of the swordsmen muttered as he hacked at a low hanging branch in frustration. “How is it possible for one single monster—intelligent or not—to escape the continued pursuit of our entire organisation for almost a month? Especially with two burdens on its back? It just… it doesn’t make sense!”
“Exactly the way it’s doing now.” The barehanded one said. “If you don’t shut up, it’ll get away from us too.”
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The swordsman rolled his eyes but obediently stopped talking, refocusing on scanning the darkness.
Alex watched them from his hiding place up in a nearby oak, hidden by its branches. He held his breath as the team passed by him, their forms filtering through the leaves below.
He stilled as one of the men, the pugilist, paused directly beneath him. The whole group tensed up as they turned their eyes to what Alex now realised was their leader. The man’s eyes scanned the bushes around him but couldn’t find anything.
“You okay?” One of the archers asked, the voice revealing her as a woman.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” The man shook his head. “Just feeling a bit nervous about this job. This is a Disaster tier we’re talking about. This could go very badly.”
“Not like we have much of a choice.” The archer shrugged. “Disobeying direct orders seems like a much more dangerous choice then hunting this thing.”
The man grunted in agreement at that and signalled for the group to keep moving.
‘Thank god the rule holds true even here.’
Alex wiped imaginary sweat off his brow at the close call.
‘People don’t look up.’
For a moment, he didn’t move, his eyes tracing the group’s shape against the dark forest floor. He could’ve ended them before they realized what was happening. Ripped them to shreds in the time it took for the mage to cast his first spell.
But he didn’t want to.
He sighed quietly through his nose. “I’ll try not to kill you, then,” he whispered, and dropped down from the branch.
He landed without a sound. The nearest man—one of the archers—didn’t even have time to turn before Alex’s hand snapped into the side of his jaw. The man went limp instantly. Alex caught him, eased him down, and dragged the body behind a tree.
The second archer—the woman—glanced back just as he moved away.
“What was—”
Alex’s boot connected with her chest before she finished. The air left her lungs in a single strangled gasp, and she crumpled.
Two down.
The pugilist’s head snapped up. “Enemy contact! Left flank!”
The group exploded into motion.
A knife whistled past him—the knife-user had thrown blind, guessing at his location. It grazed his shoulder, drawing blood. The cut wasn't deep—a shallow line of heat across his skin—but it hurt enough to make him bare his teeth.
So much for a clean takedown.
The squad used the opportunity to get into formation, grouping around their downed teammate—at least the one they could see. The mage moved to cover the woman, the two swordsmen stood at the front, while the knife-user and pugilist fanned out to flank. Their formation wasn’t perfect, but it was practiced. The kind of teamwork you only get from people who’ve fought together for years.
The swordsmen came in together—one high, one low—their timing almost perfect. Alex sidestepped the first strike and was forced to catch the second on his forearm. The steel biting only an inch deep into the mana reinforced limb before stopping.
Before he could retaliate, the knife-user darted in from the flank, his blades flickering through the shadows. Alex twisted away, easily avoiding the man’s attacks as he worked to regain his rhythm.
Unfortunately, this gave the pugilist an opportunity to close in on the other side, runes flaring orange—like a lesser version of the guard captain he had faced at the Miganos estate. His fists still carried a lot of force as they crashed into Alex’s guard, each hit driving him a step back.
The two swordsmen didn’t let up, timing their attacks between the pugilists strikes, not letting Alex take a breath. The mage stood up as he finished checking on their downed teammate.
“Sophia’s ok!” The mage shouted, light bleeding into the air around him as he started muttering a chant.
Alex ducked low to avoid another punch and stepped into the pugilist’s guard, slamming his shoulder into the man’s sternum. The fighter staggered, but the runes absorbed most of the impact. Alex grabbed his arm, twisted it, and kicked his knee sideways with a dull crack. The rune’s light flickered, the man dropping to one leg with a grunt.
Spinning around, he used the man’s limb to intercept one of the swordsmen’s blows. Steel screeched against forearm as he blocked the swing, grabbed the hilt, and flung the blade into the dirt. The second sword came for his throat. He leaned back, caught the man’s wrist, and elbowed him across the jaw.
“Elias!” Before he could reposition, the knife-user came up behind him, twin blades flashing. One nicked Alex’s ribs; the other drove deep into his shoulder. He growled, wrenching himself free, blood spilling down his side.
A sudden surge of mana pulsed across the clearing.
The mage’s spell released—rings of blue light rippling outward like waves across water. Each pulse pressed heavier than the last, suffocating the air. Alex staggered as his body turned sluggish under the weight.
He infused some mana into his legs and pushed through it.
The pugilist roared, charging again despite his limp. The rogue and one of swordsman regrouped at his sides, the other lying face down on the ground.
Alex barely ducked in time. Another throwing knife sliced across his cheek, leaving a burning trail. At this point, he was certain that the knives were coated in poison, so it was a good thing his healing seemed to counteract most of it.
The pugilist’s next punch clipped his temple. His vision blurred, the world spinning with blue light and movement.
He caught a glimpse of steel coming for his throat.
Mana flooded his limbs, surging from his core like a storm breaking loose. He punched the blade with his bare fist; the weapon cracked under the force and went flying out of its wielder’s hand.
Alex lunged forward, grabbed the swordsman by the collar, and hurled him into a tree. The man hit it with a loud crack and went limp.
He stared down at the still form, muscles sore. “Damn it.”
He didn’t have time to dwell on it for long. A burst of pain erupted as a dagger slid into his back. Turning around, he grabbed the offending rogue and slammed him into the ground. The man groaned, still conscious. Alex drew back his fist to finish it—then stopped, trembling.
'They’re just people.'
A fist crashed into his side, right below the ribs. White hot pain exploded through his body—somehow even worse than getting stabbed. His entire right side went numb. The force lifted him clean off his feet and sent him crashing into a nearby tree, the bark cracking from the force.
For a few seconds, his body refused to respond. His right arm hung dead, the muscles spasming violently. The taste of blood filled his mouth.
The pugilist didn’t wait. He was already on top of him, one knee pressing into Alex’s ribs as his fists came down in quick, brutal blows. Each strike carried enough force to crack stone.
Alex blocked the first few with his left arm, but every impact reverberated through his chest, turning his vision white. He tried to roll away, but the knee on his chest held him down, making escape difficult. On top of that, the rogue had recovered and was rushing in again, bloodied but furious.
“Captain!” The man’s blade glinted in the light as he drove it down between the other man’s blows and stabbed Alex in the gut.
The wound seemed to kick start his healing as he suddenly regained the use of his right arm, which he promptly used to rip the dagger out of his gut and stab it into the man's chest.
Ignoring the pugilist’s roar of anger at his teammate’s death, he caught the man by the throat and slammed him into the dirt once, twice, three times—the struggle stopped.
Spitting out a glob of blood, Alex rolled over and got up with a groan, surprised to notice that the mage’s suppression was no longer acting on him. Turning around, he found the man sitting on the other side of the clearing, staff hanging limp between his knees. The man stared in disbelief at his fallen teammates with his mouth opened as if to form another chant, but no sound came out.
Alex straightened slowly, arms trembling and head dizzy. “You’re not gonna try anything?” he asked.
The mage continued staring.
Alex sighed then gestured vaguely at the rest of the clearing. “You should… check on your friends. Some of them are still breathing.”
The mage didn’t move.
“Right,” Alex muttered awkwardly. “Good talk.”
With that, he turned and jogged off into the woods, putting the scene behind him before the man started screaming.
By the time he reached the cart again, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving only exhaustion in its place. The remains of his shirt clung damply to his skin, sticky with blood.
Grenil looked up as soon as he rounded the two boulders, his features morphing into concern. “You okay?” He asked.
“I’ve been better.” Alex leaned against the cart for a moment, catching his breath. After a few minutes, he forced himself up and indicated the cart. “We should go.”
He grabbed the handles again and tried pulling it back to the road, but it didn’t budge, firmly wedged between boulders as it was. Alex tried tugging on it a few more times, but to no avail. The cart was stuck.
“Oh.”