I Got Isekai'd, Well Shyt!

Chapter 112: Taking a Prisoner (2)

"YAHHH!" Dan roared, his voice raw with ferocity as he swung the massive hammer around him with wild abandon, the momentum threatening to unleash another violent strike upon Percy.

Suddenly, an ominous glow enveloped Dan’s form, pulsating with a vibrant red light as he channeled mana from deep within, infusing it into his weapon, transforming it into a formidable extension of his will.

A guttural roar ripped from Dan’s throat as he charged, his shoulders hunched and every muscle coiled like a sprung trap. His eyes, narrowed to furious slits, burned with a singular focus on Percy. He hefted the massive hammer overhead, the head shimmering with a faint, predatory red light. "Dodge THIS!" he howled, the words tearing from his lungs as the weapon descended, not as a tool of war, but as an instrument of pure annihilation, aimed to obliterate Percy from existence.

The air itself seemed to thicken, resisting the hammer’s fall, but the crushing blow was mere inches from its mark when fate—or precision—intervened. A faint whistle, sharp and final, cut through the din. An arrow, black-feathered and wickedly barbed, blurred past, its trajectory impossibly true. It struck Dan’s shoulder with a sickening wet thud, the force of the impact punching him sideways.

The hammer, suddenly unguided by its master’s pain-fueled rage, veered from its path.

CRASH!

The sound was not a simple impact, but a violent explosion of force. The ground didn’t just break; it buckled, a spiderweb of cracks radiating out from the crater left by the mana-charged weapon. Chunks of earth and shattered rock, glowing with residual energy, vomited into the air, hanging for a moment before raining down like jagged hail.

"AARGH! The archer!" Dan’s voice was a raw, strangled thing, half agony, half disbelief. He staggered back, his face a mask of shock as he stared at the feathered shaft protruding from his joint. Crimson bloomed across his leather tunic, dark and stark against the worn brown. He clutched at the wound, his fingers slick with his own blood, his bellow of command dissolving into a pained grunt as the arrowhead grated against bone.

The mercenaries’ visibility vanished. A churning, gritty cloud, thick with the scent of pulverized stone and ozone, swallowed the landscape. Within that brown-out, Percy was a ghost. He didn’t retreat; he flowed with the chaos, his movements a silent, deliberate dance through the flying debris. He used the cover not just to hide, but to close the distance, his senses attuned to the panicked shifts and shuffles of his blinded enemies.

Hagen, sword held in a white-knuckled guard, was the closest. He squinted into the dust, his head turning wildly, trying to pinpoint the direction of the next attack. The cloud began to thin.

Percy erupted from the haze, a sudden, violent motion of muscle and steel. He was not running; he was launching himself. His long sword, a streak of silver in the gloom, swung in a low, horizontal arc.

CLANG!

The screech of metal on metal was sharp and brief as Hagen instinctively parried, the force of the blow vibrating up his arm. His eyes widened, a gasp of surprise on his lips. "SHIT! HE’S ON M—"

He got no further. Percy didn’t give him the breath. In the same fluid motion, his other hand brought a short sword up from his hip, the blade flashing as it deflected Hagen’s hasty riposte. Then came the dagger.

The sounds became a frantic, percussive rhythm, a deadly symphony of close-quarters combat.

CLING! – Dagger parried a desperate thrust.

CHING! – Short sword slammed against Hagen’s guard, driving him back a step.

THRUST! – Long sword darted forward, nicking Hagen’s ribs.

SPLAT!

The final sound was wet and definitive. Hagen, over-committed and off-balance from Percy’s relentless assault, left an opening. Percy exploited it with brutal efficiency. The dagger, angled upwards, plunged deep into Hagen’s eye socket, its point driving through the fragile bone and lodging deep in the back of his skull. The man’s body went rigid, a strangled cough escaping his lips, then he collapsed, a dead weight hitting the dusty ground.

"Dalia! BRAWL MODE! NOW!" Percy’s voice was sharp, a command laced with urgency.

"Thought you’d never ask," came her reply, a purr of predatory excitement. "Was getting bored holding back."

From a different vantage point, Dalia moved. She wasn’t just running; she was a blur of motion, her coiled strength finally unleashed. She closed the distance to Sigmund and Czes in three ground-eating strides, her claws—lethal extensions of her fingers, shimmering with faint light—sweeping through the air.

Sigmund’s face twisted, veins pulsing at his temples as a guttural roar tore from his throat. "FUCK! Does this bitch really think she can take us both? YAHH!" His cry was a raw thing, born of fury and disbelief, as he brought his longsword around in a sweeping arc. The blade hissed through the air, a blur of honed steel aimed to cleave her from shoulder to hip.

But Dalia was no longer there.

She dropped into a crouch, the wind of the passing blade flattening her hair against her scalp. The momentum of her drop carried her forward, a low, fluid slide that brought her between the two men. As she passed Czes, her hand snaked out, fingers curled like talons. Czes lurched back, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as three parallel lines of crimson bloomed across his chest, parting the tough leather of his tunic as if it were parchment. The gash was deep, revealing pale tissue beneath.

"ARGH!" The sound was more of a wet choke than a scream. He staggered, one hand flying to the searing wound, his face a mask of shock. Before he could regain his footing, Dalia’s boot lashed out. The impact drove the air from his lungs in a violent whoosh, propelling him backward. The back of his skull connected with a jagged rock face with a sickening, wet crack. His body went limp, a puppet with its strings cut, and he crumpled to the dusty ground. A final, gurgling "GRRRAAAAAHHHHHH!" was his only reply.

"NO! YOU’LL FUCKING PAY FOR THAT!" Sigmund’s voice was a ragged sob of rage. He abandoned any pretense of form, charging with a wild overhead swing, his face a contortion of grief and fury.

"Come on! Come on!" Dalia’s voice was a low, predatory purr, a stark contrast to his fury. "I’ll make it quick for ya!" She met his charge, her own movements economical and precise. His clumsy, grief-fueled strike she swatted aside with a swipe of her claws, steel screeching against the mana-hardened talons. The clash of steel rang out, sharp and violent in the sudden silence. He swung again, a desperate horizontal slash. She sidestepped, then hooked her claws around his blade in a fluid motion. With a sharp jerk, his sword went spinning from his grasp, clattering uselessly against the rocks.

Sigmund’s eyes widened, his fury momentarily replaced by dawning horror. Before he could even process his disarmament, Dalia was inside his guard. Her other hand, claws glinting, shot forward. There was a wet, tearing sound, obscenely loud in the stillness. Sigmund staggered back, his hands flying to his chest, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

"H-HOW!? How!?" The question was a pathetic whisper, his gaze locked on the clawed fist plunged into his torso. Blood welled up around her wrist.

"Hmm?" Dalia tilted her head, a flicker of something cold and ancient in her eyes. "Because you’re weak? Because you should have never angered my wolf." With a final, brutal tug, she ripped her hand free. Clutched in her fingers was a wet, crimson mass, still twitching. "Because of that, I won’t give you the dignity of dying slowly." She raised the stolen heart, her grip tightening until it burst in a shower of gore.

"Bitc~!" The word was a final, strangled exhalation as Sigmund’s eyes rolled back in his head. The light in them died. He slid to the ground, a heap of steel and flesh, his own blood pooling around him.

***

While Dalia clashed with Sigmund and Czes elsewhere, Percy’s own battle reached its grim conclusion. With a slick, sickening sound, he wrenched his dagger free from Hagen’s skull. The merc’s corpse collapsed in a heap, the impact echoing through the clearing.

Heavy footfalls slammed behind him, THUD, THUD, THUD! as Dan gave chase, his shattered hammer abandoned in the crater behind him, blood streaming from the arrow wound in his shoulder.

"Think you’re so fucking tough? You’re going to pay for this with your life, boy!" Dan roared, his voice raw with fury.

"You come here to kill my men! To kill me and my group!" he bellowed, raising a meaty hand for the finishing blow. Percy, still gasping, managed a desperate parry with his dagger, the metal screeching against Dan’s knuckles. He followed with a sharp kick to the merc’s chest, sending the larger man stumbling back.

"I’ll give you the option to live or die, Merc," Percy rasped, shifting his grip to the short sword at his hip. "The choice is yours."

’Tck,’ he thought, muscles coiling. ’This one’s going to be a pain in the ass.’

"Thought you could get away from me, boy! But you’re just as foolish as you look! Now prepare to die!" Dan bellowed, his entire body suddenly shimmering with a menacing crimson aura. He launched himself forward, a freight train of pure murderous intent, the air crackling with the sheer energy radiating from his form.

Percy rooted himself, every sense screaming. His narrowed eyes tracked the merc’s approach, heart hammering against his ribs. ’Come on. Just a little closer,’ he urged, the tension in the air so thick he could almost taste it as the man devoured the distance between them.

Ten feet—that’s all the distance between Percy and death when the mercenary lunged, fist raised for the killing blow. A glimmer of white seared across Percy’s peripheral vision. The arrow was a phantom, impossibly swift, slicing through the battle’s clamor. It struck with a sharp, final crack. Dan’s swaggering confidence shattered into disbelief, his grin collapsing into slack-jawed shock. A gasp, half-formed, died on his lips. Then his body folded, a puppet with its strings cut. He crashed forward, not as a man but as dead weight, skidding across the dusty earth before settling into an eerie, unnatural stillness.

The air, thick with violence, seemed to thin. Percy’s knuckles, white around his sword hilt, slowly unclenched. A breath he hadn’t known he was holding escaped in a ragged rush. Adrenaline bled away, leaving behind a hollow ache. Information, not a corpse, he thought, the cold logic a flimsy shield against the tremor in his hands. We know where they are now. That’s something.

"Nice shot, Lady Nieren!" His voice was raw. "I owe you one." He scanned the shadows, where she stepped forth now, bow in hand, a predatory gleam in her eyes that eclipsed any simple triumph.

"You better believe it," she countered, her smile a sharp-edged thing.

Percy grimaced after a long silence. "It’s a shame that we couldn’t take one of them alive..."

"Hm? He’s not dead, Percy," Nieren said, nudging Dan’s motionless form with the toe of her boot. A soft moan, barely audible, confirmed it. "Just... temporarily incapacitated."

"What?" Percy’s head snapped up, disbelief warring with hope.

"I used one of the only two Shyft Arrows I had left. You know how rare they are!?"

Percy’s mind snagged on that detail. Rare. "What do you mean?" he pressed, the pieces of the frantic encounter refusing to fit. The angle of the shot. The man’s collapse. It didn’t add up.

A low groan cut through their conversation. Dalia stumbled into view, a dark blossom of blood spreading across her thigh.

"Dalia! Your leg!" Percy was at her side in an instant, his earlier confusion forgotten. He reached for the wound, his hands already moving to tear a strip from his own tunic.

She swatted his hand away with a pained hiss, even as she fumbled with the clasp of her cloak. "It’s a scratch, Gamma. I’ve had worse." The heavy fabric fell away, revealing not just the gory wound but a cascade of night-black hair and the unmistakable, lupine points of her ears.

"I’m fixing your leg. Now." Percy’s voice left no room for argument. He guided her to the ground, his touch gentle but firm. "Sit. Hold still."

Dalia sank down, her breath catching as the movement sent a fresh wave of agony through her leg. She looked up at him, her face pale but her lips curling into a weak, teasing smile. "So pushy." A soft giggle escaped her, a strange sound amidst the dust and lingering threat. "That’s why I love you."

Percy looked up at her and shook his head with a smirk while dressing her wound.

"Hey, Nieren, can you tie up that mercenary while I take care of Dalia?" Percy said as he was in the middle of cleaning up her wound.

"On it, Sir Percy," Nieren said as she walked over to the sleeping mercenary.

"There you should be good to go," Percy said while looking at Dalia.

"Hehe..." Dalia said as she gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"Thanks. You really helped me out there." Dalia said as she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Don’t mention it," Percy said as he stood up and started walking towards the sleeping mercenary.

Nieren tied Dan’s arms behind his back as he lay on the ground.

"There! He shouldn’t be able to get out of this anytime soon." Nieren said as she finished tying up the mercenary.

"Good, we need to hide the dead bodies and get this guy out of here. I’m sure Sir George is somewhere south of here." Percy said to the group.

"I’ll deal with the dead," Dalia said as she walked over to the fallen body.

"Nieren. Here’s a flare arrow to signal the prince. Use it when we’re clear of this area. I’ll carry this piece of trash." Percy said as he picked up the unconscious mercenary.

"Yes, sir!" Nieren said as she got ready to give the signal.

After some time, they made their way south for a few miles before shooting off the flare.