Blademaster

JP with Jaxx, Trustno1 and Cindy

A sudden, sharp crack shattered the silence—a gunshot echoed from the labyrinthine depths of the building, reverberating through the hollow chambers like a death knell. The investigators froze, hearts pounding in their chests, eyes darting toward the source of the sound, they moved back into the hallway. Without warning, the door to the adjacent apartment splintered inward, wood shattering like brittle bones under immense pressure.

There, amidst the chaos of debris and shattered dreams, stood Roger—a gaunt figure clad in a threadbare jacket, his face etched with desperation and terror. Clutched tightly in his trembling hand was a 9mm pistol, its cold metal gleaming ominously in the pallid light. His eyes, wide and frantic, darted about the room, reflecting the flickering shadows that seemed to animate with malevolent intent.

From the darkest corner of the room, the Blademaster emerged. It moved with a grotesque elegance, its silhouette a perverse amalgam of human aspiration and abyssal horror. Towering and semi-orthograde, its skeletal frame glistened under the weak light, adorned in a macabre armor of jet-black spikes and organic blades that jutted at impossible angles. Each spike shimmered with an oily sheen, as if perpetually wet with ichor. Its skin was a mottled, corpse-like gray, stretched taut over its unnaturally elongated limbs, and streaked with crimson where its flesh appeared to have split under the strain of its alien form.

The creature’s "face," if it could be called that, was a blasphemous mockery of theatrical flamboyance. A grotesque mask of sharp contrasts and harsh lines, it evoked the aesthetic of a glam rock god twisted by some unspeakable nightmare. Blackened ridges curved wickedly around hollow, glowing eyes that pulsed with a sickly amber light, burning with an inscrutable malice. Its mouth was an exaggerated maw, filled with jagged, uneven teeth, as though it had devoured its own humanity long ago. Around its neck hung a bizarre talisman—a rusted medallion carved with a lightning bolt and a single word: "DESTROYER."

Its movements were a sinister pantomime, each step a mimicry of rockstar bravado warped into something predatory and cruel. Its arms, unnaturally elongated, ended in razor-sharp claws that scraped the walls as it advanced, leaving deep, jagged gashes in the already crumbling plaster. Affixed to its shoulders and thighs, clusters of shuriken-like appendages seemed to twitch and vibrate with a life of their own, their edges glinting like fragmented mirrors in the dim light.

Roger’s hand shook violently as he raised the pistol, the metal trembling against his clammy skin. “Stay back!” he croaked, his voice cracking under the weight of sheer terror. His aim was wild, his eyes darting between the creature and the door behind him as though calculating his slim chance of escape.

The Blademaster answered with silence, its gaze locking onto Roger with an intensity that made the air feel heavier, as if gravity itself bent to its will. It raised one arm, the shurikens dislodging with a metallic snick before launching into the air, circling the room with eerie precision.

Roger squeezed the trigger, the gunshot cracking like a desperate prayer. The bullet hit its mark, embedding itself in the Blademaster’s torso with a sickening thud. For a moment, the creature staggered, ichor spilling from the wound in a thick, tar-like stream. Then it straightened, its amber eyes burning brighter, its maw splitting into a rictus grin that seemed to mock Roger’s efforts. The shurikens stopped mid-air before hurtling back toward him.

The team arrived just in time to witness the grim tableau—Roger’s trembling form dwarfed by the towering, silent predator, his every breath ragged and fleeting. The Blademaster turned its head slowly, its glowing eyes fixing on the newcomers. In its malevolence, it seemed almost to invite them into its deadly performance, its stance shifting to one of menacing showmanship. Behind it, the faint light caught the outline of something scrawled in blood on the cracked wall: a streaking star shape, jagged and familiar. "What should we do team leader?" asked Sartre. as they all surveyed the monster.

Agent Powers looked at the man named Roger freaking out on the ground and the creature that was scaring him. He then gave the creature a smolder as he lifted his golden holy 12g shotgun loaded with holy bullets and aimed at the head of the creature. Then he said, "Good? bad? I'm the guy with the gun!" Then Agent Powers shot three rounds at the head of the creature hoping to blast it into pieces. Agent Powers had no intention of letting a dangerous creature harm Alyssa so he took action first. Ekaterina was shocked to see what was going on and even more impressed that Agent Powers was fearless in this situation. Agent Powers then asked, "How are you holding up Alyssa?"

"Shoot it," Alyssa responded to Peter but not before Max took action. "Like that."

Alyssa watched, looked at the wall and muttered something about a red star. "I'm good." Alyssa responded to Max.

Agent Powers looked at the man named Roger freaking out on the ground and the creature that was scaring him. He then gave the creature a smolder as he lifted his golden holy 12g shotgun loaded with holy bullets and aimed at the head of the creature. Then he said, "Good? bad? I'm the guy with the gun!" Then Agent Powers shot three rounds at the head of the creature hoping to blast it into pieces. Agent Powers had no intention of letting a dangerous creature harm Alyssa so he took action first. Ekaterina was shocked to see what was going on and even more impressed that Agent Powers was fearless in this situation. Agent Powers then asked, "How are you holding up Alyssa?"

Sartre raised his MP5 and began firing.

The Blademaster like a walking atrocity, its spiked form gleaming wetly in the dim light, each jagged protrusion catching and refracting the sickly glow of their flashlights. Its posture was an unnatural hybrid of slouching menace and deliberate grace, hunched yet somehow looming. Its face—or the abomination that mimicked one—was a pale death mask slashed with jagged black streaks, its grotesque mouth split into a permanent fanged grin that seemed to mock the very notion of fear. Hollow, amber eyes glowed with malevolent intent, casting the creature’s distorted shadow in sharp, dancing relief across the narrow walls.

The MP5 roared in quick, controlled bursts, the hall erupting into a staccato rhythm of muzzle flashes and thunderous cracks. Bullets tore into the Blademaster, ripping through its spiked armor and flesh. Each hit sent blackened shards of bone and gray meat exploding outward in grotesque sprays, spattering the already-decayed walls. The creature staggered under the assault, ichor spilling from its wounds in thick, viscous streams that pooled on the warped wooden floor.

A shotgun blast followed, the deafening boom reverberating down the hall. Buckshot tore into the Blademaster’s side, ripping free chunks of its armor and leaving a jagged wound that oozed a black, tar-like substance. Another round glanced off its torso, cracking a rib-like spike, but still, it didn’t fall.

Instead, the creature straightened. Its twisted form shuddered under the strain of its injuries, its left arm hanging limp, mangled beyond use. Yet it took a step forward. Then another. It moved with a dreadful inevitability, its silence more chilling than any roar or shriek.

Each step reverberated through the floor like a tremor from some buried, unholy machine.

The MP5 rattled again, rounds sparking off the Blademaster’s glistening spikes and ripping through what little flesh it had left unscathed. Another shotgun blast hit, this time striking its chest and blowing out a chunk of the ribbed armor, sending ichor splashing onto the walls in sticky, steaming gouts. It reeled under the force, a grotesque spasm contorting its already distorted body.

But then it righted itself, planting one spiked leg with a sickening crunch, steadying its ruined form. Its hollow eyes flared brighter, bathing the hall in an amber glow that seemed to sap the air of oxygen. The spiked shurikens still mounted to its shoulders trembled, twitching like predatory insects eager to spring free. From somewhere deep in its throat came a sound—a faint, metallic rattle, as if its very breath scraped against jagged edges within its chest.

It was close now, close enough that they could smell the stench rolling off its battered body: a nauseating cocktail of burning metal, blood, and something far worse, something inhuman. The amber glow intensified, and the Blademaster’s cracked, jagged mouth stretched wider, its fangs gleaming like fresh-forged blades.

The MP5 barked its reply, and the shotgun roared once more, but the creature pressed forward, relentless. Its silence was the most terrifying thing of all, an absence of noise that made every breath, every heartbeat, the sound deafening by comparison.

The Blademaster’s body was a ruin, ichor pouring from ragged gashes and shattered spikes, its movements slower, more deliberate—but its intent was clear. It would not stop. It would not fall. It advanced through the hail of bullets, a nightmare incarnate, ready to close the gap and bring them into its reach.

Ekaterina was not liking this one bit as she took aim at the head of the creature and began to shoot her 12g mini pump shotgun with white phosphorus rounds several times. Once the rounds are fired they will react to the oxygen in the air and burst into flames. This means they will burn the victim to death as the white phosphorus burns out. Agent Powers continued to aim at the head of the creature and blast away with his holy rounds. These rounds, custom-made by the Illuminati, are tipped with explosive shells that contain white oak, holy water, garlic, and silver shavings. These ingredients, each bearing a folkloric power to impede evil and/or specific monsters (e.g. vampires, werewolves, witches, etc.), have the potential to injure many of the foes they may face.

"Damn," Alyssa felt her stomach turn slightly at the sight. She absently grabbed the knife, the present from Prue. The hacker pulled the knife out of her pocket and held it in defense. [/i]Don't suppose you could give me a hint on how to deal with this,Prue?[i] A question Alyssa, obviously, didn't expect any answer to but it would have been nice.

Sung steps beside Alyssa and sighs. "Alyssa, left foot back, moor. Both arms up level with your chest." He literally moves one of her arms with the palm of his hand. NOW FOCUS! Your Anima threw your arm into the knife." instructed Sung, not looking too phased by the Blademaster.

"Whatever, you are a Blademaster, Right? Now wait a minute for you to try to attack this one, or you will deal with me." Sung warned in a defiant tone.

Alyssa hears a voice. The voice had been clear, undeniable. “Use it,” Prue Halliwell’s voice whispered, faint and echoing as if spoken through a veil of water.

Prue's words and Sung's instructions somehow emboldened the petite hacker more than she could have imagined. Alyssa did just as Sung instructed and threw the knife directly at the Blademaster.

The Blademaster staggered closer, its ichor-slick spikes dragging deep gouges into the floor.

The instant the scalpel pierced the creature’s chest, the world around her fractured.

A montage of chaos:

Gideon Cole sprinted through a dense forest, branches whipping his face as the storm above crackled with lightning. His footsteps thudded against the muddy ground, his breathing ragged and panicked. Rain blurred his vision, but he didn’t stop, not even when the thunder roared like a drumbeat in the sky. He burst into a clearing and froze.

There, in the darkness, a hooded figure stood unmoving. A jagged bolt of lightning illuminated the scene, casting the figure’s bowed head and drenched coat into stark relief. Gideon’s voice faltered as he gasped, "Everyone’s afraid of the dark."

Rachel Becker gripped the steering wheel of her car, her knuckles white against the dark leather. Rain battered her windshield, the wipers struggling to keep up. Buddy Holly’s “Everyday” played softly on the radio, the cheerful tune incongruent with the tension in her chest.

Ahead, a figure loomed in the road, obscured by shadow. Rachel slammed on the brakes, the car skidding to a halt just in time. She rolled down her window cautiously, her voice cracking as she called out, “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

The figure stepped forward, water dripping from a hood that obscured its face. A single, chilling phrase cut through the storm. "Everyone’s afraid of the dark."

Alyssa's vision flickered, disjointed and chaotic. She saw herself running through a forest, her feet splashing through shallow puddles as shadows shifted unnaturally around her.
She blinked and was somewhere else—a dimly lit room, blood pooling at her feet. A hooded figure stood before her, its head tilted as if studying her. Its voice echoed in her mind, distant and cold: "Everyone’s afraid of the dark."

Rachel screamed, her voice hoarse and ragged, as the hooded man pressed the blade to the cheek of the young man tied across from her. The sound of flesh splitting and blood dripping filled the air, rhythmic and horrifying.

The man turned back to Rachel, his voice low and deliberate. "Open your eyes," he hissed. "Or suffer his fate. Fear in a handful of dust."

Piper Halliwell sat alone in her bedroom, her hands wrapped tightly around a mug of chamomile tea. Rain streamed down the window, a soft patter against the glass. She stared out at the wet streets below, her eyes unfocused, as though lost in thought.
A chill ran down her spine. Her grip on the mug tightened. Her lips parted, and in a voice that was not entirely her own, she whispered, "Everyone’s afraid of the dark."

The rain outside intensified, the sound filling the silence. Piper’s eyes remained fixed on the window, her fingers unconsciously tracing the curve of the mug.

The knife’s magic subsided, and Alyssa collapsed to her knees, The Blademaster’s spiked form crumbled into ash, leaving only the faint echo of the battle. The scalpel clattered against the floor. But the whispers lingered, faint and unnerving, threading into her thoughts.

"Everyone’s afraid of the dark," a disembodied voice murmured. This time, it was not Prue’s. It was something else, something deeper, colder—and it left Alyssa shivering.

"Alyssa, are you alright?" asked Sartre.

Alyssa didn't speak or move, just stayed on the ground. She was trying to make sense of what had just happened. The experience had made no sense, and Alyssa really hated that feeling of not knowing. Still, there was more the hacker felt drained in a way she had never experienced. Alyssa visibly shivered, remembering she hadn't gotten her jacket back from earlier, but said nothing and felt too drained to move.

Sartre ran to Alyssa, picking up the knife. You want this in your jacket pocket? "I don't want you to touch it unless you absolutely have to." The entire hallway felt cold, the medallion that the creature was wearing was also on the floor. In the back of the hallway the group could hear Janice mumbling.

Roger simply said.

"He was the biggest one I've seen. There's a lot of zombies down there. That's probably more up here. I just moved here, I don't know what's wrong with this building "

Alyssa just nodded to Sartre's question but then quietly spoke. "Get my jacket back from Janice." Alyssa started to stand but felt off, light headed and wobbled a little as she stood.

Sartre hurriedly ran over to Janice and grabbed the coat. Janice was still mumbling something and seemed to be fumbling for something. He immediately returned the coat to Alyssa and asked her "Can you pick up the knife and put it in your coat pocket, or do you need me to do it? Are you alright, how are you feeling? " he asked.

"Can you get it?" Alyssa didn't feel like it was a good idea to move very much at the moment. "I just need a few moments." But she realized she probably didn't look that well at the moment.
Sartre grabbed the knife and noticed that it was not pulsating with any energy. It seemed as if it held many secrets and could be used for both right and wrong. What secrets it held were still to be uncovered. "Alyssa, remember this knife also has a different name. Prue definitely made it her own. I wonder how she got a hold of it." The medallion from the recently defeated creature was still on the floor. "Who would like to take the medallion?" asked Sartre as he rushed back to Alyssa and put the knife in her jacket pocket.

"Max or Ekaterina, one of you should take the medallion. " Alyssa barely knew Janice and Roger and certainly didn't trust them to take the medallion.

Agent Powers nodded as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black backpack as he was still on guard. He unzipped it and then stuck his shogun under his massive muscular arm so he could pull out a large holy golden bowie knife to scoop up the medallion and dump it into the backpack without touching it. Then he zipped up the backpack and put the knife in his pocket again. Once he was organized he held the backpack in one hand and the holy golden shotgun with a drum. Ekaterina was smirking as she knew how he was able to put so much in his pockets since his outer body was made of slime. She then said, "All good Mr. Powers?" Agent Powers nodded as he replied, "All good for now. So are we escaping this place or hunting more monsters?" Agent Powers gave Alyssa a smolder.

"Are we all up for more encounters?" Alyssa glanced towards Janice, though she wasn't sure if she herself was. "My call is we leave, give us a chance to regroup, come back tomorrow with more weapons, and some sort of plan. Of course killing any zombies or other things that don't belong here on our way to exiting." Alyssa then added. "Unless everyone just wants to fight them tonight?"

Ekaterina sighed as she replied, "I believe it best if we escort these two out and get reinforcements before we choose to fight the others." Agent Powers nodded as he replied, "Yeah I agree. It's hard for me to cut loose with too many people to protect." Then he quickly reloaded his shotgun shells into the golden drum barrel.

"Well, then let's make our way out." Alyssa responded. She put her jacket back on and headed to the door of the apartment.