Age of Beast Tamers and Exorcists

At that moment, he saw someone standing at a lower part of the narrow pathway. Their backs were to him.

He could only see their yellow hair. A sheathed sabre was in their hand. He then deduced that the handle had jabbed his neck then.

He swallowed down. About to yell the hell out of his throat, the person blurred. His eyes widened, and he stepped back without realising it. Then the sound of spreading a cloth resonated behind him.

As he glanced back, the person bent and delivered a punch to his side.

His body moved without warning. Then, his back smashed against a very hard-edged spot. His body plummeted to the ground; he gasped, his back aching in sync with the knee he had grazed.

He looked forward to seeing he was now away from the pathway, then around the trees on the left side. Zmey couldn't pay the price of thinking too much now. He pressed down on the ice surface as a standing support. If only he could get a weapon of…

As he looked around him, he spotted a curved black stick of a handsome thickness. He paced once, to the right, and bent down to pick up the stick. He straightened his back and took one breath to calm himself.

His grip on the stick proved useful on time. It was like being so familiar with something that you could do it without thinking. One could say his hand was intelligent… too?

…

"Enough of all this bullshit," Zmey groaned. He swallowed his thick saliva. He pinned his eyelids down.

A momentary wave of pain surged through him. He clenched his jaw.

"Even if I'm unwelcome in this era, you guys can't act like losers. I will leave, but I can't accept anyone treating me like a total tra…"

He froze mid-statement as he didn't see the attacker any more. He glanced left and right in haste, expecting him to appear like earlier. Tension stretched.

His senses sharpened as soon as a piercing sound approached. It seemed fast. Zmey guessed the direction. And he found out he guessed right as the stick flung something into the depths of the woods.

A wave of delight in terror moved over his face. Because… who knows what the hell that was?

In the far distance, around six metres, he saw that damned guy. Was he the owner of this era that he wanted to kill him before he himself left willingly? He was going to do it already.

He chose how he would die this time around and who would kill him. Unlike the way those damned seven reincarnations wiped him out like an ant! Like the eighth one… that was how he wanted to leave this time, too!

Not just anyone could appear in his life and wipe him out. Even if this was a fabricated life, they should see him as a human. So far, all memories of the past still stay with him.

Zmey clenched his fist and took a step forward…

As expected of a damned bastard, the guy sprinted to him head-on. Zmey's brows creased in fury, and he sprinted towards him as well. The wind wafted against them, as if attempting to prevent a soon-to-come disaster.

'Not scared,' the yellow-haired Beast Tamer thought at high speed.

Zmey sprinted head-on until he closed the gap. The tamer turned his sabre, moving the hilt towards Zmey. But he dipped low in an instant, his body flowing like water beneath the tamer's attack.

He missed it by a hair's breadth. The yellow-haired man's jaw dropped, shocked by that defensive move.

Zmey rose in one smooth motion outside the tamer's reach. The man brought the sabre closer; Zmey grunted at the speed of the attack, but he sidestepped it. He moved to the tamer's exposed left flank, not backwards.

Zmey understood the game he was playing without making a sound. The person's speed and ethereal look showed he could wield magic.

Of all fights, it was even significant to a sword fight – at least, here was his lucky card. But what if he used magic?

Clink! – his eyes widened as the man's sword approached in a deadly curve. He threw his legs backwards, bending a bit, and raised the stick in the sword's way.

The sword halved the stick before his eyes. He ducked under the swing in a hurry. His footwork resembled a predator stalking prey. It was silent until he reached the man's right flank.

There's the other half of the stick in his hand. Here was his chance!

He drove the stick towards the man's exposed side. Mid-attack, the man turned his glance and his eyes widened. But without warning, he gripped the stick with a sudden motion.

He held Zmey's hand down. Then he drove the hilt of the sabre, jabbing it into his ribs.

Zmey spat out blood, a powerful force driving his body rolling on the snow backwards. He lay on his stomach there, gasping for breath and recovering from the attack.

Judging by the execution of this young man's attack and defence, he had known from the outset his sword art. His movements were fluid. They let him close in without alerting his opponent. 

It was none other than the Whispering Fang Style.

Like when he was about to bring him down. His strikes were fake and had almost misled him. That combined silent footwork and feint mastery.

This enigmatic guy was already strange. He was bodiless, yet had hints of energy. His fighting style only added to it.

Perhaps he was a high magic wielder who lost his power? Did that account for maybe some of his energy remained in him? But why did he have no mage body? It made no sense.

Only high wielders on Earth could have mastered such a high-level sword art. They practise against their shadows at dusk. It perfects their silent footwork and faint movements.

They also aim at moving targets, like swinging logs, to hone accuracy. The smartest part, to Silvan Ferox, was to bait their foe. And counter immediately if they over-committed.

Advanced masters of this technique could execute Ghost Fang. They could sidestep at the last second and counter with a lightning-fast upward slash.

Even he himself never could master that technique because it was too challenging. His skills limited him to just Blaze Vortex Style – able to infuse his blade with his elemental fire magic.

The tamer approached him, stopping a few metres away. He knelt and thrust the sabre into the ground at a vertical angle. A wave of admiration crossed his face.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Silvan Ferox," he introduced himself, his composed tone driving Zmey crazy. "That's a remarkable martial art.

And you could have taken me down with that raw skill if I weren't quick to react. Unfortunately, our business may not allow us to know each other better.

But I commend you with genuine appreciation. That's very remarkable…"

Zmey clenched the snow in his hand. His teeth gritted. He tried to rise to his feet, but something twisted in his stomach that shot pain through him. He winced.

"I don't care how you feel, bastard! I will…"

The man rose to his feet. "Please, let's not waste time. I need to abduct you to a location without delay, and I seek your cooperation.

There's no assurance that you won't get hurt, but I need you to believe that I won't let you die. I would have completed my life's mission before you might lose your life.

At the end of things, I would like to reward you with a generous gift. Perhaps you could weave something cool with your Whispering Fang sword art…"

"Curse it... look how merely the bastard talks..."

Zmey let out a soft hiccup. His throat froze. Veins bulged in his neck, his corneas turning red. At the side of his neck was a silver-rimmed syringe containing a green liquid.

"Just wait… I will kill you…" Zmey cursed as his tone died down. His eyes shut, head dropping into the snow.