Kneel! The Fallen Hero Has Returned!

Chapter 6: The Four Hunters Who Kneeled

"Don't make this difficult, Ronan. We were paid to deliver you alive, but nobody said you had to arrive in one piece."

Four hunters stepped out of the shadows and blocked the mouth of the alley on the way back from the hospital.

He had sent Bram home an hour ago with a lie about visiting a friend.

He recognized the hunters immediately. The tall one with the scarred jaw had a crooked nose Ronan had broken three years ago. The wide man with iron gauntlets had been the third attacker, and the thin one with the hooked dagger had nearly taken his eye out. The fourth was a bald man with a snake tattoo curling up his neck.

"Well, well," the bald man said, cracking his knuckles. "Look at the little hero, all alone."

"P-please," Ronan whispered, shrinking down in his chair. "I don't have any money. Just let me go home."

"Money?" The thin one snickered and twirled his dagger. "We're being paid more than you've ever seen. Young Master Cross wants you in a cage, cripple."

"Why?" Ronan asked, and his voice cracked. "What do I have that he could want?"

"Ha! That's a good question." The scarred one strolled forward with a sword resting on his shoulder. "I don't know and I don't care. You're worth half a million, and that buys a lot of wine."

"Don't be so rough," the wide one chuckled. "He's fragile."

The scarred man's boot struck the wheelchair.

It flipped, and Ronan crashed onto the wet stones, his shoulder slamming against the ground.

"Aaah! Stop! Please!"

"Oh, he screams," the bald man laughed. "I missed that."

A boot slammed into Ronan's ribs, and then another. They kicked him, rolled him, and spat on him. Ronan curled up with his arms over his head and let them.

Under his skin, the golden power flowed to every bruise before it formed, quietly shielding his bones so that nothing broke.

*Seven times,* he thought, counting each blow. *Seven times they did this, and I thought it was the world hating me.*

"Hold him up," the scarred man ordered. "Let's see if he looks like the portrait. Young Master Cross says the core glows in his chest."

Rough hands hauled Ronan upright. The thin one ripped open his shirt, and Ronan's heart pounded, because if they looked closely they would see the faint gold lines beneath his ribs.

"Nothing," the thin one muttered, squinting. "Just a skinny, scarred idiot."

"Then why did Young Master Cross..."

Ronan let out a sob and slumped like a doll. At the same time he released little of his power.

It was only a thread, so small that the air barely moved. But it was aimed carefully at the four men and nothing else, and it carried the weight of a power they had never felt in their lives.

The thin one's hands loosened first.

"W-what..." he gasped, and he stumbled back. "What is that?"

"What's wrong with you?" the scarred one barked, turning. Then his face went white, and his sword slipped from his shoulder, "I, I can't... something's behind us."

"There's nothing behind us!" the bald man shouted, but his voice shook, and he spun around with his axe raised. "There's, there's nobody!"

"Don't you feel it?" the wide one whispered, dropping his gauntlets. "That's an Abyss Lord. A true Lord. It's right here!"

The air grew thick and heavy. The lantern went out, and the shadows in the alley seemed to lean closer, whispering. The four men's knees began to knock together, and sweat poured down their faces.

"Please," the thin one sobbed, falling to his knees. "Please, I don't want to die!"

One by one they dropped, trembling, pressing their foreheads to the stones. The scarred one wept openly. The bald man whimpered and clamped both hands over his ears like a child.

Ronan lay on the ground in the dark, his shirt torn and his cheek bloody. He kept his eyes half closed, his body limp, just a battered cripple who had passed out from the beating. And he spoke in a low, rasping voice, shaped carefully so it seemed to come from the shadows.

"Did you hunt this man for three years?" the voice murmured.

Nobody answered, and the silence told Ronan everything. He had expected it, and still something cold twisted in his stomach.

"I see," the voice said. "Go. Tell your master that something old is watching him. And tell him the cripple is not his to take."

The four men lurched to their feet, slipping and sobbing then ran.

Ronan let out a long, slow breath, *Damon wants the core,* he thought. *And he's afraid of something in the dark. Good.*

He began to drag himself toward the wheelchair deliberately.

Then clapping echoed from above.

Ronan froze.

A figure sat on the edge of the rooftop, a woman with a long blade across her knees. She had been there the whole time. Her eyes glittered as she looked down at him, and her voice was dry and amused.

"That was a very clever trick, cripple," she said. "But I've met an Abyss Lord, and that was not one."