By the time the blue woman, re-hidden under layers of armour and a cloak, returned to town, the day star was high in the sky, a giant rainbow arcing to either horizon in a horrendously ill-fitting vista to her mood. The rain clouds did next to little in shading the town, and that was without considering the still-raging house fire adding its blazing light to functionally remove any shadows for her to hide within. The single main street of the hamlet was rife with activity, seemingly the whole band of mercenaries scuttling about, gearing up, packing bags, preparing to leave. She spotted the young blond boy animatedly speaking to one of the soldiers, though she couldn't make out what through the rain.

  She slapped on her doe mask and slowly inched her way around the forest boundary, trying to flank to the side of the hamlet. Her skulking was interrupted by the shrill blare of a horn. She froze, cursing at her inadequacies. She really needed a better mask.

  Following the sound to its source, she found a scout—hidden in the trees until now—who locked eyes with her, trembling in fear. She cursed again and whirled back to the town, her heart sinking. Every eye in the camp was now trained on her.

  For a moment, they were locked in a tense stalemate. The doe stood still, her stance unwavering, unwilling to move until the enemy proved aggressive. Meanwhile, the mercenaries hesitated, watching her in turn, unsure of what action to take.

  Finally, one man broke from the crowd and slowly advanced toward her. His hands were raised in a gesture of peace, and his movements were deliberate, showing he had no intention of provoking her, like he was dealing with a cornered animal.

  As he neared, the doe recognized him as the bartender. Though she supposed, with what she knew now, he probably wasn't a bartender.

  "No need for anyone to do anything unnecessary, ma'am," he said with a nervously measured tone. "I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot."

  The doe's gaze hardened. "I would have preferred if there had been no foot at all."

  The not-bartender smile faltered, his posture stiffening. The words could have been a threat, and it seemed to unsettle him, though he tried to cover it with a nervous laugh. "Yes, well… I understand we aren't necessarily supposed to be here. I do apologize for our coyness earlier today, but I'm sure you can understand why we didn't want to announce ourselves right away."

  He quickly corrected himself, "But rest assured, we're only a small detachment. The majority of the garrison is already heading for Hullabaloo right this moment, as per the agreement."

  The pieces were starting to click in place for the woman. There was a reason the mercenaries hadn't attacked her as soon as she arrived at the hamlet and disguised themselves instead. They had mistaken her for someone else. They knew her by her masks, or at least by the fact she had masks.

  They would remember the animals, and they would speak of her to their superiors. When they did, whoever was in charge of these masks would learn of the woman and know who had stolen their briefcase. And they would certainly want that back. One organization hunting her across the entire continent was enough.

  The woman nodded to herself, the decision settling within her mind. The simple motion of her head relieved the non-bartender's tension. With deliberate slowness, she reached up and removed the doe mask.

  The mercenary gasped, first in shock at the unmasking, then at the blue creature beneath it. His eyes widened, taking in her discoloured form.

  With a slow, fluid movement, she pulled off the mantis mask resting on her shoulder and slotted the doe mask into its place. As her fingers secured the mantis mask onto her face, the mercenary's brow furrowed, beads of anxious sweat beginning to form. "We... we don't have to tell the rest of the Masks about your invitation if that's what you're concerned about," he stammered, his voice trembling with uncertainty.

  They even knew about the invitation. Whatever that was, it sounded far too well-known for her to be associated with.

  The mantis remained silent. Her apathetic gaze was like an impenetrable wall. The mask drained the woman underneath of any emotive thought. Without a word, she raised her arm, conjuring an ethereal green sickle claw that shimmered with ghostly light.

  The mercenary's hand twitched toward his weapon, but the mantis was faster. In a swift, practiced motion, her sickle cleaved through the air, bisecting the man with horrifying precision. His body fell into two clean halves, collapsing with a wet thud, the blood pooling where he had stood just moments before.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The air exploded with chaos. The mercenary camp descended into a frenzy, some fleeing for their lives while others charged forward, determined to overwhelm the woman with sheer numbers.

  The first to strike was a panicked crossbowman. He released his bolt with trembling hands, but the mantis reacted in a blur. She raised her briefcase, and the bolt clattered harmlessly off its hard leather surface.

  Two enraged warriors closed in—one with a sword, the other charging with a pike. The mantis moved with terrifying precision, pressing a button on the briefcase. It flipped open, revealing its empty velvet interior.

  In a single, fluid motion, the mantis swiped her sickle claw through the sword-wielding warrior. His body split with sickening ease, and before the other could react, she shoved the open briefcase toward the pike wielder.

  The pike jabbed forward with lethal intent, but instead of meeting resistance, it plunged into the briefcase, sinking impossibly deep into the open space. Without a sound, the pike wielder, too, was sucked into the case and vanished. With a swift snap of her wrist, the woman closed the briefcase with a metallic click, leaving no trace of the encounter behind.

  For a moment, the camp fell silent. Stunned by what they had just witnessed, the mercenaries halted in their tracks. The sheer horror of what they had seen rooted them to the ground.

  Then, as if on cue, the first of them turned and fled, followed by more, until the entire camp was in disarray.

  The mantis synched her briefcase to her belt, formed a second sickle claw in the now free hand and then, with an even greater concentration of energy, four ethereal green wings grew out from her back. With an impossible leap, she flew across the town, catching a few hapless cowards with her sickles on her way through and landing on the opposite side. Her massive wings flared out, creating a wall that blocked any fleeing route.

  One of the burly men, broken and terrified, fell to his knees. Tears streaked down his face as he pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation, "Please... We haven't done anything..."

  The acrid smell of fire still burned in her nostrils. The mantis felt nothing.

  She hurtled back into the crowd, her vorpal sickles cutting through weapons, shields, and armour like they were mere paper. Each strike was precise and merciless, severing limbs, eviscerating bones, snuffing lives. The mercenaries who had thought to run were cut down in their tracks.

  Even those that escaped the death trap street, scattering into the dark woods, didn't hold to hope for long. She did not let them flee, hunting each and every one down, her wings giving her the speed to pursue them no matter what direction they fled.

  It had been a long and exhausting ordeal, but the last few mercenaries had proven surprisingly adept at hiding. It took her a few hours to finish up, but she did. The day star was settling, and she smelled even worse than when the day started. On the bright side, she had a room to sleep in.

  But as much as she longed to bathe and collapse into bed, there was something else she needed to collect first.

  She made her way back to the river, where she found the black-haired boy barely managing to prop himself up against a nearby tree. The sloth mask still pressed against his face as he fought against sleep. She tore the animal mask off and slotted it onto her shoulder.

  The instant the mask left his face, the boy's eyes snapped open wide with shock. He let out a high-pitched squeal. "Why are you covered in so much blood?!"

  The mantis stood motionless, her cold, unreadable expression fixed. She felt nothing. "I said I would kill them."

  His mind struggled to process the words, taking in her grotesquely visceral form and struggling to form any coherent thought. Eventually, he managed to concernedly ask, "Are you going to kill me?"

  "No."

  He swallowed hard, relief washing over his face, but confusion still clouded his features. "Okay... okay. That's good... yeah, good. But why?"

  The mantis fixed her gaze on him, her voice as detached as ever. "Do you read?"

  The boy, still shaken, seized the opportunity, eager to prove himself useful. "Yes! Absolutely! Super great reader. The best reader that's ever read while I'm still alive."

  She pulled out a rumpled parchment from her cloak, still faintly glowing with an unnatural light. Without a word, she pushed it into his arms and he instinctively took it. "What does this say?"

  The boy hesitated, glancing nervously from the unfeeling porcelain face of the mantis to the blood-soaked parchment. "If I read this to you, will you kill me afterward?"

  "No," she replied flatly. "Then you tell me what this Tournament is. Now, read."

  The boy gulped and, with a shaky breath, began to read aloud:

  "It reads:

  You have been invited to

  The Tournament

  You are the Anlace."