Andravieus thought this would be easy. He had completed missions many times harder than this one.

  He crouched on the rooftop, muscles loose, breathing steady as he surveyed the sleeping estate below. Soft lantern light spilled through windows. Guards were minimal, predictable, complacent. A noble household that had never expected real danger, never believed the cult’s reach extended this far.

  Asking him to take part in this was almost like insulting his capabilities. But he knew this was way more important to the Cult than his own frail ego.

  He rolled his shoulders once, feeling the familiar weight of his short sword. He was mithril rank, honed by years of sanctioned slaughter, governed directly by an adamantium commander. This mission had been assigned without ceremony, almost as an afterthought, which told him everything he needed to know.

  Four targets. Almost the entire house was to be slaughtered. They were…minor threats at best. Loose ends at worst. It would have been way more interesting had the Head of the family been here.

  But The Cult of One did not waste its true assets on nothing.

  He smiled faintly to himself as he slipped from the roof, landing without sound in the courtyard below. The air was still, heavy with the scent of stone and old trees. His shortsword rested comfortably in his grip, its edge humming faintly with enchantments layered over years of refinement.

  In and out.

  The easiest mission he had ever been given.

  He crept into the boys room through the open window, he was still asleep. Walking with deliberate steps he stepped in it.

  The boy stirred, wiping sleep off him, he looked at Andravieus in a daze before adopting all the features of an animal about to be slaughtered.

  Andravieus grinned, he liked this look. “I’m glad you are awake, silence makes this way less satisfying”.

  The boy stared at him a moment longer the dread lingering on his face. All of a sudden it seemed his expression turned disturbingly vacant. It lasted for half a second, then his eyes turned heavy. They bore a look that would’ve suited an experienced veteran.

  And now as the boy looked at him, he found the sight far less satisfying. The face was devoid of fear, devoid of any emotion in fact. He almost found it disturbing. He didn’t want to play with his prey anymore. Crouching, he prepared to end this in a single blow.

  But as he was about to act, dread seeped through his senses momentarily flooding over every other emotion.

  It was not sudden. It did not strike like lightning or explode through his senses. It seeped in, slow and suffocating, curling around his thoughts like a cold fog. His breath caught as his steps faltered, hand tightening involuntarily around his weapon.

  Something was wrong.

  The feeling pressed deeper, heavier, as if the world itself had shifted its weight onto his shoulders. His instincts screamed at him to run, to abandon the mission and vanish into the night, but training forced him forward.

  This was fear. Real fear.

  The sensation passed just as abruptly as it had come, leaving his heart hammering in his chest. He swallowed, jaw tightening as he forced control back into his limbs. He examined the boy’s stats.

  [Status]

  Name: ???

  Rank: ???

  Strength: ???

  Durability: ???

  Agility: ???

  Vitality: ???

  Intelligence: ???

  Mana: ???/???

  Abilities: ???

  Relics equipped: ???

  What? Why were the boy’s stats hidden from him. Perhaps this was the work of a relic, the Thunderbloom family would certainly have those. No matter, he checked his own stats and felt confidence return to him.

  [Status]

  Name: Andravieus Sear

  Rank: Mithril

  Strength: 410/410

  Durability: 329/329

  Agility: 550/550

  Vitality: 438/438

  Intelligence: 345

  Mana: 1250/1250

  Abilities: Shadow Dive

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Relics equipped: Crimson Dagger, Boots of Agility

  He almost laughed at himself now, here he was a mithril rank getting scared by parlor tricks. A trick of the mind, he told himself. Residual aura. Nothing more.

  He launched himself through the air, blade flashing toward the boy’s throat.

  The very force of it shattered glass, shards scattering across the floor as he landed, within an arm’s reach. His steel swept towards the boy’s throat.

  But the blade stopped.

  It wasn’t blocked, not deflected. It simply refused to move.

  The assassin strained, muscles screaming as his sword refused to move another inch. The boy’s hand was wrapped around the flat of the blade, blood welling where the edge bit into skin, yet his expression held nothing resembling pain.

  Only amusement.

  The assassin’s confidence cracked.

  He twisted, pulling free and slashing again, faster this time, aiming for the heart. The boy leaned aside with lazy precision, movements almost playful, as if indulging a child. Each strike he threw got evaded with infuriating ease.

  The realization settled like ice in his stomach.

  The boy was playing with him.

  The assassin leapt back, creating distance, breath ragged now. He had faced stronger opponents, faster ones, but never someone who treated a mithril ranked assassin like a distraction.

  The boy spoke.

  The words were low, deliberate, and wrong.

  “Darkness Artes: The King Awakens.”

  The phrase slammed into the assassin’s mind like a physical blow. His vision swam as something ancient stirred, something that did not belong in this age or this world. Primal fear surged through him, raw and overwhelming, tearing through his discipline.

  He turned and ran, using Shadow Dive to accelerate himself.

  He made it three steps before the darkness took him.

  It poured over his senses, thick and absolute, smothering sight, sound, and even the awareness of his own body. His limbs locked in place, frozen mid-motion as if reality itself had turned against him.

  A hand closed around his throat.

  It was massive, impossibly strong, fingers digging into flesh with crushing pressure. The presence behind it was vast, eclipsing, dwarfing him utterly. This was not a mage. This was not even a man.

  This was a monster.

  Pain exploded as two needle-like points drove into his eyes, piercing deep. He screamed, the sound swallowed instantly by the darkness as tears and blood streamed down his face.

  A voice whispered close to his ear.

  “This is what demons used to do to enemies who attacked from behind.”

  Something pulled.

  His arm tore free with a wet sound, agony flaring briefly before shock drowned it out. Then the other. Then his legs, methodically, mercilessly, each separation deliberate and unhurried.

  The final slash at his throat seemed almost gentle.

  Then darkness claimed him completely.

  Vaeron woke to death.

  One moment he had been asleep, wrapped in the fragile comfort of routine, and the next the world was screaming. The scent of blood filled his lungs as he rolled from his bed, instincts taking over before thought could catch up.

  His sister lay beside him.

  Her eyes were open, staring at nothing, her body twisted unnaturally across the floor. The crimson pooling beneath her head spread slowly, staining the stone, creeping toward him like a living thing.

  Something inside Vaeron broke.

  Rage surged up, white-hot and blinding, drowning out reason and restraint. Sorrow followed close behind, heavy and crushing, but the anger burned hotter, sharper, demanding release.

  Lightning crackled.

  He barely registered the assassin before he was moving, fiery sword igniting in his grip as he charged. Orbs of lightning filled the air, humming with lethal intent as they hurtled toward him. Vaeron deflected them instinctively, blade flashing as sparks exploded around him.

  His bed caught on fire, the mana lamps exploding as the power inside collided with lightning and flames.

  He slashed.

  A sword of lightning materialized in the assassin’s hand just in time, steel meeting energy with a violent clash that sent Vaeron smashing into a bookshelf. The attacker smiled, eyes alight with cruel amusement.

  The smile only fed Vaeron’s fury.

  He attacked again and again, pouring everything into each strike, but the gap in power was undeniable. The assassin moved with practiced ease, pushing him back step by step, herding him like prey. Vaeron knew what was happening. He knew the man was provoking him, drawing out his rage, but he could not stop.

  The assassin was strong. Stronger than gold rank. Mithril, at least, he didn’t need to check the man’s stats to figure that out.

  Vaeron planted his feet, chest heaving, blood roaring in his ears.

  He opened his own stats, confirming that he had enough Mana.

  [Status]

  Name: Vaeron Thunderbloom

  Strength: 150/250

  Durability: 189/260

  Agility: 160/300

  Vitality: 146/258

  Intelligence: 270

  Mana: 540/640

  He raised his sword and spoke the spell he had sworn never to use lightly. His mana gushed out of him in waves, forming his most powerful attack.

  “Wrath of the Immortal Serpent.”

  The air screamed as a massive serpentine form tore itself into existence, scales blazing with molten light. It surged forward with a deafening roar, jaws snapping as it lunged for the assassin.

  The response was immediate.

  “Thousandfold Strike.”

  The sky filled with spears.

  Pure lightning condensed into a storm of lethal points, thousands converging and merging into fewer, denser constructs that slammed into the serpent with catastrophic force. Scales shattered. Light exploded. The serpent writhed, tearing into the assassin even as it broke apart.

  The lightning wielder staggered, armor scorched, blood spraying as the spell tore through him.

  But it was not enough.

  He laughed, breathless and triumphant, and launched himself forward, blade raised for the killing blow. Victory was his and Vaeron knew it himself, yet he refused to accept it, time seemed to slow down, he tried looking for a way but his mana reserves were emptied. If only dad was here.

  A gush of dense mana filled the air as darkness flooded the battlefield. It covered every corner of his vision, plastering the world like black paint thrown over a canvas.

  The assassin froze mid-strike, body locking as if encased in stone. His expression twisted into pure horror, sweat pouring down his face as his eyes darted uselessly through the void.

  Vaeron felt it too.

  The pressure. The wrongness.

  A figure walked into view, footsteps slow and unhurried. The man’s presence alone sent a chill through Vaeron’s spine, a primal fear that made no sense, that defied logic.

  It was his brother. And yet at same time it was not.

  Argus looked the same, his features familiar, but everything else was wrong. The air around him felt heavy, oppressive, as if reality bent away in quiet revulsion. His eyes had turned red, deep and endless, like staring into an ocean of blood.

  Vaeron felt his knees weaken, as his breath came out slowly and painfully.

  This was not Argus.

  This was a beast that should never have been uncaged.

  The assassin’s hands trembled, his voice cracking as he spoke. “You will not get away with this. Our commander is here. He will destroy you. It would be better to let me go.” It was a pathetic and desperate plea.

  Argus regarded him silently.

  “And who might I ask is your commander?” he said at last, his tone almost polite. Not even acknowledging the threat.

  The man swallowed hard. “Commander Vilangos. An adamantium. You will not survive. It would be better to beg for your lives.”

  The name hit Vaeron like a hammer.

  Commander Vilangos. Usurper of the Albanian Empire. A one man army whose reputation was whispered with dread. A killer of adamantiums.

  And he was here.

  Argus’s eyes glinted, something like excitement flickering across his expression.

  “Maybe your commander would serve as a better match.”