Aman frowned, his senses stretched to their limits.
Nothing.
No strange auras, no flickers of abnormal movement—just the chaos of battle and the panicked shouts of guards.
Which means the assassin is probably still right here. Watching me.
His jaw tightened. If he wanted to draw them out, he'd have to make himself vulnerable without letting them know about his intentions. So, he just needs to continue his act.
Urgh. Is this what they mean by digging your own grave?
With that grim thought, he slipped away from the walls, moving swiftly through the shadows of the alleyways. A small smirk tugged at his lips.
Well, I may not have a hockey mask, but I've got something just as good.
_____ ____ _
Meanwhile, the younger guard, the impostor, watched as Aman disappeared into the maze of alleys.
A slow, predatory smile spread across his face.
He adjusted his grip on the older guard's unconscious body, using the man as an excuse to linger. Nearby, a fellow guard reached out, concern etched on his face.
"Hey, is Mr. Haldin alright? Let me—"
The impostor casually tossed the older guard into the man's arms. "Look after him."
"Hey, be careful you bas-!"
Before the startled guard could protest and nag, the impostor was already gone—vanishing like smoke on the wind.
It didn't matter if the boy tried to run.
He was already marked with his secret technique.
[Spirit Mark.]
A nearly undetectable aura signature, invisible to all but the most powerful resonators. Even if the boy somehow sensed it(which was impossible even if he was a genius), removing it was near impossible—a 5% chance at best.
The assassin moved silently, his footsteps soundless against the snow.
Then—there.
The target emerged from an alley, his long black coat now accompanied by a hood pulled low over his face.
Wait.
His face...
Is he wearing a mask?
The assassin's eyes narrowed as he watched the figure in black.
What is he planning?
He mentally reviewed the intel he'd gathered on Aman: a promising student at the academy, skilled but unremarkable in combat, no known affiliations with any factions. Nothing explained this sudden transformation into a shadow-clad warrior.
But there was some info about the boy being a kind fool, who would always try to help the others, no matter how dangerous it was. For example, the boy nearly died to a monster while trying to save children around the same age as him in his elementary school days.
Truly a fool.
But he still couldn't figure out how the boy survived the previous assassins.
Could it be?
Before he could ponder further, the target vanished—not completely, but just enough to slip from plain sight.
Stealth technique? So he was a resonator after all...
The boy hid it well, but he couldn't escape from him, thanks to the Spirit Mark; the assassin could still track his movements, a faint pulse of aura guiding his gaze.
Silent as a wraith, he followed using his own stealth technique.
The target moved with startling agility, scaling the wall with practiced ease before perching atop the battlements. For a heartbeat, he stood silhouetted against the chaos—monsters roaring, arrows flying, the four figures and the guard's captain still locked in combat with the alphas.
Then—
He jumped.
What the?!
The boy's form shimmered back into visibility the moment he launched himself from the walls.
The black-clad figure cut through the air like a blade, twin daggers gleaming darkly in his grip. Below, the horde of monsters surged forward, unaware of the death descending upon them—until it was too late.
Gasps erupted from the guards.
"Who—?!"
"No, stop-!"
"He just jumped?!"
Then—
CRASH.
The boy landed feet-first onto the back of a snow wolf, the impact cratering the beast into the ground. Before the surrounding monsters could react, his daggers flashed—two quick slashes, and two more creatures fell, their throats opened before they even registered the attack.
The assassin's frown deepened.
This boy wasn't just some reckless fool anymore.
He wasn't an ordinary resonator either.
The way he moved—fluid, precise, lethal—spoke of arduous training. Real training. The kind that left bodies in its wake. He would be an assassin prodigy in their organization with these skills at this age.
But why this disguise?
The pitch-black clothing, the mask covering everything but his eyes...
It reminded him of the shadow-walkers from the Eastern Isles. But those were just myths, weren't they?
Before he could dwell further, the boy moved again, like liquid darkness given form.
His daggers flashed—black steel cutting through fur and flesh with surgical precision. Each strike was economical, each movement flowing seamlessly into the next, as if he were weaving through the horde not as a fighter, but as death itself.
The monsters turned as one, their blood-red eyes locking onto him. The barrier trembled as their assault ceased—every claw, every fang now directed at the lone figure in their midst.
The boy didn't falter.
A snow lynx lunged, frostbreath erupting from its maw. He blinked—vanishing just as the ice encased the space where he'd stood—only to reappear behind the beast, his dagger plunging into its spine. Before the corpse hit the ground, he was already spinning, his second blade carving through the throat of a charging direwolf.
Elemental attacks came along—fire, ice, venomous mist, lightning streaks, and blasts of earth. He moved through them like a ghost, his body bending at impossible angles, his footwork carrying him just beyond the reach of death.
A razor-winged bat dove at him from above—he sidestepped, grabbed its wing mid-swoop, and used its own momentum to hurl it into an oncoming troll. Both monsters crashed in a tangle of limbs.
Then—blink—he was gone again, reappearing atop a boulder as three ice imps scrambled after him. A flick of his wrist, and three throwing knives embedded themselves between their eyes.
The battlefield became a whirlwind of black cloth and blacker steel.
Three minutes.
Fifty monsters.
Fifty corpses.
By the time the boy finally paused, his clothes were splattered with blood—none of it his—though scratches and frost marked his sleeves where claws and ice had grazed him. Around him, the snow was painted crimson, the bodies of his enemies forming a macabre circle.
Silence fell over the walls.
The guards stared, their mouths agape.
The four figures just glanced in his direction and turned back to their battles after a satisfied nod.
Even the captain, locked in her duel with the eagle alpha, spared a glance—her eyes widening briefly before she forced her focus back to her own fight.
This wasn't a simple battle.
This was art.
And the boy stood at its center, his masked face surveying the remaining horde with cold, unreadable calm.
One boy.
An army of monsters.
And the unmistakable truth that he was the predator here.