I whipped around to stare at the commotion, pivoting so sharply the edges of the world seemed to smear for a fraction of a second, my eyes locking onto the source of that terrible scream with a laser focus that eliminated everything else from my awareness.
One of the guards stood painted in streaks of fresh blood—vivid crimson splashed across pristine white armor in patterns that spoke of violence conducted at close range, arterial spray painting abstract art across polished metal that had been flawless moments before.
At his feet lay the lifeless corpse of his fellow guard, the body crumpled in the boneless way that only death produced, armor dented and split where the force of his blow had punched through the protective plating to reach the vulnerable flesh beneath.
The standing guard yanked his spear free from the fallen one’s chest with a wet sucking sound that made my stomach clench in response, the weapon sliding out through the wound it had created, metal scraping against broken ribs before emerging into the open air dripping with gore that caught the ambient light in glistening droplets.
Then he turned his head to stare directly at us, the movement slow and deliberate, his posture shifting from a neutral stance into something more predatory and purposeful that made every survival instinct in my body start screaming warnings about imminent danger.
I caught on instantly—the pieces clicking together despite the shock trying to scramble my thoughts—because this wasn’t just random violence or sudden madness breaking through disciplined training.
This was an assassination attempt.
Coordinated, planned, executed with the kind of cold precision that spoke to professional competence beyond simple hired muscle.
Before the assassin could take another step toward us, two more guards rushed in from either side with spears raised and armor gleaming, their movements synchronized in the way elite operatives trained together until coordination became instinct.
The assassin didn’t hesitate.
His body shifted with fluid grace, stepping inside the first guard’s spear thrust with such minimal movement it appeared effortless, his own weapon already in motion before any defensive options could present themselves.
The spearhead punched upward beneath the guard’s chin where armor plates met and left a vulnerable gap, the blade driving through his soft tissue with mechanical precision, piercing tongue and palate before continuing its trajectory into the brain cavity with enough force to lift the guard’s entire body onto his toes.
Blood erupted from the wound in a fountain that painted the assassin’s armor an even darker crimson, hot liquid splashing across his helmet’s narrow eye slits in ways that should’ve blinded him but apparently didn’t interfere with his vision at all.
The second guard came from the opposite angle, his spear driving toward the assassin’s exposed ribs in a strike calculated to exploit the opening created by his companion’s attack.
The assassin twisted at the waist with serpentine flexibility, his spine rotating in ways human anatomy shouldn’t comfortably allow, letting the spear tip pass close enough to scrape against his armor without actually finding purchase.
His free hand shot out with blinding speed, fingers wrapping around the spear’s shaft just behind the blade, wrenching it sideways with a strength that tore the weapon from the guard’s grip entirely.
In the same continuous motion he spun the captured spear in a tight arc, reversing his grip mid-rotation, bringing the butt end around with a crushing force that connected with the guard’s helmet at temple height.
The impact produced a sound like a bell being struck with a sledgehammer—loud, discordant, wrong in fundamental ways—and the guard’s head snapped sideways with a violence that surely broke his neck even before unconsciousness could register.
His body dropped like puppetry with severed strings, armor clanging against the rooftop tiles in a cacophony of metal on stone.
Then the real fight began.
Three guards moved to encircle the assassin completely, positioning themselves at perfect intervals around his position, spears extended to create a perimeter of death from which escape seemed geometrically impossible.
They advanced in unison, their movements coordinated through silent communication, each step narrowing the circle while maintaining a defensive spacing that prevented the assassin from targeting one without exposing himself to the others.
The assassin stood absolutely still in the center of their formation, his posture relaxed despite being surrounded, blood pooling beneath his boots in expanding darkness that reflected the ambient light like polished obsidian.
The leftmost guard struck first, his spear driving forward in a thrust aimed at center mass with force behind it that could punch through reinforced plating.
The assassin sidestepped with minimal displacement, his body shifting just far enough to let the blade pass harmlessly while simultaneously closing distance with his attacker.
His own spear came up in a rising arc that caught the guard’s weapon mid-shaft, deflecting it upward while his momentum carried him inside defensive range. The spearhead reversed direction with practiced fluidity, the blade sweeping down to hook behind the guard’s knee joint where armor segments met and allowed mobility.
He yanked backward with vicious strength, hyperextending the joint beyond its natural range until something popped with wet finality.
The guard’s leg buckled, his body pitching forward into the assassin’s waiting strike—a short, brutal thrust that drove the spear point through the eye slit of his helmet with surgical precision, the blade penetrating deep into the skull cavity before withdrawing in a spray of blood and vitreous fluid that painted the rooftop tiles in abstract patterns.
The second guard attacked while his companion was still falling, his spear thrusting toward the assassin’s exposed back in a strike timed to catch him mid-motion and unable to defend effectively.
The assassin dropped into a crouch so sudden it looked like gravity had been selectively increased around his body, the spear passing through empty air where his torso had been a heartbeat before, close enough that the blade’s edge caught his armor and left a shallow score mark across the shoulder plate.
From his lowered position he swept his own spear in a wide horizontal arc at ankle height, the shaft moving with enough force to shatter bone on impact.
The guard tried to jump over the sweep, his training telling him to avoid being grounded, but the assassin had anticipated exactly that response. Mid-sweep he released the spear with one hand, letting centrifugal force carry it forward while his now-free hand shot upward to grab the guard’s descending boot.
He yanked downward with enhanced strength, slamming the guard into the rooftop tiles with a force that cracked stone beneath the impact point.
Before the guard could recover from having his breath driven from his lungs, the assassin retrieved his spear and drove it downward through the throat gap beneath the helmet’s edge, the blade punching through vertebrae with a crunch that made my teeth ache in sympathy.
The third guard hesitated—just for a fraction of a second, his instincts screaming warnings about engaging someone who’d just dismantled two trained fighters with contemptuous ease—but hesitation proved fatal when facing opponents this skilled.
The assassin closed the distance between them with explosive speed, his legs launching him forward in a charge that ate up ground faster than the guard could backpedal.
The guard brought his spear up defensively, holding it horizontal across his body in a guard position meant to deflect strikes from multiple angles, but the assassin didn’t attack the guard directly.
Instead he planted his spear point-first into the rooftop and used it as a vaulting pole, his body lifting into an aerial rotation that carried him up and over the guard’s defensive positioning. At the apex of his arc he released the spear, his hands now free, his body inverted above his target with gravity about to bring him down directly onto the guard’s shoulders.
Both hands shot downward to grip the edges of the guard’s helmet, fingers finding purchase in gaps between metal plates, wrenching sideways with a torque that exceeded what neck muscles could resist.
The helmet—and the head inside it—rotated a full one hundred eighty degrees with a series of wet pops and cracks as cervical vertebrae separated and the spinal cord severed. The guard’s body stood upright for one surreal moment, his head facing backward, before collapsing in a graceless heap.
I didn’t move throughout the entire display, my body frozen in place as though someone had pressed pause on my nervous system’s motor functions. I stood transfixed by the fight unfolding before me, unable to look away despite every rational part of my brain screaming that I should be running, hiding, doing literally anything except standing here watching like some kind of morbid spectator.
This man was killing not one but multiple Velvet-level guards with an ease that made the combat look choreographed, his movements flowing from one lethal technique to the next without apparent effort or strain, dispatching elite operatives the way normal people swatted flies—casually, efficiently, without breaking rhythm.
Lord Erwin displayed no reaction whatsoever throughout the carnage. He remained seated in his velvet chair with that same perfect posture, one hand raising his teacup to his lips for another measured sip, his dark eyes tracking the violence with a clinical detachment that bordered on disturbing.
He could’ve been watching a theater performance for all the concern that registered on his features, his breathing steady and controlled, not a single muscle tensing in response to his guards dying mere meters away from where he sat.
The assassin stood in a pool of blood spreading outward from multiple corpses, his white armor now painted almost entirely crimson, steam rising from the hot liquid as it contacted the cooler air of the chamber.
He snapped his head up to stare directly at Lord Erwin and me, his posture shifting once again into that predatory stance that preceded violence, muscles coiling with visible tension beneath his armor plates.
Then he charged.
His legs pumped with enhanced speed that blurred his form into streaking motion, his boots splashing through pooled blood and leaving red footprints across the tiles, the distance between us shrinking at terrifying velocity.
I was about to make my escape—my body already tensing to throw itself backward off the rooftop’s edge because falling seemed preferable to whatever this assassin had planned—when I glanced behind me and discovered with mounting horror that Priscilla was gone.
The space where she’d been standing moments ago sat completely empty, no indication of where she’d vanished to or how she’d moved without me noticing despite my enhanced perception. However, the second I whipped my head back around to face forward, I saw her.
Priscilla stood directly in front of both Lord Erwin and myself, having somehow crossed the intervening distance without making a sound or displacing air in any detectable way, her small frame positioned between us and the charging assassin like she genuinely believed her presence would matter against someone who’d just killed six elite guards.
In that very second she snapped her fingers.
The sharp crack of skin striking skin echoed across the rooftop with a volume disproportionate to the gesture’s simplicity, the sound carrying a weight that made reality itself seem to pause and listen.
The remaining six guards who’d been maintaining a perimeter formation began to move, their bodies shifting with synchronized precision, but instead of rushing the assassin—which would have been the logical tactical response to an active threat—they did something odd.
They positioned themselves around the rooftop in spots that seemed random at first glance, spreading out to occupy specific tiles with deliberate care, each guard placing themselves at precise coordinates that formed a pattern I couldn’t immediately identify.
The assassin closed the final distance to Priscilla with explosive momentum that should’ve been unstoppable, his body launching into a final sprint that carried him across the blood-slicked tiles without losing traction, his spear rising as he approached her undefended form.
Time seemed to stretch as he drew near, each second expanding to contain multitudes of detail—the flex of muscles beneath armor as he prepared his strike, the angle of his spear as it rose overhead, the way blood dripped from the blade to leave a trail of crimson droplets suspended in air behind his motion.
He cocked his arm back for a devastating thrust aimed at Priscilla’s center mass, the spear positioned to punch straight through her fragile body.
I opened my mouth to yell a warning—words forming on my tongue that would probably arrive too late but which needed to be spoken anyway because watching in silence felt like complicity—when the world shattered.
That was the only way I could describe what happened next. Reality itself seemed to fracture at its fundamental levels, the space around us splitting at invisible seams like a painting someone had taken a knife to, each cut revealing layers underneath that shouldn’t exist.
The rooftop transformed beneath our feet with such sudden violence it made my inner ear scream protests about equilibrium and spatial consistency.
Black and white tiles erupted into existence where plain stone had been moments before, spreading outward from Priscilla’s position in an expanding checkerboard pattern that consumed the entire rooftop surface in seconds.
The tiles were perfect squares, their edges meeting with geometric precision, alternating between obsidian darkness that seemed to absorb light and pristine whiteness that reflected it back with painful intensity.
Above us, the sky itself fractured into impossible geometries. Chunks of our previous reality remained suspended in broken archipelagos—sections of the cavern ceiling that enclosed the underground city, stalactites hanging from nothing, fragments of stone and metal infrastructure floating in violation of gravity’s insistence.
But between these remnants, through the cracks where reality had split, I could see something else entirely. Vast emptiness stretched into infinite distance, studded with points of light that could only be stars despite the complete impossibility of stars existing underground.
Entire galaxies spiraled in the gaps between those broken pieces, their light reaching across incomprehensible distances to paint everything in shades of cosmic indifference, nebulae drifting through spaces where stone should have been, the cold vacuum of actual space pressing against the edges of our transformed environment.
My first thought was to move—to run, to dodge, to do something other than stand frozen while reality rearranged itself around me—but my instincts began screaming with such intensity that ignoring them felt like deliberately stepping in front of a speeding train.
Some primal part of my brain that predated language, logic, and rational thought grabbed control of my motor functions and locked every muscle in place, refusing to allow even the smallest movement despite my conscious mind demanding action.
The feeling was overwhelming, visceral, a bone-deep certainty that moving would constitute a grave decision with consequences I couldn’t survive.
I stared back up at the assassin who’d frozen mid-strike, his spear still cocked back, his body suspended in the attacking pose like someone had pressed pause on the universe’s playback.
His posture radiated the same frozen tension I felt in my own frame, every line of his body communicating that he too felt that overbearing instinct of imminent dread, that terrible certainty that any movement would trigger something catastrophic beyond imagining.
Priscilla stood perfectly still before him, her expression shifting from neutral anticipation into something playful and knowing, dark eyes sparkling with amusement at finding herself in the position she’d meticulously orchestrated.
She gave him a little smile that carried mockery wrapped in genuine delight, her lips curving upward with the satisfaction of someone who’d just executed a trap with perfect timing.
"Let’s play a little game, shall we?" she whispered, the words hanging in the fractured air between them like a promise of something terrible about to unfold.