Chapter Eight: The First Clash II

Amy was not the only one tormented by distress. Deep within the oppressive mist, the murderous specter, wearing a mask twisted between a sneer and a cry, suddenly halted his unsteady steps.

Who is it?

His black eyes peered into the unknown depths, reflecting nothing but vacant oblivion.

An ordinary person might, in their terror, dismiss the recent sound from the fog as a trick of their imagination. But a battle-hardened assassin is never so naive. Though his eyes could not pierce the gray haze enshrouding most of Hermetica, the ceaseless sensation of being watched from behind left no doubt: something lurked within the mist, its gaze laced with malice, intent upon him.

Had he been marked?

He was the Murderer of the Mist, the strongest of his kind. Yet strength had never meant invincibility. Even the undisputed master of nocturnal slaughter was but a trivial, inconsequential pawn compared to the darkness looming over Hermetica—a tool perhaps more useful, more pleasing to its master, but ultimately… just that.

Even so, those who envied and hated him among his own kind would never squander a chance to send him to his grave.

And now… this seemed an almost perfect opportunity.

A true first-class assassin rarely fails, but this does not mean those who have failed are forever barred from excellence. Such a notion is the unfortunate misconception of outsiders. In truth, the reason so few failures are heard of among the elite is simple—for those who walk in shadow, failure is nearly always synonymous with death.

It is not only the ever-present dance with death, but the circling vultures among their peers that make it so.

So then… are the ones coveting him from behind his own kind?

The Murderer of the Mist could not be sure. The malice radiating from the hidden watcher told him his pursuer was no ordinary foe.

So—

Who could it be?

Had he not been wounded, he would have sought to uncover the truth. But there is no “if”—the strange, rusted blade wielded by Amy Ulysses was no common weapon. The wound at his abdomen showed no sign of healing; instead, it throbbed with an excruciating pain that seemed to scorch his very soul. More unsettling still, this agony did not fade with time; it only blazed fiercer, as if fed by fresh fuel, until he felt certain that, left unchecked, the phantom flame would one day consume him utterly.

Unbelievable.

Yet it was so.

Despite his unprecedented weakness, the assassin could still distinguish fantasy from reality. But this was not the time to ponder such mysteries. His first priority was to shake off the carrion vulture at his back.

He thought so—and acted so. After a brief pause, he accelerated abruptly, his ghostly form darting through the lower district alleys. His silent steps and the suffocating fog rendered him untraceable, even to the most seasoned hunter.

And yet—ah, that fatal “and yet.”

The gaze behind him remained, neither hurried nor slow, shadowing his every twist and turn.

This was not normal.

Sensing something truly amiss, the killer abandoned his futile efforts. His eyes, black as ink, flashed with an uncanny light—if before he had only suspected, now he was certain: the one stalking him was absolutely, undeniably, not human.

But something else.

Was it another surpasser implanted with a chakra, as he was? Or…

A forbidden name surfaced in his mind.

A demon.

He turned and faced the dense mist.

Then drew his blade.

“Come out.”

A simple, clear command—and a scimitar gleaming like the crescent moon.

Silent, endless silence—the soundless night threatened to last forever, until… footsteps approached.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The steps behind him were steady and firm. With his assassin’s hearing, he could tell the newcomer’s boots were made from genuine tanned leather of good quality.

But… why was the sound coming from behind?

He turned. Surprise flickered in his black pupils—only for a moment.

Because—

A figure began to take shape in the mist.

A gentleman, or at least a thoroughly eccentric man in gentleman’s attire: a fashionably outdated tall hat, an old-fashioned black suit. Though the fog concealed his features, the distinctive handlebar mustache and monocle were unmistakable.

Not the vultures. Nor one of his murderous kin.

So then—

“Who sent you?” His voice was hoarse as a viper’s hiss.

“No one sent me.” The man stopped, tapping his cane, and replied in a gentle tone, “I’m merely a merchant of secrets, a passing dealer of information, nothing more.”

The battle-scarred assassin’s face betrayed no emotion; his black eyes remained calm. Even at such an evasive answer, he merely raised an eyebrow and growled in his usual rasp, “Step aside.”

“And if…” The self-proclaimed information broker tipped his hat, revealing a single green eye, “if I say no?”

There was no “if.”

The Murderer of the Mist lunged—his silver blade drew a luminous arc, a new moon in the fog.

He had strangled the answer in its cradle.

And severed the bridge to further words.

The gentlemanly interceptor, quite expectedly, replied with steel—a duel without warning, with barely a heartbeat to react, yet the man’s response was preternaturally swift. Before the assassin could close in, the unremarkable cane spun and revealed a slender rapier hidden within. Without dodging or retreating, he shattered the moonlit strike in a spray of sparks.

Clang!

The sound rang as clear as a plucked string.

No feints, no probing. The killer pressed for a quick end, blade following blade in a ceaseless flow, each slash melting into the next. In the blink of an eye, sword and scimitar clashed more than ten times, their flashes weaving a tapestry of steel in the cramped space, illuminating their world in cold brilliance.

No victor.

But for the assassin, this was unacceptable. To him, deadlock was as good as death—his wound seared with every breath, reminding him of his dire disadvantage. His reserves would not last; this stalemate was a mirage. If he failed to fell his foe soon, he would be the one to collapse.

He did not fear death, but… if he could, he would spare himself the agony of prolonged emptiness.

He must end the fight quickly!

With this thought, the killer withdrew instead of pressing, nimbly breaking from the sword’s entanglement. Blade in hand, he squinted at his opponent, steadying his ragged breathing.

“You barrel in without so much as a greeting.” The black-suited gentleman made no move to chase. Leaning on his now-empty cane and stroking his mustache, he drawled, “Reckless fellow. It’s a wonder you ever earned the title ‘Mist.’”

The assassin stayed silent; such paltry taunts could not stir even a ripple within him.

“Indeed…” The gentleman spread his hands with a shrug, his gaze sharp beneath the monocle, and mocked in a farcical tone, “Nothing to say?”

Of course—

The Murderer of the Mist had nothing to say; only swords and blood could silence his foe.

The words of the dying need not be heeded.

With this in mind, the assassin advanced, step by measured step, treading an odd rhythm as he drew ever closer to the gentleman. Their distance shrank, bit by bit. Some tacit understanding held them both—neither struck first, their gazes locked, knuckles whitening on hilt and guard.

Closer, ever closer.

Their eyes narrowed in unison—the clash erupted once more.

A hiss—the sound of steel slicing flesh, the spray of blood.

Their figures parted instantly.

No flourish, no drawn-out struggle. The outcome was decided in an instant.

“No surprise at all…” The gentleman, self-styled as a broker of secrets, looked down with a complicated expression at the gaping wound in his chest, stepped back, and shook his head. “‘He’ was right—I lost.”

The assassin said nothing, letting crimson blood drip from his fingers.

There was no victory—only life and death.

He had won, or half-won. Compared to the trivial sword wound at his chest, the wounds he inflicted upon the interceptor were far more grievous, far more decisive. This owed not to superior swordplay or quicker reflexes, but to the assassin’s hard-earned contortionist skills, honed in his training, allowing him to evade a fatal lunge.

“What a pity…” The defeated broker sighed in dismay, staggered, raised his sword anew, and pointed at the assassin. “You may have won the fight, but you’ve lost the game of life and death. From the start, you misunderstood—more than swordsmanship, what I truly rely upon is…”

“My magic—”

Magic… tricks and shadows.

The killer scoffed, giving his foe no chance to recover.

Only a dead enemy is a good enemy.

With this thought, he charged—

But just then, the broker’s spell rang out: “Have you ever heard it? The howl of the divine wind.”

Almost simultaneously, a thunderous roar split the air.

What—

The thought had barely formed when his chest twisted, flesh rupturing in a violent explosion.

He died.

Utterly, irretrievably dead. The mask that had been his identity slid from his cheek, rolling into a pile of refuse, lifeless as its owner.

“Such an ordinary face,” the surviving broker remarked. His gaze showed no pity as he stared at the corpse. “Now, time to report back to ‘him.’ It seems both Michelangelo and Amy Ulysses are far from ordinary. I look forward to the next stage of the plan—it promises to be a feast without precedent.”

He adjusted his hat, the monocle gleaming over a single green eye in the mist.

Then, step by step, he faded away—

And was soon swallowed by the darkness.