The hooded figure moved — just a twitch, barely a shift of cloth — but Avin's eyes caught it instantly. His breath slowed, the pulse in his neck syncing to the rhythm of danger. And then, in the blink of an eye, the man was gone.

The forest swallowed him.

Avin's hand snapped up, dagger flashing through the air in a clean horizontal arc. Nothing. No resistance. No contact. Only the whistle of metal through open space and the whisper of leaves disturbed by motion too fast to follow.

He turned sharply, scanning the shadows between the trees. "Where—"

A faint thump above.

His eyes lifted—and his pupils shrank.

The hooded man was descending from the branches like a reaper, his dagger poised downward, aimed directly for Henry's head.

Avin didn't think. He moved. His boot slammed into Henry's chest, kicking him backward and pushing himself away with the same force. Both of them rolled through the grass as the assassin struck the ground between them with a muted thud, the impact cracking the dirt.

Avin spun back to his feet, shouting, "Draw your sword!"

Henry scrambled up, wide-eyed. He fumbled at his belt like someone who'd forgotten which side his weapon even hung on. "Where is—oh right—left side!" He tugged at the hilt, pulling—but the blade jammed in its sheath, refusing to come free. He turned it, twisted it, and somehow made it worse.

The hooded figure rose from his crouch like an animal ready to pounce. Avin could already see the intent in his stance—he was going to strike the fumbling idiot.

"Duck!" Avin barked.

Henry instantly dropped, crouching in panic. But the hooded man heard it too, and mirrored the motion, dipping low to avoid what he assumed would be an incoming strike.

He didn't realize until it was too late—that was exactly what Avin wanted.

Avin's boots dug into the dirt. He dashed forward, using the crouched assassin's exposed back as an opening, his dagger slicing through the air toward the neck.

Clang!

The assassin turned just in time, steel crashing against steel. Sparks burst between them, glowing embers scattering into the air like fireflies.

The hooded man's other hand darted down to one of the many small pouches strapped along his thigh. He pulled another dagger, spun it once, and thrust. The move was fast, brutal, but Avin moved faster—pulling his hand back just before the stab could connect.

Instead of hitting flesh, the dagger plunged through the hilt of Avin's own weapon, knocking it free.

The smaller blade whirled into the air, spinning violently, and embedded itself deep into the ground.

For a moment, both men froze—one crouched, one standing. The assassin's hand still on the dirt from the impact, his balance momentarily broken.

Avin seized that instant.

He stepped aside, pivoted his hips, snatched the spinning dagger midair by its hilt, and slashed horizontally in a single, violent motion. The cut hummed through the air like a whistle.

The assassin's eyes widened beneath his hood. He dropped his weight, falling onto his back, the blade narrowly missing his throat. The wind from the swing stirred his cloak as Avin spun past, his momentum carrying him forward.

But before Avin could recover, the man used the ground itself. Both of his palms struck the dirt, and his body shot forward feet-first, like a spear propelled by raw muscle.

His legs tangled around Avin's, pulling.

Avin staggered—off balance, falling. The world tilted. But instinct kicked in again; his hand flipped the dagger around, its tip now pointing downward. If he fell, he'd make the enemy fall with him.

The assassin saw it coming and rolled to the side at the last second, their limbs untangling. Avin hit the ground, stabbing deep. The dagger buried itself into the dirt, blade-first, humming from the impact.

He tried to pull it out—but it was too deep, wedged in the soil.

No time.

The hooded figure was already on him again.

Avin twisted his body, his hand grazing the air just as a vertical strike came down. He spun away, the dagger missing him by inches, the sound of metal scraping bark echoing through the trees.

In one fluid motion, he swung his elbow backward—straight into the inner bend of the man's arm. The hit landed solidly, and the assassin's grip faltered. His dagger fell, the blade clattering to the dirt.

But he didn't slow down.

As if expecting the counter, he pulled another dagger from his thigh in the same heartbeat, spun it around in his hand, and drove it straight toward Avin's stomach.

Avin jumped back, but the man pressed forward, the point grazing close enough to slice the edge of his shirt.

Avin's hand came up, forming a small circle with his thumb and index finger—a technique from an old memory, one not entirely his own. The dagger passed through that circle perfectly, the blade grazing his palm and cutting deep into flesh—but it stopped just short of his gut.

He gritted his teeth, clamping down on the pain, and grabbed the man's wrist.

"Not today."

He shoved the attacker back, but the man recovered frighteningly fast, using his other arm to pull yet another dagger. He aimed for Avin's spine.

Avin's reflexes screamed again. He twisted his torso, catching that arm too. Their bodies locked together—daggers clutched, muscles straining, both of them pushing against each other in a silent contest of strength and endurance.

The sound of their labored breathing filled the clearing.

Avin's eyes glowed faintly red, veins pulsing around his temples as he struggled to overpower the man. Sweat ran down his face, dripping to the dirt below.

And then—footsteps.

Fast. Uneven. Coming closer.

"Avin!" Henry's voice echoed through the clearing.

Avin didn't turn, but he saw movement in his peripheral vision—Henry charging in, sword drawn, looking both terrified and determined.

"Don't—" Avin started, but it was too late.

Henry raised his sword, the metal gleaming as sunlight broke through the leaves.

The assassin's back was to him—perfect opening.

Avin adjusted his grip slightly, forcing the man's body to turn toward the south gate, the only direction with no trees. The path was clear—unintentional, but perfect.

"Now!" Avin shouted.

Henry swung.

The blade connected—not cleanly, but enough. A meaty thunk echoed as it buried into the man's arm, stopping halfway.

The assassin screamed, a raw, guttural sound that carried through the woods. His dagger fell from his hand, blood splattering the ground.

Avin stepped back, watching as the man stumbled, clutching his injured arm. "You crazy bastards," the man spat, his voice trembling with both rage and pain. He staggered back another step, eyes burning beneath the hood.

"You'll… pay for what you've done."

Avin didn't hesitate. He sprinted forward, dagger raised for the final blow—

—but the figure vanished.

Gone. Completely.

Only the faint distortion of air remained where he'd stood, and a streak of crimson blood painted the leaves.

Henry blinked, panting, looking down at his sword. "My sword," he muttered.

Avin turned, confused. "What?"

Henry stared at the empty space where the assassin had disappeared, realization dawning slowly. "He… he took it. My sword's still in his arm."

Avin sighed, dropping his dagger, exhaustion flooding in. "Of course he did."

The wind rustled the trees again, the faint scent of blood and ash mixing with the forest air. The ritual pattern behind them still glowed faintly—grey lines whispering with strange energy, unfinished yet dangerous.

Avin looked at it once, then at Henry, who was still staring dumbly at his missing sword.

"This," Avin said flatly, "is going to be a problem."

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