The stench of blood was so thick it clung to the air, saturating every breath with a metallic tang that lingered on the tongue. Asher walked forward, each step squelching softly beneath his boot.
Squish. Squish. Squish. Squish.
The sound echoed through the darkness, unnaturally loud against the silence of the ravaged forest. The dense fog that once cloaked the woods had long since been torn apart by the fury of battle, leaving the world around him eerily bare.
Blood had gathered into stagnant pools, spreading like crimson lakes beneath his feet. Corpses were strewn across the terrain like fallen leaves, lifeless heads resting with the permanence of stone.
Despite the toll the fight had taken, Asher’s breath came slow and steady. His stamina was worn, but not broken. He still had more than enough left for anything... or anyone.
Virelass pulsed once, subtle, yet commanding. In response, the blood that soaked the battlefield began to stir. Whether it belonged to assassins, beasts, or the unfortunate monsters felled by the sheer force of Asher’s onslaught, it obeyed.
Like crimson threads pulled by an unseen loom, the blood rose into the air, writhing as though granted sentience. One by one, the strands were drawn into Virelass, her form absorbing them with silent hunger.
As they vanished into her, the minor wounds that marred Asher’s body mended, flesh stitching itself together with unnatural grace. The excess was stored within her, waiting.
At this moment, Asher could no longer sense the presence of any assassins, as if each one had already succumbed to the edge of his rapier. His gaze rose toward the silver moon suspended high in the night sky, its cold light glinting off his blood-slick form.
The stench of death clung to him, as naturally as the sweat seeping from his pores.
Suddenly, Asher’s senses stirred. Something shifted in the periphery. His eyes fell from the moon and turned toward the source, emerging from the shadowed brush, an old man stepped forward. Unlike the masked assassins before him, this man walked calmly, unmasked and unhurried.
Asher’s sharp gaze swept over the figure from head to toe. There was no need to raise his guard, it had been at its peak since the moment he awoke in this dark forest.
"I must say, you are the most dangerous and talented Wargrave Crymora has ever known," the old man said, his voice calm and composed.
A rapier rested at his side, his posture relaxed. But there was no mistaking the contrast, he didn’t carry himself like the others, who fought in silence and died before they could even scream beneath Asher’s blade.
"It seems you’ve been watching from the start," Asher replied coolly, a faint smile brushing his lips. "I hope the show was entertaining."
Though Asher generally held disdain for villainous monologues, he had respect for those whose strength earned them the right to speak. This man, from the way he moved, from the way the air bent around him, he had earned it.
"Indeed, I’ve been watching," the old man continued. "According to our records, you are the first Wargrave to eliminate every assassin before the True Awakening even concluded. Not a limb lost. Not an organ grazed or lost. A truly extraordinary feat."
The man wore a black breastplate devoid of any crest, greaves protecting his legs from knee to ankle, and vambraces shielding his arms. His white hair, undeniably the mark of age, contrasted with the taut strength in his frame. Despite the passing of two centuries, time had failed to dull the sharpness of his form.
He stood like a knight.
"If there’s a reward that comes with such praise, I’d gladly accept it," Asher replied with a smirk, somehow finding humor even in a moment like this.
The words mattered little to him. What mattered was the time, thirty minutes remained. Whether this old man could kill him before that window closed was a question Asher already felt confident answering.
"You laugh and jest even after what you’ve endured," the old man noted. "Such will... such mindset."
Asher held the man’s gaze, then turned back toward the moon. His voice was quiet, but steady. "So tell me your story. I’m certain you have one. You walk and speak like a knight, yet here you are, acting under an assassin’s creed."
The old man stared at him in silence for a moment before speaking. "I was once a knight of a fallen noble household. I may be over two hundred years old and still stand only at the Spark Brightstar, but I served faithfully, and was honored to do so."
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle before continuing.
"But the First Sun, Malrik, destroyed that noble household, reduced it to ashes, because my young master dared glance at the Second Moon. And the Emperor refused to act. No punishment. No justice. No evidence, they said."
The man’s voice never rose. He did not shout. He did not weep. Yet the sorrow, the rage buried beneath centuries, carried clearly through each syllable.
"So, I joined the Assassin’s Guild. I drowned myself in missions and silence... until you came. Until you were born."
"So killing a Wargrave is your grand revenge?" Asher asked.
"Indeed," the old man replied, his eyes now drifting up to the same moon. "And once I kill you, I will take my own life, to join those I served in the land of the dead."
Asher remained silent. Despite the man’s low rank and advanced age, the aura surrounding him brimmed with danger. Asher did not dare underestimate it.
Surviving for over two centuries with such meager power could only mean one of two things, either the man possessed a terrifying ability... or he was simply that lucky.
And Asher did not believe in luck in world like Crymora.
"What’s your name, Mister Knight?" he asked, a flicker of genuine respect in his voice, for a man who had remained loyal even beyond death.
"You may call me Hillary," the old man replied without hesitation, unbothered by revealing his name.
Asher gave a small nod and fell into silence again. Sensing the pause, Hillary continued. "Though I now wear the title of assassin, I still carry the heart of a knight. You will see no cheap tricks from me. Let our rapiers decide life and death."
The atmosphere thickened, as though the air itself recognized the solemnity of the vow. Hillary’s gauntleted hand moved to his blade. As he drew the rapier from its sheath, the metal hissed, slicing through the stillness of the forest.
Asher didn’t flinch. No killing intent leaked from the man, yet his purpose was unmistakable, he had come for nothing but Asher’s life.
In a blink, Virelass materialized in Asher’s hand.
Purple eyes locked with deep, unreadable black. Their presence surged, saturating the air, bending wind and sky alike beneath the weight of their will.
A single leaf drifted downward, twirling on the breeze.
And the moment it touched the forest floor;
Asher and Hillary vanished.