The clinking of metal merged with the thunder of footsteps from every direction.
Fifty men. Fully armed, trained, and thirsty for blood.
But one stood at the center. No army at his back. No call for reinforcements. No coded signals or elaborate strategy.
Only me, standing alone on the cold steel floor beneath a swaying chandelier, its rhythm ticking down to a massacre.
One man—fifty enemies.
My hands reached beneath my coat, drawing twin blades. Knives that had never failed. I held my breath. The world shrank.
Then they charged.
Like a rhythm-less storm, they leapt together, aiming to crush a single point of impact: me.
I moved left—two blades slicing across two necks in a single motion. Blood sprayed—not like a river, but like a fountain of warning.
One body fell. Then two. Three. Four.
In less than ten seconds, ten men lay collapsed. One of them still clinging to life, groaning, hands on his half-split gut—until I crushed his throat beneath my heel.
My steps were like a dance, but this was no art. This was erasure.
Five came at me from behind—I dropped to the ground, kicked the nearest knee until bone burst through skin, and carved through the rest of their legs before rising in a single spin.
Blood dripped from my shoulder. But it wasn't mine. Not yet.
Vassago, standing far above on the upper floor, leaned his elbow on the iron railing, watching without expression.
But his eyes—those eyes—were lit. As if witnessing a legend he never believed could be real.
"He doesn't move like a man," he whispered to himself.
"His movements… they weren't learned from battle. They were learned from death."
Twenty-nine remained. Some began to falter. They trembled. I could smell their fear. Too late.
I spun toward them. Two silent bullets pierced their vests and the chests beneath. One crawled away, hand outstretched—until my blade kissed the back of his neck. Silence returned.
Thirteen now clustered together, trying to hold a line. A formation—like a miniature army. But I knew.
They were afraid.
A single thrown knife struck the forehead of their leader. The rest wavered.
I walked slowly now. Each step heavy—not from fatigue, but from vengeance.
I leapt—locked two necks with a steel chain from my waist, and slammed them down until their skulls shattered like clay pots.
The last man knelt. Hands pleading. Eyes wet.
I looked into him—and let him live.
Not out of mercy. But as a curse.
The floor was quiet now. The stench of blood hung like incense from some ancient altar.
I stood. My body drenched in red. But none of it was mine.
Vassago descended slowly, the sound of his shoes cutting the silence. His gaze never left me.
He smiled—not in victory. Not in mockery.
But in respect. In recognition.
"Your movements… so precise. So lethal."
"Not one of them touched you."
"And not a single word left your mouth…"
"You really are…"
He stopped, just one step away from me.
"So then—what does your arrival mean,
Legend?"