Warehouse Row stretched out like a tombyard of forgotten steel and cracked concrete, a skeleton of Valenport's merciless underbelly. The stale, acrid scent of oil and rust filled the air, mingling with something fouler—decay, old blood, the residue of past battles long left to rot beneath the shifting shadows.
I moved without sound, feet sliding over shattered glass and broken crates, every muscle wound tight with anticipation. The faint hum of distant machinery and the scrape of metal against metal echoed through the empty docks. It was the perfect hunting ground for a ghost.
Rhea Veylan.
The name burned in my mind like a brand. The Council's deadliest blade, relentless and cold. I'd tracked her here—alone, unguarded—an opportunity I couldn't waste. No distractions, no backup. This was my reckoning.
Ahead, a single flickering lamp cast long shadows across the cracked wooden planks of a loading dock. From that pool of light, a figure emerged. Black leather hugged her lithe frame; a crossbow hung at her side, and a hooked blade gleamed faintly, catching the weak light like a predator's fang.
She was every bit the assassin I'd imagined—controlled, calculating, lethal.
Her eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that sent a jolt straight through my gut. No surprise. No hesitation. Just the promise of death.
I swallowed hard and stepped from the cover of the crates.
"Kael," she said, voice smooth as silk but edged with venom. "I've been waiting."
"Then you'll be disappointed," I replied, drawing my sword. The air around the blade shimmered as Soul Resonance flared to life beneath my skin, a blazing fire ready to consume.
The first clash was a thunderclap. Steel met steel with a deafening ring that echoed across the empty docks. Rhea moved with terrifying grace—each strike precise, each movement fluid as water. Her crossbow fired with deadly accuracy, bolts slicing the space between us like deadly whispers.
I dodged and parried, feeling the resonance pulse, flooding my limbs with renewed strength. Every slash carved arcs of blue light into the night, a dance of destruction and defiance.
The ground beneath us groaned as crates shattered and splinters flew. Sweat stung my eyes; my breath came in ragged gasps, but I pushed deeper into the fight. Rhea was fast, but I was faster. Years of rebuilding had honed me into something sharper—something far more dangerous.
She spun, hooked blade flashing in a blur, and I barely blocked, the force rattling my arms. The world narrowed to this brutal moment—strike, counter, dodge—each breath a gamble.
With a guttural roar, I unleashed a wave of Soul Resonance. The air rippled as power surged outward, ripping up the boards beneath her feet and sending shards of wood flying like deadly splinters. She stumbled but recovered instantly, eyes flashing with fierce resolve.
This was no ordinary assassin. She was forged by the High Council to be their perfect weapon—relentless, unyielding, without mercy.
But I wasn't the broken man they left to die anymore.
Every strike I threw carried the weight of everything I'd lost—my honor, my rank, my soul.
The fight dragged on, a savage ballet under the cold light of the moon. I felt the strain in my muscles, the sharp burn of energy drained by every pulse of resonance, but I refused to falter.
Then came the moment I'd been waiting for.
Rhea lunged—blades flashing in a deadly arc. I met her attack head-on, our swords clashing in a shower of sparks. For a heartbeat, I caught something in her eyes—a flicker of doubt, a crack in the assassin's mask.
I didn't hesitate.
Channeling every ounce of Soul Resonance left in my body, I drove my blade forward in a searing strike charged with blue energy. The air screamed as the sword cut clean through her defenses.
Rhea stumbled, falling back, chest heaving. Her eyes met mine, burning with a mixture of respect and rage.
"You've grown," she hissed. "But this game is far from over."
I lowered my sword, chest heaving with exhaustion and triumph. "So am I."
Behind her, shadows shifted—figures emerging from the darkness. Council enforcers, no doubt drawn by the chaos.
Before I could react, flames erupted near the warehouse entrance—a signal, a warning. The fire licked hungrily at the cracked walls, swallowing crates and casting flickering light across the scene.
I shoved Rhea aside. "Get out of here."
She hesitated, then nodded, melting into the shadows like the ghost she was.
The Council was tightening its grip, sending warnings in fire and steel.
But I was no longer a hunted man.
I was a storm.
I disappeared into the labyrinth of Warehouse Row, every sense on high alert. The fight had changed me—C-Rank was no longer a mark on a chart. It was a threshold crossed, a barrier broken.
I had taken my first true step toward reclaiming what was stolen.
Aric's game was only beginning.
But now, I was ready to play.