The estate was dead silent—too silent. Not the quiet that promises peace, but the quiet that whispers, "You're next."
#@&# crouched behind a shattered column, flashlight flickering in one hand, notebook clutched in the other. Sweat ran down his back. Mostly from fear. Mostly from the jacket.
"Alright," he muttered. "Four masked assassins. One ancient conspiracy. And me. Let's see how lucky I can get this time."
Writer: That's not how luck works.
#@&#: Lies. My luck is a force of nature. Unpredictable. Dramatic. Occasionally heroic.
From the shadows, movement. Quick, silent. Calculated. A dagger glinted in the faint moonlight filtering through the cracked roof.
#@&# pressed against the wall. "Step one: remain unseen. Step two: remain unseen. Step three: trip someone spectacularly and hope they don't kill you first."
The first masked figure darted across the hall, scanning every corner. #@&# counted silently: one. Two… A third figure slid along the balcony above, their cloak brushing the stone floor. The fourth stayed behind, motionless, like a shadow born from the walls themselves.
"I hate coordinated teams," he muttered. "Especially ones that look like they could star in a bad stage play about murder."
A sudden crash—the second assassin kicked a wooden table into #@&#'s path. He jumped back, stumbled, and fell into a pile of old crates. Papers flew in every direction. One landed on his face.
#@&#: "Why do I even carry a notebook? It's just paper at this point. Useless. Heavy. Paper cuts are real danger, people."
Writer: Focus!
#@&#: FOCUS? I am the focus. Focus is following me.
The first assassin was closing in, dagger poised. #@&# grabbed a loose chain from the ceiling and swung it with all his might. The chain tangled around the assassin's legs. He fell. Dramatically.
#@&# whispered: "Step three… partially successful. Zero deaths. Excellent."
Meanwhile, the third assassin on the balcony noticed him. #@&# held his breath, silently calculating—though mostly guessing. He leaped sideways, landing in a pile of broken chairs. A loud crash! echoed through the hall.
"Stealth. Nailed it," he muttered sarcastically.
The fourth assassin, the one who had stayed still, suddenly appeared behind him. #@&# spun around, notebook raised like a shield.
"Hi," he said casually.
The assassin didn't respond. Their dagger reflected the moonlight—a thin silver line.
Writer: Casual doesn't work here!
#@&#: Watch. And… live dangerously.
He kicked a nearby stone slab. It hit the ceiling, causing dust to rain down. The assassin stumbled. That was all he needed. He bolted, sprinting down the corridor, adrenaline pumping.
The hall seemed endless. Every door led to another, every shadow seemed alive. And then… he saw it:
A mural. Faded by centuries. A knight, sword lowered, standing in front of a princess. Behind them… four masked figures.
#@&# froze. The scene mirrored the conspiracy he was chasing. The murders weren't just ancient. They were ritualized, repeated across generations.
"This is it," he whispered. "The plan… the murders… everything aligns."
A faint sound. Whispers. Soft footsteps. Coming closer.
He ducked behind a stone column, peeking through the cracks. The assassins moved in formation, silent as death, scanning the murals. Their leader—the one who had stayed still—paused in front of the mural. A gloved hand traced the symbols etched into the wall.
Writer: You should probably run now.
#@&#: I'm on it.
He rolled across the floor, grabbing a fallen torch. Lighting it, he flung it at the nearest assassin. Flames licked the wall. The second assassin yelped and stumbled, tripping over debris.
#@&# whispered to himself: "Step four: chaos. My strongest suit."
The leader turned. Eyes—cold, calculating, murderous. #@&# gulped.
"You won't leave this hall alive," a voice hissed.
#@&# raised his notebook like a sword. "Funny. I was thinking the same thing… about me."
Writer: That's not how threats work!
#@&#: Neither is running screaming.
The battle of shadows began.
Crates toppled. Torches fell. Dagger strikes met improvised defenses: a notebook here, a chain there, a flying chair for dramatic effect.
One assassin threw a smoke bomb. #@&# coughed. "Step five: survive smoke attacks. Step six: run while coughing like a dying goat. Check and check."
Amidst the chaos, #@&# noticed the mural again. The fourth masked figure—standing almost invisible—was tracing the symbols with a small dagger.
The dagger scraped along the stone… leaving a thin line of red. Blood? Ink? He couldn't tell.
But the symbols glowed faintly. Magic? Technology? He didn't care. The effect worked: the walls themselves seemed to pulse, the air thickened.
Writer: I told you—danger.
#@&#: Correct. Danger with style.
He lunged, grabbing the dagger from the wall mid-swipe. Sparks flew. The assassin screamed. Or maybe that was just him.
Meanwhile, the other three were distracted by a falling chandelier—literally. #@&# muttered: "Step seven: hope physics is on your side. Also, pray."
He kicked the last chair at the leader, sending them staggering back. The mural room was littered with debris. Flames reflected on the stone, casting the masked assassins into grotesque shadows.
And then… silence.
All four lay sprawled, groaning, some knocked out cold, some just pretending for effect. #@&# leaned against a wall, panting.
Writer: Congratulations. You survived.
#@&#: Mostly. And with some dignity.
He approached the mural again. Symbols glowing faintly, dagger still in hand. He traced the same symbols his eyes had followed in the first secret room.
The truth revealed itself.
The Knight and the Princess… were murdered. Their deaths staged to look like suicide. The masked figures? Members of a secret order, tasked with covering up the truth across centuries. And somehow, a direct line from the assassins of the past led to the modern conspirators in the estate.
#@&# muttered: "Centuries-old murder mystery solved. Check. Four assassins neutralized. Check. Chaos survived. Check. And somehow, no major blood loss. Mostly."
But the dagger in his hand pulsed faintly, glowing as if alive. The mural shimmered. A trap? A warning? He didn't know.
Writer: Classic cliffhanger.
#@&#: Perfect.
He looked at the inscriptions: one phrase stood out.
"The truth will find the worthy, but the unworthy will join the shadows forever."
#@&# whispered: "Well… lucky me, I guess."
With the assassins temporarily incapacitated, he slipped away through a hidden passage the mural had revealed. The estate stretched endlessly, corridors leading into the unknown, secrets layered atop secrets.
One thing was clear: the Knight and Princess's story was far from over. And so was the conspiracy.
He ran. Shadows behind him. Secrets in front of him. And a world that refused to stay quiet.
To be continued…
(Next chapter: The Hidden Legacy of the Knight — deeper conspiracies, new threats, and the chase continues.)