Charlie's voice sank to a near whisper, as if speaking any louder might wake something that should remain asleep. The faint firelight flickered across his face, carving deep shadows into the exhaustion etched there—lines that hadn't been there before tonight.
"When the night becomes too peaceful," he said slowly, each word weighed down with grim certainty, "that is when death walks closest."
The words settled heavily in the cave, colder than the stone around us.
And then—
The memory surged back.
---
That night, the Reyes mansion sank into a silence far deeper than usual.
Too deep.
Servants moved quietly through candlelit corridors, finishing their nightly routines, unaware that unseen eyes already followed their every step. Shadows clung unnaturally to the walls, stretching longer than they should have.
A woman carrying a lantern never felt the danger approach.
A hand clamped over her mouth from behind.
Steel flashed.
Her throat was cut cleanly, blood spilling soundlessly as her body crumpled to the marble floor. The lantern rolled away, its flame flickering once—then dying.
Elsewhere, a servant felt a faint sting at the back of his neck.
His vision blurred.
His legs gave out.
A thin poisoned needle fell from his skin as he collapsed, lifeless before he hit the ground.
In the courtyard, two servants sweeping side by side dropped at the exact same moment. Twin daggers pierced their hearts with chilling precision, their bodies falling like puppets with cut strings.
No screams.
No warning.
Only death.
---
The guards survived only moments longer.
A patrolling guard felt a sudden prickle of unease and began to turn—
A blade erupted through his chest, the force stealing his breath before he could even gasp.
Another guard instinctively lifted his sword, muscles tensing to strike—but his motion halted halfway as hands clamped around his head from behind. There was a sharp twist.
A sickening crack.
His body crumpled soundlessly to the floor.
At the back gate, two guards collapsed forward at the same time, blood spilling quietly across the cold stone beneath them, their weapons clattering only once before falling still.
The assassins moved like phantoms.
No footsteps. No hesitation. No wasted motion.
Death was delivered with terrifying precision.
By the time the bodies struck the ground, the killers were already gone—melting into the shadows, slipping deeper into the mansion's corridors without raising a single alarm.
The night remained peaceful.
And that was the most horrifying part.
---
Something was wrong.
Charlie felt it deep in his bones— The mansion felt too still, as if the air itself had grown cautious.
His steps slowed.
Every breath felt heavier, every shadow sharper. The familiar halls no longer felt safe—only watchful.
His heart pounding, he ran toward the Family Head's room and knocked urgently, barely restraining the panic in his voice.
"Patriarch! Madam! Please—open up!"
The door opened.
The Reyes patriarch stood at the doorway, tall and composed, confusion flickering briefly in his sharp eyes—but beneath it lay unmistakable alertness. Years of authority and battle instinct had trained him to recognize danger even before it revealed itself.
Charlie opened his mouth to speak.
Before a single word could leave his lips—
CRASH!
Glass exploded inward.
The window shattered violently, shards spraying across the room as ten figures surged through the opening in a single, fluid motion. Cloaked in darkness, they moved like a coordinated swarm, weapons flashing under the dim lantern light—cold steel glinting like bared fangs.
Killing intent flooded the room.
It was suffocating. Heavy. Predatory.
The air itself seemed to recoil.
Madam Reyes gasped sharply behind him.
Charlie's muscles tensed, fire instinctively gathering in his palm.
But the patriarch—
He did not panic.
He stepped forward instead.
Calm. Grounded. Unyielding..
He stepped forward calmly, his presence sharpening as invisible power surged outward. With a flick of his wrist, a sword shot across the room like lightning, piercing straight through the nearest assassin's heart.
The body dropped.
Another assassin blocked the returning blade with a reinforced gauntlet. Sparks burst as metal clashed violently. The patriarch's eyes narrowed, his psychic force intensifying.
The sword tore free again and hovered beside him, vibrating with restrained power.
Behind him, Madam Reyes stood frozen, terror written across her face. She had no ability, no combat training—yet she refused to step away.
Charlie ignited flames in his palm and moved in front of her without hesitation.
"Patriarch," he said firmly, stance unwavering, "fight without worry. I will protect Madam."
---
The battle erupted.
The patriarch faced nine assassins alone.
Shadows flickered around him as several figures vanished and reappeared, striking from blind angles like phantoms. Reinforced fists crashed toward him with explosive force, cracking the floor where they missed.
Razor-thin wires whistled through the air, aimed for his throat and limbs, while poisoned blades darted in from every direction, each attack timed to overlap with the next. He moved without panic—his body steady, his mind razor-sharp—redirecting strikes by inches, deflecting killing blows with psychic force just before they landed.
Every assassin fought with terrifying coordination and precision, their attacks flowing together like a single, relentless tide meant to overwhelm him through sheer pressure rather than brute strength.
Despite being a Very High Level Controller, something was wrong. His psychic control wavered.
The sword did not move with its usual overwhelming dominance. Each command felt delayed, as though an unseen force disrupted his mind. Still, he fought relentlessly—blocking synchronized attacks, countering with lethal precision.
Even weakened—
They could not bring him down.
---
Then—
The door burst open with a sharp crash.
A man stumbled inside, breath ragged, armor scuffed, eyes wide with urgency.
"Patriarch! Are you unharmed!?"
It was Captain Roderic Vale—the Guard Commander of the Reyes family. A man renowned for both loyalty and strength, standing second only to the Patriarch himself.
As he straightened, wind stirred faintly around his frame.
The moment he stepped forward, the air around him twisted violently. Invisible currents wrapped around his arms and shoulders, shrieking softly as compressed wind gathered at his command. The room itself seemed to recoil, curtains snapping and shattered glass lifting from the floor.
He didn't hesitate.
The instant he joined the Patriarch, the battlefield transformed.
Psychic force and raging wind collided and intertwined, forming a devastating storm within the confined space. The Patriarch's sword moved without physical restraint, darting through the air in impossible angles, striking with surgical precision. At the same time, Roderic slashed his arm downward—
Wind blades screamed through the room.
One assassin was cut cleanly across the chest before he could even raise his weapon. Another vanished into shadows—only to be dragged back into visibility as the Patriarch's psychic grip crushed his skull with a sharp twist. A third tried to leap away, but a crescent of compressed air tore straight through his body, slamming him lifeless against the far wall.
A fourth assassin charged, reinforced fists glowing with energy.
Roderic turned calmly.
He clenched his hand and the wind exploded.
The assassin was hurled backward like a broken doll, smashing into the stone wall with a sickening crack. Bones shattered on impact, his body sliding down the surface in a limp heap.
For a brief moment, the assassins faltered.
Against the combined might of psychic dominion and absolute wind control, they were being erased.
And for the first time since the attack began—
Victory felt possible.
---
Then the temperature dropped.
Not suddenly—but unnaturally, as if warmth itself had been drained from the room.
A slow, deliberate footstep echoed from the direction of the shattered window.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Each sound landed heavily, pressing against everyone's chest like an unseen weight.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Even the assassins froze, their killing intent faltering as an oppressive presence washed over the room.
A long black cloak brushed silently across the floor, its edges dragging over shattered glass without a sound. Atop his shoulders sat a devil's mask—dark and smooth, carved with curved horns that twisted upward, its hollow eyes revealing nothing.
The moment he entered, the air thickened, pressing down like an invisible weight. Breathing became difficult. Even sound seemed reluctant to exist.
He did not hide. He did not rush. He simply stood there— As if the room already belonged to him.
The patriarch's eyes narrowed, a sharp glint cutting through the chaos.
"Commander," he said quietly, but there was an unmistakable tension threaded through his voice, "be careful."
The words were calm—too calm—but they carried weight.
Roderic felt it instantly.
His throat tightened as a bead of sweat slid down his temple. The air around them felt wrong—thick, oppressive, pressing against his senses like an unseen hand.
"That aura…" Roderic muttered under his breath, eyes fixed on the masked figure. His fingers curled involuntarily. "He's not just high-level."
The patriarch's expression darkened.
"He is a Very High Level Controller," he said slowly, each word heavy with certainty. "Just like me."
Silence fell.
Not the absence of sound—but the kind that suffocated it.
In that instant, something shifted in the room. The fragile hope born moments earlier shattered, replaced by a cold, creeping dread.
And that was when it became clear—
The true catastrophe had only just begun.