The tension inside the chamber did not merely grow—it fermented. Each passing second swelled into an unbearable weight, pressing down like the heavens themselves had bent closer to observe this clash. It was suffocating, sharp, and alive, like the union of sperm and ovum that heralded birth—except this was not creation. It was a prelude to annihilation.
Spindle chuckled.The sound slithered across the floor like oil ignited by fire. His gaze swept the gathered assassins with the ravenous hunger of a starving beast, his eyes glinting like a bear roused from its den mid-winter—lethal, primal, unrestrained.
It was then Reinhard moved.
With a fluidity that defied reason, he leapt onto a bent pole—so thin it should have buckled under the weight of even a child. Yet Reinhard stood balanced on one leg, as steady as a sovereign on his throne. The silence bent around him, and in a voice that was neither loud nor soft but carried to every ear, he spoke:
"There is no room for laughter in this world… only room for my comfort."
His words dripped with something paradoxical—neither arrogance nor humility, but a declaration that his existence itself was truth.
Spindle snarled, anger cracking his composure. He launched forward, body twisting with the grace of a phantom, unleashing a vicious side-kick that sought to sever Reinhard's stance like a guillotine through flesh.
Reinhard did not flinch.At the last instant, he pivoted, his body folding and unfolding with precision that mocked Spindle's fury. The strike passed by, carrying the sound of death, but left Reinhard untouched.
The boy yawned. Not lazily, but like one bored of the futility of those who still thought they could reach him. His lips curved slightly, and he whispered:
"Systematical Book."
Reality shivered.
From his hand materialized a tome that looked as if it had been plucked from the grave of time itself. Its rusty cover bore the whispers of the old, lines etched not by mortal hands but by something ancient, something that had seen both the birth of suns and their decay into cold ash.
The air trembled.
Reinhard raised his left hand and declared with terrifying calm:
"Hand of God."
The space before them split like torn fabric. Out of the fissure extended a colossal, withered hand—its flesh mottled, its veins like rivers carved by despair. It was both ancient and eternal, a limb that seemed to have closed the gates of heaven in some forgotten era.
Spindle's smirk faltered. For the first time, his figure lost its elegant poise. He glided through the air with frantic movements, trying to slip between the lines of gravity itself, but the Hand pursued him relentlessly, reaching with inevitability.
Still, Spindle fought. He twisted, dived, curved along impossible trajectories. Yet his rhythm cracked the moment Reinhard's body moved again.
With the precision of a blade honed beyond perfection, Reinhard spun, executing a 540-degree kick. The air howled at the force, a whisper of inevitability screaming into Spindle's ear. The strike crashed into him, and his body was flung across the chamber like a discarded doll.
The Hand descended.Its ancient fingers clamped down upon Spindle's form, pinning him mid-air, crushing every attempt at resistance. He could no longer move.
From the side, Ice's voice cut through, casual, yet brimming with iron:
"Are we already leaving?"
Zixuan, his face as calm as death itself, nodded once. His gaze passed over Zeph's battered figure, and his voice carried the weight of a verdict pronounced by the abyss:
"Take Zeph."
He stepped forward, his hand weaving through symbols that seared themselves into the air like infernal brands. His tone was low, almost tender, as he whispered:
"Gift from Satan… Instantaneous Travel."
The ground beneath their feet writhed.A black hole yawned open, its darkness vast, hungering, alive. It swallowed the light, drank in sound, and clutched greedily at the gathered assassins. In a blink, their forms dissolved into shadow and were drawn downward.
Spindle writhed against the Hand.Noct's scream of fury echoed as he reached for them, his body dripping both shadow and blood. But the abyss was quicker.
In the next heartbeat, they were gone.
Silence fell upon the chamber, broken only by the faint rustle of shadows.
When Zixuan's boots struck solid ground again, it was not the battlefield, nor the lair of the cult, but the familiar cold stone of the Assassin Federation. The air was still, clean, alive with the faint sound of distant wind. They were home.
Zeph lay breathing, battered but alive. Reinhard stood silent, his rusty tome still open, pages turning of their own accord. Ice glanced at Zixuan with a quiet smirk.
Zixuan exhaled, his voice softer than before, but carrying finality
"Mission complete."