A light rain draped the night over Thural.
The wet streets mirrored lantern glow and the hurried steps of night laborers.
But tonight was quieter than usual. Too quiet.
Jainal sensed it before most would.
He slipped silently out of the monastery, weaving through a narrow alley behind the market.
There was something in the air—a pressure, like a long breath being drawn right behind him.
> "You've gone too deep."
The voice came from the darkness. Calm. Low.
But laced with menace—like a knife not yet drawn.
From the shadows emerged a tall figure, cloaked in gold and black.
A wolf-shaped mask concealed his face—metallic, ornate, almost noble.
But the hand gripping a long dagger was not made for writing scrolls.
The Golden-Cloaked Wolf.
A dark legend from the North.
Not soldiers. Not common assassins.
They were shadow cleaners, dispatched to erase names and traces—without a sound, without a trace.
---
Jainal didn't speak.
He activated the magitek dagger embedded in his right wrist.
Their eyes met only for a second before the clash exploded—no warning, no hesitation.
Two shadows moved like wind.
Steel met steel with a flash of magic.
The Wolf was fast—far beyond ordinary men.
But Jainal wasn't an ordinary wielder of magic.
He summoned a gust beneath his heels, launching himself backward, then struck with a side-thrust.
Blades cut through air—one mistake would become a fatal wound.
> "You're no novice," the Wolf muttered.
"But you're no ordinary target either."
Jainal stayed silent.
He focused on rhythm: breathing patterns, gaps between strikes, body momentum—
then broke the tempo entirely.
A trick to unbalance trained killers.
The Wolf faltered—slightly.
---
But not without retaliation.
He pulled a small vial from his belt and hurled it to the ground.
A burst of enchanted smoke engulfed them—sight and sound dissolved.
Jainal leapt to the rooftops.
But before he could act further—
An arrow nearly pierced his neck, fired from afar with unnatural precision.
> "Two of them?" he muttered, activating the cloak's defensive enchantment.
Another Wolf appeared on a rooftop across the street—
A magitek bolt rifle in hand, red eyes glowing behind the mask.
But before they could fire again, Jainal unfolded Whispering Wind from his back—
and loosed a projectile-type arrow.
A small explosion rocked the rooftop, forcing the second Wolf to retreat.
Jainal didn't wait.
He dove back into the alley, melting into the rain and shadow.
That night, he couldn't win.
But he hadn't lost, either.
---
By morning, Thural seemed normal again.
But some residents had heard faint explosions in the night.
And two strangely dressed figures were seen leaving town at first light.
Jainal stood in the monastery courtyard, watching the sky begin to brighten.
The child played quietly in a corner, holding his wooden bird.
He opened his journal and wrote:
> Professional assassins now in motion.
Identity confirmed: Golden-Cloaked Wolves are real.
Primary objective: erase witnesses and evidence—not cause open conflict.
> "I've touched a nerve," Jainal muttered.
"And that means... I'm on the right path."