The night draped itself over the ruined district like a suffocating shroud. Smoke from earlier skirmishes still lingered in the air, its acrid scent mixing with the stench of blood and rust. Reiji walked alone through the fractured streets, his blade still dripping with the memory of what he had done. His eyes were sharp, but beneath them lurked a hollow exhaustion that even the shadows seemed to recognize.
Around him, the city was quiet—too quiet. The absence of voices was louder than screams. He stopped, crouching beside the cracked stones of a collapsed archway. His fingers brushed over a symbol etched into the rubble: a crescent, carved deep into the stone. It wasn't random. It was a message. They are here.
"Finally," he whispered to himself, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword.
The silence was broken by a faint metallic echo. Not footsteps—too controlled, too deliberate. A hum followed, like the vibration of steel cutting through air. Reiji exhaled and stood tall, turning his head slightly to the side. From the shadows ahead, they appeared.
Five figures cloaked in midnight-blue armor, their visors reflecting the pale moonlight. Each carried a blade unlike any he had seen before—curved, narrow, designed not for duels but for the art of silent killing. The Silent Choir, assassins whispered about in taverns and interrogation cells, a sect said to move as one, their swords singing in harmony until their prey no longer breathed.
One of them stepped forward, their mask etched with a faint engraving of wings. A leader. Their voice carried no inflection, no trace of humanity.
"Shinomiya Reiji. The Shadow marked by fate. You walk where you should not. Tonight, your silence will join ours."
Reiji smirked faintly. "If silence is all you bring, then I'll answer with a louder truth."
The first blade came without warning. A strike so fast it tore through the air like a scream. Reiji parried, sparks igniting in the darkness, and immediately another followed from his flank. Their coordination was flawless, like a song rehearsed countless times. Each step, each slash, each feint was part of an orchestra of death.
Steel rang against steel, echoing down the empty streets. Reiji's movements grew sharper, more desperate, each parry testing the strength of his resolve. He could feel it—their rhythm trying to swallow him, to force him into their deadly harmony.
They fight as one mind. If I follow their pace, I'm already dead.
He shifted his stance, breaking his own rhythm deliberately. A mistimed dodge, a reckless thrust—mistakes that weren't mistakes at all. For a moment, the Choir faltered, their melody clashing with his discord. He seized the opening, driving his blade upward and slicing through one assassin's throat. The sound of gurgling breath broke the harmony, and suddenly, the silent song was fractured.
The others adjusted instantly, closing in tighter, their strikes angrier now, almost desperate. Reiji's chest rose and fell rapidly, blood running down his arm where a blade had grazed him. He felt the pain but buried it beneath layers of will.
"You thought numbers would drown me," he hissed, his voice low. "But shadows are strongest when broken apart."
With a roar, he surged forward. His blade cut arcs of silver in the night, deflecting, countering, striking in bursts that refused to follow any rhythm. Two more fell—one with his mask shattered, eyes wide in disbelief as he collapsed; another with his ribs pierced clean through, blood spilling like ink on the stones.
But the leader did not waver. Their strikes became sharper, their presence heavier, until the fight felt less like combat and more like a trial. A slash tore Reiji's side, forcing him to his knees. The world spun, and for a brief second, he wondered if this was how it would end.
Then he heard it.
Not their blades. Not their silence. But his own heartbeat, steady, defiant, pulsing like a drum. He closed his eyes, inhaled the smoke-filled air, and rose again.
The leader lunged, their blade aimed at his heart. Reiji twisted, his shoulder catching the cut, and with a final surge of strength, he drove his sword upward, piercing through the assassin's chest. The leader staggered, eyes wide behind the visor, before collapsing in silence.
The last assassin hesitated. For the first time, the Silent Choir was truly silent—not in harmony, but in despair. They turned to flee. Reiji let them.
The battlefield returned to its earlier stillness. Only his ragged breathing filled the night. His body trembled, blood dripping steadily from his wounds. He glanced at the fallen assassins, their lifeless blades glinting in the moonlight. The harmony they once carried was gone, their song broken forever.
Reiji wiped his blade clean and whispered into the silence, almost like a prayer.
"If this world wants me silent, it will have to carve the words from my bones. Until then… I'll keep singing my own truth."
And with that, he stepped forward into the endless dark.