Hardard's laugh echoed through the courtyard, cold and mocking. "You can barely stand, boy. Why prolong your suffering?"
Magnus didn't answer. He couldn't afford to waste breath on words. Every ounce of his focus went into staying upright, into keeping his crimson eyes locked on Hardard, into maintaining the thin shell of shadow aura that was all he had left.
His dantian was nearly empty, running on fumes and willpower alone. Multiple wounds bled freely—shoulder, thigh, ribs, arm. Each breath sent spikes of agony through his broken ribs. His left leg trembled, barely supporting his weight.
But his grip on his sabers remained steady.
I've survived worse, he told himself, though he wasn't sure that was true. Alex Laurus survived the Shadow Hand's betrayal. I can survive this.
"Inferno Charge!"
Hardard's entire body became a comet of flame. The heat was so intense that the stone beneath his feet melted into slag as he charged. His speed was terrifying—far faster than his massive frame suggested possible.
Magnus's enhanced senses, honed by years as an assassin, tracked Hardard's trajectory. He had perhaps a second to react.
Too fast to dodge completely. Have to deflect and counter.
"Midnight Severance!"
Magnus swung both sabers in a horizontal arc, pouring what little qi he could muster into the strike. The blades left trails of darkness, and for just an instant, that strange luminescence flickered again—that divine shadow he didn't understand.
The attacks collided.
BOOM.
The shockwave was massive, shattering windows throughout the fortress. Guards were thrown from their feet. The stone courtyard cracked in radiating patterns from the impact point.
Magnus was thrown backward again, his boots leaving furrows in the stone as he skidded. His arms felt like they'd been hit by a battering ram—the bones hadn't broken, but they'd come close. His sabers held, but the cracks in the blades had widened.
Hardard stumbled back three steps, flames flickering around him. For the first time, genuine surprise crossed his face. "You... you blocked that?"
Magnus coughed blood, barely managing to stay on his feet. "Blocked is... generous."
But he'd done it. Against all odds, against the massive gap in their power levels, he'd survived Hardard's charge. The temporary surge of that strange divine shadow had saved him, even if he didn't understand it.
What is that power? Why does it only activate when I'm desperate?
Hardard's surprise quickly transformed into rage. "Lucky! That was pure luck!" His flames roared higher, brighter, hotter. "Let's see you block THIS!"
"Inferno Hammer!"
Hardard leaped high into the air, flames condensing around his raised fists until they formed a massive hammer shape—easily twenty feet long, made of pure fire. The heat was so intense that the oil barrels on the scaffolding above spontaneously ignited.
Magnus looked up at the descending attack. His analytical mind calculated trajectories, impact zones, survival odds.
Can't block. Can't dodge—leg won't respond fast enough. Only one option.
He drove both sabers into the ground and channeled every remaining drop of qi into a single technique.
"Shadowmire Fortress!"
The ground around Magnus erupted with shadow tendrils, but instead of attacking, they wove together into a dome. Layer upon layer of compressed shadow energy, each one reinforced by the next, creating a defensive structure that looked like a cocoon made of writhing darkness.
Hardard's Inferno Hammer struck the dome.
The impact was apocalyptic.
The entire courtyard shook. Stone shattered. The shadow dome held for one second, two, three—then began to crack. Fissures of light appeared as the fire energy penetrated the shadow defenses.
Inside the dome, Magnus screamed. The heat was unbearable. His skin blistered. The air itself burned his lungs. His shadow qi was being consumed by the flames, and with it, his life force.
Not enough... qi... can't maintain...
The dome shattered.
Fire exploded inward, engulfing Magnus completely. His scream was lost in the roar of flames.
"BIG BROTHER MAGNUS!" Avar's voice tore through the air, raw with anguish.
Hardard landed, breathing heavily, his flames dimming slightly from the exertion. He stared at the inferno where Magnus had stood. "It's over."
But then, through the flames, a shadow moved.
Magnus staggered forward, emerging from the fire. His clothes were burned away in places, his skin covered in burns—some shallow, some deep. His hair was singed, his face blackened with soot. Blood and burn fluid wept from countless wounds.
But he was still standing.
Still gripping his sabers.
Still alive.
"How...?" Hardard's voice was barely a whisper. "That attack should have incinerated you!"
Magnus's vision was blurred, his body operating on pure instinct and willpower. He didn't know how he'd survived. At the last moment, that strange divine shadow had surged again, forming a paper-thin barrier between him and the flames. It had saved his life, but the cost was devastating.
His dantian was completely empty now. The divine shadow had retreated so deep he couldn't feel it anymore. His body was running on nothing but momentum and refusal to die.
"Because..." Magnus rasped, his voice barely audible. "I made... a promise."
He took one step forward. His leg nearly buckled, but he forced it to hold.
Another step.
Hardard stared, something like fear flickering in his eyes. This wasn't natural. No human should be able to stand after taking that attack.
What is he?
Magnus raised his sabers, the movements slow but deliberate. "Your turn... is over. Now... it's mine."
Behind the fortress, Rhea's battle with Lyra had devolved into a nightmare of blood and deception.
Rhea's body was covered in cuts—none individually fatal, but together they were bleeding her dry. Her tunic was more red than grey now, soaked through with blood. Her breathing was labored, each inhale sending pain through her bruised ribs.
But she'd managed to land hits too. Three of the five Lyras bore wounds—shallow cuts on arms, legs, torso. The problem was, Rhea couldn't tell which wounds were real and which were illusions.
She's wearing me down. Playing the long game. Every second I spend here is a second I'm not completing the mission.
Rhea's hand went to her pouch, fingers brushing against her remaining vials. She had three left—each one a different poison, each one potentially the key to victory or a wasted resource.
Need to think. What's her weakness? Perfect illusions down to the molecular level... but illusions nonetheless. They're not truly alive.
An idea sparked. Dangerous, possibly suicidal, but an idea nonetheless.
The five Lyras circled her like predators around wounded prey. "You're slowing down, Rhea Varyn. How much blood have you lost? A pint? Two? At this rate, you'll pass out from blood loss before I even need to strike a killing blow."
Rhea's grey eyes tracked all five figures, her mind calculating. "You talk too much."
"Do I?" All five Lyras smiled identically. "Or am I just confident in my victory? You can't win this fight, Black Veil. Your poison techniques are useless against illusions. Your physical skills are impressive, but you're fighting five opponents simultaneously. You're outmatched."
"Maybe," Rhea admitted, her hand closing around a specific vial. "But I'm not done yet."
She pulled out a vial of deep crimson liquid—Bloodfire Toxin. It was one of the most dangerous poisons in existence, banned by every major assassin guild because of its indiscriminate lethality. When introduced to blood, it would ignite, burning from the inside out.
Rhea had three vials of it. She'd sworn never to use them unless there was no other choice.
This qualified.
"Recognize this?" Rhea held up the vial. "Bloodfire Toxin. I'm sure even the Gilded Ledger has heard of it."
The five Lyras' eyes widened simultaneously—but one pair of eyes showed just a fraction more fear than the others. The real Lyra was on the left.
Got you.
"You wouldn't," all five Lyras said, but that slight difference in tone—fear versus mimicked fear—confirmed Rhea's deduction. "That poison will kill you too. You'd be committing suicide."
"Maybe," Rhea said. "But you'll die first."
She smashed the vial against her own arm, coating her daggers with the crimson liquid. Then, before the poison could seep into her bloodstream, she charged.
The five Lyras scattered, but Rhea had already committed. She went straight for the left Lyra, the one whose fear had been fractionally more genuine.
Lyra tried to dodge, creating more illusions to confuse the attack. Suddenly there were ten Lyras, then fifteen.
But Rhea closed her eyes.
Don't trust your sight. Trust your instincts.
She'd trained for years to kill without seeing. In the Black Veil, they'd spent months blindfolded, learning to fight by sound and air displacement alone. It was time to put that training to use.
Rhea's dagger lashed out, guided purely by the whisper of fabric, the displacement of air, the faint scent of blood from Lyra's earlier wounds.
The blade connected.
Lyra gasped, and suddenly all the illusions vanished. There was only one Lyra now, clutching her side where Rhea's dagger had opened a deep gash.
Bloodfire Toxin immediately entered her bloodstream.
"No!" Lyra stumbled back, her violet aura flaring desperately as she tried to purge the poison. "No, no, no!"
But Bloodfire Toxin wasn't like normal poison. It couldn't be purged through qi manipulation. The only way to survive it was to cut away the infected tissue before it spread.
Lyra looked at her wound, then at her arm, her face twisting with desperation and calculation. She pulled out her own dagger—
But it was too late. The poison had spread too far, too fast. Her blood was already heating up, smoke rising from the wound.
"I'll... I'll take you with me!" Lyra lunged at Rhea, blade aimed at her heart.
Rhea tried to dodge, but her wounded body was too slow. The blade plunged toward her chest—
A small figure crashed into Lyra from the side.
Avar.
The boy had somehow broken free from his chains and charged across the corridor. He was small, weak, but his momentum was enough to throw off Lyra's strike. Her blade missed Rhea's heart, instead slashing across her collarbone.
Rhea gasped, blood spraying, but she was alive.
Lyra turned her fury on Avar. "You little—!"
"Poison Fang: Serpent's Embrace!"
Rhea's dagger struck Lyra in the back, between the shoulder blades. The blade sank deep, and Rhea poured every last drop of her Poison Fang Aura into the attack.
The combination of Bloodfire Toxin and Poison Fang Aura was catastrophic. Lyra's body convulsed, smoke rising from multiple wounds as the Bloodfire ignited her blood from the inside. Black veins from the Poison Fang spread across her skin, shutting down her nervous system.
Lyra's mouth opened in a silent scream. Her violet aura flickered once, twice, then died completely.
She collapsed face-first onto the stone floor, her body still twitching. The Bloodfire continued burning inside her for several more seconds, smoke rising from her mouth and nose, before finally her body went still.
Lyra Ganills was dead.
Rhea collapsed to her knees, breathing in ragged gasps. The wound on her collarbone bled freely, and she'd lost so much blood that her vision was darkening at the edges.
But she'd done it. She'd defeated Lyra.
"Miss... Miss Rhea?" Avar's small voice was frightened. "Are you okay?"
Rhea forced herself to focus on the boy. He was thin, bruised, his wrists bloody from breaking free of the chains. But his eyes held determination that shouldn't exist in someone so young.
"How... how did you...?" Rhea managed.
"The chains were old," Avar said. "I've been working on them since they put us here. When I heard you fighting, I... I broke them and ran to help."
Despite everything—the pain, the blood loss, the exhaustion—Rhea smiled. "Good... good boy. Your... your mother?"
"Still in the cell. I'll get her. Can you walk?"
Rhea tried to stand and immediately collapsed. Her legs wouldn't support her weight anymore.
"No... can't..." She pulled out a vial from her pouch with trembling fingers. "Stimulant... dangerous... but necessary."
She drank half the vial, and fire exploded through her veins. Her heart raced to dangerous speeds, her vision sharpened, and strength flooded back into her limbs. But she could feel it—the stimulant was burning her from the inside, causing damage that might be permanent.
I have maybe ten minutes before my heart gives out. Need to complete the mission and get to safety before then.
She forced herself to her feet, swaying but standing. "Show me... the cell."
In the courtyard, Magnus and Hardard's battle had reached a critical point.
Both warriors were wounded, exhausted, running on fumes. But neither would yield.
"Quake Shatter!" Hardard's fist hammered into Magnus's guard, the impact sending shockwaves through Magnus's already battered body.
Magnus coughed blood but didn't fall. He retaliated immediately. "Ebon Strike!"
His saber found Hardard's side, cutting deep. Not a killing blow, but painful. Blood seeped from the wound, and Hardard's flames flickered.
They separated, both breathing heavily.
Hardard clutched his side, his scarred eye blazing with fury. "You... you're stronger than Edward ever was. Damn you."
Magnus swayed on his feet, his vision blurring. "Good. Then when... I kill you... he won't be... avenged. I will be."
Hardard's laugh was bitter. "Kill me? Look at yourself! You're half-dead!"
"So are you," Magnus rasped.
It was true. Hardard's flames had dimmed significantly. Blood seeped from multiple wounds—the cut on his side, shallow slashes on his arms and legs, burns where Magnus's shadow techniques had connected. His breathing was labored, his movements slower.
Both warriors had pushed themselves to their absolute limits.
"One more attack," Hardard said, his flames beginning to gather again, pulling from reserves he shouldn't have. "Everything I have. Everything you stole from me. I'll burn it all away."
Magnus's shadow aura flickered, that strange divine luminescence trying to surface but unable to break through his completely depleted dantian. He was running on nothing but willpower and the last dregs of his life force.
"One more," Magnus agreed, raising his cracked sabers. "Winner... takes all."
They charged.
At that exact moment, an explosion rocked the fortress. The supply depot erupted in a massive fireball, just as Magnus and Rhea had planned. The shockwave rippled through the courtyard, throwing off both warriors' timing.
Hardard's head snapped toward the explosion, fury and disbelief on his face. "My supplies! That—"
It was the opening Magnus needed.
Despite his exhaustion, despite his wounds, despite having no qi left, Magnus's assassin instincts took over. Years of training, of killing, of surviving—all of it crystallized in a single moment of perfect clarity.
"Nightfall Execution."
Magnus's sabers moved faster than thought, faster than sight. They weren't enhanced by qi, weren't wreathed in shadow. They were just steel—but steel guided by a master's hand.
Both blades pierced Hardard's chest, one on each side of his heart.
Hardard's eyes widened, his flames sputtering out instantly. "You... you..."
Magnus twisted the blades and pulled them free. Blood gushed from the wounds.
Hardard stumbled backward, his hands going to his chest. He looked down at the blood, then up at Magnus. For just a moment, the madness and rage faded from his eyes, replaced by something that might have been understanding.
"Anna..." he whispered. "I'm sorry..."
His legs gave out. He fell to his knees, then toppled forward, face-first onto the stone.
Hardard the Fury, the tyrant of Valisar's undercity, was dead.
Magnus stood over him, sabers dripping blood. His entire body trembled. His vision was darkening. His legs were about to give out.
But he'd done it.
He'd won.
"Big Brother Magnus!"
Avar's voice brought Magnus back to awareness. He turned—too fast, his wounded body protesting—to see Rhea emerging from the fortress entrance. She was barely standing, covered in blood, with Avar supporting her on one side and Hera on the other.
They were alive. They were safe.
Magnus's sabers slipped from his nerveless fingers, clattering to the stone. His legs finally gave out, and he collapsed to his knees.
"Magnus!" Rhea tried to move toward him but stumbled. The stimulant was wearing off, and her body was shutting down.
Magnus looked up at the sky. Dawn was breaking, painting the clouds in shades of gold and crimson. It was beautiful.
We did it, he thought. We actually did it.
His vision went dark, and he pitched forward, consciousness fleeing.
The last thing he heard before the darkness claimed him completely was Avar's voice, crying out his name.
In the Royal Palace, Prince Ethan stood at his balcony, watching the smoke rise from Hardard's fortress. The supply depot explosion had been visible even from here, a massive fireball that lit up the pre-dawn sky.
A messenger approached, bowing low. "Your Highness... reports confirm it. Lord Hardard is dead. The Red Shadow and his companion are alive but critically wounded."
Ethan's cold grey eyes reflected the distant flames. A slow, calculating smile spread across his face.
"Fascinating," he murmured. "Absolutely fascinating. Magnus Caldryn defeats one of the strongest fire qi users in the kingdom while barely trained and heavily wounded." He took a sip from his wine glass. "That boy is far more interesting than I anticipated."
He turned from the balcony, his mind already working through the implications and opportunities.
"Prepare my personal guard," he commanded. "Send medical teams to the fortress—make it look like a rescue. I want Magnus Caldryn and his companions brought to the palace medical wing. Alive."
"At once, Your Highness. And what of Lord Hardard's body?"
Ethan's smile widened. "Display it publicly. The story will be that he was a corrupt warlord who tried to frame a noble house, and that brave young Magnus Caldryn brought him to justice. I'll position myself as the wise prince who arrives just in time to save the hero."
He walked back into his chambers, already composing the narrative he'd feed to the public.
"Yes," he said softly. "This works perfectly. The Red Shadow becomes a hero, I become his benefactor, and I gain leverage over a very powerful piece." His grey eyes gleamed with cold calculation. "Welcome to my game, Magnus Caldryn. Let's see how long you survive it."
He gestured to his guards. "Move now. I want them in my palace within the hour."
When Magnus finally regained consciousness, he found himself in an unfamiliar room.
The ceiling was ornate, decorated with gilded patterns. The bed beneath him was soft—too soft, nothing like the rough cots he'd known in his previous life or the modest bed in his chambers at the Caldryn estate.
He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. Pain exploded through his entire body—ribs, shoulder, thigh, everywhere. His burns screamed in protest, and his head swam with vertigo.
"Don't move, Prince."
Magnus's head snapped to the side—another mistake, as pain lanced through his neck. But he saw her. Rhea, sitting in a chair beside his bed. She looked almost as bad as he felt—bandages covering her arms, torso, and collarbone. Her face was pale, her grey eyes shadowed with exhaustion.
"Rhea," Magnus's voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. "You're... alive."
"Barely," she admitted. "The stimulant I used nearly killed me. The palace healers said another five minutes and my heart would have given out."
"Palace?" Magnus's mind was sluggish, struggling to process. "Where are we?"
"Prince Ethan's palace," Rhea said quietly. "He arrived at the fortress just after we collapsed. Brought medical teams, had us transported here." Her expression darkened. "We're being hailed as heroes, apparently. You defeated the corrupt warlord Hardard, freed the slaves, exposed the criminal network. Prince Ethan is positioning himself as our savior."
Magnus's crimson eyes narrowed despite the pain. "That's... convenient for him."
"Very," Rhea agreed. "Which means we're not guests here. We're prisoners with prettier chains."
Magnus tried to sit up again, more carefully this time. Every movement was agony, but he managed to prop himself against the pillows. "Avar? Hera?"
"Safe. In the hospital district, being treated. Prince Ethan made a public show of it—rescuing the innocent victims." Rhea's voice was bitter. "He's turned the whole thing into propaganda."
Magnus's jaw tightened. They'd won the battle against Hardard and Lyra. But the war was far from over.
Prince Ethan had them exactly where he wanted them.
And there was nothing they could do about it—not while they could barely move, not while they were deep in enemy territory, not while they were being watched.
This isn't over, Magnus thought, his crimson eyes burning despite his exhaustion. Not by a long shot.
To Be Continued in Chapter 27…