The day after the gala was a quiet, suffocating limbo. I was the champion of the Imperial Tournament of Blossoms, the celebrated hero of the hour, yet I felt like a man in a cage. The Ashworth estate, once a sanctuary, now felt like a gilded prison. I spent the morning in the infirmary, letting Seraphina tend to my lingering wounds, my mind a thousand miles away, in a moonlit pavilion, listening to a lonely song.
'Elara.'
The name was a secret, a weight, a purpose. The grand, abstract mission to save the world had collapsed into a single, sharp, and terrifyingly personal point: I had to save her. But the encounter had ended with her vanishing, leaving me with a beautiful, shared melody and a universe of unanswered questions. Had I made an impact? Or was I just a strange, momentary distraction in her endless, lonely existence? I had no mandate from her, no clear path forward. Only a quiet, desperate hope that I had planted a seed.
The pressure to act, to do something, was a physical ache in my chest. I couldn't just sit here and train, waiting for a summons that might never come. The Void Cult was moving in the shadows, their warning note a promise. Waiting for them to make the next move was a luxury I couldn't afford.
Rolan was my only tool, my eyes and ears in a city I didn't understand. I had sent him back into the Gloom, not to hunt for phantoms, but to listen for echoes. Viktor Vane had contacts, suppliers. His plot, though it had failed, must have left a trace. The trail might lead back to the Cult.
The lead came that afternoon. It was thin, almost nothing, but it was a thread in the suffocating darkness.
"It's a tavern, my lord," Rolan reported, his voice a low, urgent whisper in the privacy of my study. "The Gilded Leech, in the coppersmith's district. A real den of vipers. An apprentice of the Grave-Wort Alchemist was boasting in his cups. He said Viktor Vane wasn't his only client from the noble district. Another man, always cloaked, paid a fortune in untraceable gold coin for similar 'reagents'."
"Did he give a description?" I asked, my focus narrowing.
"None," Rolan admitted, his face grim. "Just that the man was tall, quiet, and carried himself like a soldier. He was seen at the Leech just last night."
'It's a trap,' I thought, the certainty of it as cold and hard as steel. The timing was too perfect. The lead too convenient. They had silenced Viktor, and now they were dangling a piece of bait, expecting me to bite. They were testing me, trying to gauge how much I really knew.
"It's a trap, my lord," Rolan said, echoing my own thoughts. "It has to be. They know you're looking."
"Of course it's a trap," I replied, a cold, determined calm settling over me. I had faced down my father, my brothers, and the best young fighters in the kingdom. I would not be intimidated by shadows. "But even a trap has a trapper. And I want to meet him."
I made my preparations. I didn't don armor or carry a sword. That would draw too much attention. I wore simple, dark traveler's clothes, my only armor the fine, rune-etched gauntlets the estate's blacksmith had crafted for me. They were a comfort, a familiar weight on my hands. I told Seraphina I was going to the market to find a rare herb for her studies, a lie she saw through instantly but didn't question, her worried eyes the only protest she would allow herself. I took Rolan and four of our best guards, all loyal and competent Adepts, and we left the estate on foot, melting into the bustling afternoon crowds of the capital.
The coppersmith's district was a chaotic maze of narrow, winding streets, the air thick with the metallic tang of worked metal and the smoke from a hundred small forges. The roar of the colosseum was replaced by the constant, rhythmic clang of hammers on anvils. It was the perfect place for an ambush. The crowds were thick, the escape routes numerous, and the noise would cover any commotion.
We found The Gilded Leech, a grimy, soot-stained tavern tucked away in a narrow alley, its sign a peeling, faded painting of the creature it was named for. 'Here we go,' I thought, my hand resting casually on the hilt of a dagger concealed in my tunic. I gave Rolan a final, meaningful look, and we stepped inside.
The tavern was a den of shadows and suspicion. It went silent the moment we entered, a dozen pairs of hard eyes turning to assess us. But the cloaked figure wasn't here. There was no one of note. The lead was a bust. Or…
The instinct hit me a split second before the chaos erupted. It wasn't a thought. It was a primal, draconic certainty that screamed danger. It was not the wrongness of the Void. It was the simple, clean, and utterly terrifying feeling of being hunted.
"Out! Now!" I roared, already spinning, pushing Rolan and the others back toward the alley.
We burst back out into the crowded street just as the world exploded into violence. It didn't come from the tavern. It came from all around us. From the rooftops above, a half-dozen figures in dark cloaks rose, crossbows leveled. From the ends of the alley, more cloaked figures emerged, drawing short, wicked-looking blades. It was a perfectly executed pincer movement. A kill box.
Bolts rained down. My men reacted instantly, their training taking over. They formed a tight circle around me, their swords and shields a desperate, makeshift fortress. The sound of crossbow bolts shattering against steel rang out. These were not Void cultists. These were professionals. Mercenaries.
Then, he descended.
He dropped from the rooftops like a spider, landing in a silent crouch in the center of the street, the panicked crowds scattering around him like leaves in a windstorm. He was a tall, lean man in dark, tailored leathers, his face obscured by a simple steel mask that left only his cold, dead eyes visible. His power signature was a clean, sharp, and brutally efficient thing. An Expert.
"Lancelot Ashworth," the assassin's voice was a low, chilling rasp, devoid of any emotion. "House Vane sends its regards." The lie was perfect. The cover story, airtight.
He moved. His speed was terrifying, a black blur against the bright afternoon. He didn't bother with me. He went for my guards, a whirlwind of death. Rolan and another guard bravely moved to intercept him, their swords glowing with the clean, honest power of their Aether.
It was a massacre. The assassin's blade, a single, long-bladed knife, flickered twice. It wasn't a clash. It was a dissection. He moved through their guards with an impossible, fluid grace, his Expert-level power not just stronger, but on an entirely different plane of existence. The guards cried out, their swords shattering, their bodies thrown back against the alley walls, bleeding from deep, debilitating wounds.
In two seconds, my loyal men were down, incapacitated, their Adept-level power utterly useless against the sheer chasm of a Tier difference.
And then he was on me.
I met his charge, my mind a cold point of focus in the heart of the storm. I sank into the Two-Heart Cadence, my Rhythmic Sense flaring to life, a three-meter sphere of awareness. I could feel him enter it, a point of absolute, murderous cold.
His blade was a blur, a storm of strikes aimed at my throat, my heart, my eyes. But in my Rhythmic Sense, the storm had a pattern. I could feel the intent behind each strike, the subtle shift in his Aether a split second before he moved. I was a rock in the river of his assault, my gauntleted hands a blur of motion as I parried and deflected, each block sending a jarring, bone-shaking impact up my arms.
We were locked in a desperate, close-quarters dance. He was faster, his techniques more lethal. But my Path was unique. He expected a brawler, an Artisan who fought with brute force. He was not prepared for a fighter who could feel his every move before he made it. He was surprised, his cold eyes widening for a fraction of a second as I deflected a strike that should have been impossible to see.
But it wasn't enough. He was an Expert. His Aether reserves were deeper, his power denser, his speed just a fraction faster than my senses could perfectly track. With every blocked strike, I felt my own energy depleting at an alarming rate. I was on the defensive, being pushed back step by agonizing step. I tried to find an opening for a Rhythmic Infusion, but he gave me none. His attacks were relentless, a seamless web of lethality.
He feinted high, then dropped low, his blade hooking around my leg. I felt it in my sense, but my body, weary from the constant pressure, was a fraction too slow to react. The blade sliced deep into my calf, and a searing, white-hot pain exploded up my leg. My perfect rhythm shattered into a discordant, painful mess.
I stumbled, my guard dropping for a fatal half-second as I gasped in pain.
The assassin saw it. His cold, dead eyes locked onto mine. There was no triumph, only the cold, professional finality of a job about to be completed. He abandoned all finesse, his blade rising for a final, decisive, killing blow aimed straight at my heart.
On the ground, Rolan, clutching a grievous wound in his shoulder, could only watch in horror. "My lord!" he cried out, his voice a choked, desperate plea.
I saw the blade descend. I had no strength to block, no time to dodge. My Rhythmic Sense was gone, my cadence broken.
I was out of tricks. I was out of time. This was the end.