"Before he could curse the ship's absence again, a sharp whistle split the night."
A loud whistling sound forced him to focus on his current situation. He whipped his head around just in time to see a large, sharpened branch rapidly closing on him through the air, spinning like a spear thrown with lethal intent.
Instinctively, he reversed his blessing. His body was instantly attracted toward the ground at rapid speed, the sudden acceleration pulling him down and away from the projectile's path. The branch sailed through the space where his head had been a moment before, close enough that he felt the wind of its passage.
Before he could crash into the earth, he reversed the blessing again. His descent slowed dramatically, and he landed on his feet with barely a sound, knees bent to absorb what little impact remained.
He straightened to find the knight standing directly in front of him, sword drawn and ready.
It seemed the fight was now unavoidable.
Skia's mind raced. His blessing wasn't as powerful as many knights in the Empire possessed. Most of the time, it wasn't even as useful in direct combat. Manipulation of personal gravity had its applications, but in a straight fight against a trained warrior, it provided limited advantages.
But he had one edge that separated him from all those knights with more powerful blessings: he'd awakened his ability at only four years old, which was extraordinarily abnormal compared to the natural awakening age of the mid-thirties to early forties.
Before he could even properly speak, this blessing had already become part of his life, integrated into his body at such a fundamental level that using it was as natural as breathing. Twenty-six years of constant practice and refinement had turned a modest ability into something truly dangerous in the right hands.
Even with this relatively weaker blessing, he'd earned his place as one of the greatest assassins in the Empire. While it might be disadvantageous in frontal combat, he still had confidence he could defeat a knight who lacked a blessing and had no intelligence on his capabilities.
Unfortunately, he suspected this knight possessed both.
Roy didn't attack first, despite every instinct screaming at him to cut this assassin down where he stood.
His anger had reached a boiling point the moment he'd seen Prince Elric lying on the floor, blood pooling beneath his body. The boy was like a younger brother to him—Roy had helped train him in swordsmanship, had watched him grow from a child into a young man. Seeing him wounded, possibly dying, had ignited a fury that demanded immediate, violent retribution.
But his knight's training suppressed everything else, forcing him to focus purely on the enemy before him.
Roy's expression became deadly as he analyzed what he'd observed. The assassin could fly—or at least manipulate his falling speed dramatically. He'd reversed direction mid-air twice, showing fine control over the ability. Those were the two confirmed capabilities.
Roy quickly formulated his strategy: he didn't need to win decisively right now. He only needed to delay until reinforcements arrived. The commotion had surely alerted the entire castle guard. Within minutes, this courtyard would be swarming with soldiers.
He couldn't take the risk of the assassin escaping if the fight went poorly. Better to fight defensively, prevent escape, and let numbers decide the outcome.
Skia seemed to sense his intention immediately. His keen senses had already started picking up the loud commotion in the distance—shouting guards, clanging armor, the organized chaos of a military force mobilizing. He could hear boots pounding on stone, getting closer with each passing second.
He had to make this quick.
Skia reached down and drew two daggers from sheaths hidden against his legs. The blades gleamed dully in the moonlight, their edges honed to razor sharpness. These were his preferred weapons—light, fast, and perfectly balanced for his fighting style.
He began to move, starting with a slow, measured walk toward Roy. Each step was deliberate, almost casual, his body language suggesting he had all the time in the world.
Roy's grip on his sword tightened. His eyes tracked Skia's movement with focus, watching for any sign of the attack to come.
Tap... Tap... Tap...
Skia's footsteps echoed softly in the courtyard.
CLANG!
In a blur of motion too fast for normal eyes to follow, Skia suddenly appeared directly in front of Roy. One dagger aimed for his heart, the other streaking toward his throat in a perfectly coordinated dual strike designed to ensure at least one blade found its mark.
But "aimed at" was all they managed.
Roy's sword had somehow materialized between them, blade pointed forward in a textbook defensive guard. Skia could actually feel the tip of the sword touching his skin, pressing against his chest just hard enough to draw a single drop of blood.
It happened in an instant.
Skia couldn't stop—it was physically impossible to arrest his momentum at this speed. In the last possible moment, he shifted his blessing's direction, pulling himself sideways instead of forward. He still slid forward with the momentum of his charge, but the angle of his trajectory changed just enough.
He barely avoided being impaled on Roy's sword, but the blade still carved a long, deep wound across his chest. Hot blood immediately began soaking into his dark clothing.
More critically, he lost his balance.
Rather than try to recover in front of an enemy who'd just proven he could track movements Skia considered blindingly fast, he made an instant decision. He did not stop his blessing, pulling himself forward and down toward the forest edge beyond the courtyard.
Better to crash into trees than lose his footing in front of a skilled opponent.
SHOOSH!
The sound of his passage through the air created an intense wind that whipped Roy's cloak and scattered fallen leaves across the courtyard. It was like time unfreezing all at once—absolute stillness followed by explosive motion.
Roy watched the assassin's trajectory with narrowed eyes. He really couldn't follow the man's movement clearly just now. Just a shadow, a blur of darkness against darkness, moving faster than seemed physically possible.
Looking at the several trees that had been broken by the assassin's impact—trunks snapped and branches scattered across the ground—Roy made his decision. He didn't pursue into the forest immediately. Instead, he kept his eyes locked on the spot where Skia had crashed, sword at the ready.
He could still somewhat predict the assassin's movements based on the trajectory he'd observed. The man pulled himself toward things or pushed himself away—simple directional control of personal gravity or attraction. As long as Roy maintained distance and kept track of angles, he retained an advantage.
If he closed in for melee combat, that advantage would be wiped out. The assassin's speed at close range was simply too overwhelming.
Skia felt pain radiating from multiple points across his body. His chest wound burned like fire, and the impacts with the trees had left bruises that would turn spectacular shades of purple by morning—if he lived that long.
He'd really, truly underestimated this enemy, despite having just reminded himself not to do exactly that. The knight's reaction speed was extraordinary. Those weren't the reflexes of a normal soldier. This was someone with years of combat experience, possibly enhanced by his own blessing.
Skia pulled himself to his feet, wincing as broken branches fell away from his body. He'd crashed through at least three trees before his momentum finally stopped.
He looked back toward the courtyard and saw Roy pick up another large branch, hefting it like a javelin. Without any hesitation, the knight threw it with all his might.
The improvised projectile whistled through the air, spinning end over end as it hurtled toward Skia's position.
Skia cursed under his breath and pulled himself sideways, the branch smashing into the tree behind where he'd been standing. Splinters exploded outward from the impact point.
"You're not escaping," Roy's voice carried across the distance, calm and certain. "Surrender now, and you'll live long enough to stand trial."
Skia almost laughed at that. Surrender? Stand trial?