The blue mana fades. Slowly at first, then it's gone. The pressure disappears like it was never there. The air feels normal again.
The assassins stand still.
"…What was that?" one of them says.
No one answers.
The one at the front narrows his eyes. "…An illusion," he says. "It has to be."
He looks at Abel again. His fear fades a little.
"He's just trying to scare us."
No one argues, but they don't look convinced.
His hand moves into his sleeve.
A knife slides into his palm.
He watches Abel.
Then—he disappears.
No sound, no trace.
He appears behind Abel and stabs forward.
Or at least he tries to.
Crack.
The knife shatters into pieces before falling to the ground.
"…What—"
Abel turns his head slightly.
Just enough to look at him.
Cold.
"Kneel."
The word drops.
The assassin's body shakes. It feels like something is crushing him.
His legs give out.
He drops to his knees.
"…Ghh—!"
He tries to move.
He can't.
It's like his body isn't his anymore.
Abel walks behind him.
Slow. Calm.
The other assassins don't move.
They're too shocked.
Too confused.
'What is this…?' one of them thinks.
Abel stops behind the kneeling man.
He raises his hand slightly.
Then flicks his finger.
A small motion.
But—
Boom.
The assassin's head flies off.
It shoots across the cave and slams into another one.
Both bodies drop instantly.
Blood spreads across the ground.
Everything goes quiet.
The leader hands one of the assassins a container.
"…Run!" he shouts.
The remaining assassins turn and run without thinking.
No hesitation.
No pride.
Only fear.
Abel watches them for a second.
Then he smirks.
"Come out, Shiro."
A blue glow appears beside him.
At first, it's just light.
Then it starts to take shape.
A figure forms.
A young man steps out.
He has white hair and purple eyes. He also seems to be wearing a suit.
Calm.
"I'll handle them, sir," Shiro says.
Then he disappears.
Gone just like that.
The leader stands alone now.
His breathing is uneven.
He slowly turns back to Abel.
Abel stands there with his hands in his pockets.
Like nothing happened.
Watching.
The leader's face tightens.
His calm is gone.
Only anger is left.
"That's it," he says. Heat builds around him.
Flames start to appear. Small at first. Then more.
They float around him, spinning faster and faster.
The cave lights up. The air gets hot. The flames start to come together.
They grow bigger.
Stronger.
Then they converge, taking shape. Wings spread. A huge burning bird forms. A Phoenix.
It lets out a screech.
"That's interesting," Abel says.
He takes one hand out of his pocket.
He bends down and picks up the broken blade from earlier.
Only a small piece is left.
He looks at it for a second.
Then back at the leader.
"As thanks for the amusement, I'll show you something too."
"Tempest Art."
The Phoenix moves.
Fast.
It rushes toward Abel like a wave of fire.
The cave fills with light.
Heat rushes forward.
Abel moves.
He disappears in a flash of blue.
He cuts straight through the Phoenix. Not around it. Through it.
The flames don't disappear. They follow him.
They twist and move with him.
They gather around the blade in his hand.
The small piece of metal extends into a flaming shortsword.
In the next moment, he is in front of the leader.
"Cyclone Burst."
He swings.
His broken knife ignites as Phoenix flames wrap around it.
The strike tears through the air.
The leader reacts at the last moment.
He forces the last of his mana into a tightly compressed sphere of water.
It forms just in front of his chest.
Abel's blade hits it instantly.
The impact triggers a violent burst of steam.
White fog swallows everything.
Abel doesn't step back.
He pushes his arm outward and disperses the steam in a single motion.
As the mist clears, the leader is still standing.
Daggers raised.
Breathing hard.
Refusing to fall.
Abel looks down at his broken knife.
He lets it drop.
It hits the scorched ground and stops burning.
Mana begins to gather around Abel.
It forms into daggers made of pure mana.
The air around him tightens.
Then the fight begins.
The leader rushes in first.
Fast.
Relentless.
His daggers come in rapid strikes, aimed for every opening.
Left.
Right.
Throat.
Side.
Abel doesn't retreat.
He leans with each attack, letting the blades pass by inches.
Small adjustments keep his body just outside each strike.
The leader pushes harder.
His speed increases.
His breathing grows rough.
But he keeps attacking.
Steel and mana clash in sharp flashes.
Each impact sends sparks through the heated air.
Abel steps forward into the rhythm.
Closer.
Inside the timing.
The distance collapses.
The leader tries to adjust, but it is already too late.
Abel moves once.
The leaders head end up flying off.
---
The assassins run through the cave. Fast. Desperate.
"Don't stop!" one shouts. "We need to get out!"
Their footsteps echo. Breathing gets heavy.
Then—they stop.
Someone stands ahead.
White hair. Purple eyes.
Shiro.
"...Move," one says.
They raise their weapons.
Shiro looks at them calmly. "I was told to handle you."
They rush him at once.
Blades flash. One goes low. One for his neck. One from behind.
Shiro moves. A step back—the first misses. He tilts his head—the second passes. He turns—blocks the third.
Clang.
They keep going. Fast. Clean. Working together.
One feints. Another strikes.
Shiro blocks, but gets pushed back a step.
"...He's not that strong!" one says.
"Keep going!"
They press harder. Faster. More aggressive.
Shiro dodges two strikes, but one cuts his sleeve.
Cloth tears.
They notice.
"He's slipping!"
They close in.
For a moment—they have the advantage.
Shiro steps back. Watching. Calm.
'They're not bad.'
One charges. One circles. One waits.
They attack together.
Shiro parries one, kicks another back, cuts the third across the arm.
Blood spills.
But they keep moving.
They adjust. Slower now. Smarter.
They surround him.
"You're good," one says. "But you're alone."
Shiro exhales softly. "...I see."
He lowers his blade slightly.
Something feels off.
"...What is he—"
Shiro raises it again. A faint purple light forms along the edge.
Small. Quiet.
"Let's end this."
They rush him.
All three.
"Phantom Blade: Silent Phase."
He disappears.
Gone.
No sound.
"...Where is—"
A thin purple flash cuts the air.
The first assassin's head falls.
Clean.
His body drops after.
"What—?!"
Another flash.
A line cuts through the second's torso.
His body splits.
He collapses.
The last one panics. "SHOW YOURSELF!"
Silence.
Then—
a presence behind him.
He turns—
Too late.
A purple line passes through him.
Clean.
His body splits in half.
Both sides fall.
Silence.
Shiro stands a few steps away.
Like he never moved.
The purple glow fades.
"...Done."
He lowers his sword.
Phantom blade, his own sword technique. Inspired by Abels Tempest art.
"...Still not on his level," he remarks.
He turns, takes the container the leader gave them.
And makes his way back towards Abel.