The Stepstones. Main Island of Cutthroat Isle.
[Descent Entity: Shadow Assassin. Level 5. Alignment: Ancient Old Gods. Items: Moonlight.]
The System's mechanical chime shattered Jon's sleep like a hammer to glass. His instincts, honed by the "Dragon Lord" class, kicked in before his eyes even opened. He rolled off the bed just as a void-like chill—a cold so absolute it felt like it was climbing his spine—swept through the space where his head had been.
"Hsss..."
Jon didn't waste a heartbeat. He scrambled to his feet, his hand reaching into the void of his inventory. In a flash of rippled grey light, Dark Sister appeared in his grip. The Valyrian steel felt warm against his palm, a tiny hearth in a room that had suddenly become a tomb.
WAAAGH—!
A shriek like grinding rusted metal tore through the air. In the corner of the room, a silhouette of shifting ink had coalesced into a humanoid shape. It had no face, only a void where features should be, and its hands ended in elongated, dagger-like claws that shimmered with a predatory, dark energy.
(Dammit! Who sent this thing?) Jon thought, his heart racing. He knew the legends—a Shadow Assassin was a relentless hound of Asshai; once birthed, it would not vanish until its target was cold. (Am I really going to fall here, in my own bedroom?)
He tightened his grip on Dark Sister, drawing strength from the faint hum of the blade. It was the only thing in the room that could bite back against the dark.
SCREE!
The shadow lunged. It moved with a terrifying, stuttering speed, closing the distance in a blur of obsidian smoke.
CLANG! SHING!
Jon parried the first flurry of blows. The impact didn't feel like steel on steel; it felt like blocking a gust of frozen wind that carried the weight of a mountain. Dark Sister held firm, the Valyrian steel acting as a natural conduit for the "Light" needed to repel the shadow.
The assassin's style was primal—lacks of finese, but overwhelming in its speed. Jon realized the creature was fighting on instinct, driven by a singular command: Kill.
SHING—
Jon saw an opening and lashed out, his blade carving through the shadow's shoulder. The creature didn't bleed; instead, it let out a soul-piercing howl as its form buckled.
BOOM!
Suddenly, the Shadow Assassin's body exploded into thousands of needle-thin threads of dark energy. They radiated outward like a rain of black arrows, filling every inch of the room.
ZIP! SLASH!
Jon threw himself backward, spinning Dark Sister in a desperate defensive circle. But the threads were too many and too fast. Several pierced his chest and shoulders, the dark energy searing through his flesh like white-hot needles.
"Aaaagh!"
The pain was agonizing, a soul-tearing sensation that nearly made him drop his sword. He had been untouchable for so long that the shock of true injury almost broke his resolve. His silk nightshirt was shredded, the white fabric blooming with crimson "plum blossoms" of his own blood.
Stumbling, Jon realized he couldn't reach his medicine in time. He reached into his inventory and pulled out the Staff of Recovery.
HUMMM—!
He activated the staff. A sphere of brilliant, golden light erupted from the gem, enveloping Jon in a protective cocoon. His wounds began to knit shut instantly, the dark energy being purged from his system.
WAAAAGH!
The Shadow Assassin, caught in the radiant splash of the staff's healing light, shrieked in agony. The light acted like acid on its shadowy hide, causing its form to shrivel and smoke.
I found it, Jon thought, his eyes narrowing with a lethal intent. You hate the light.
Jon didn't stop. He became a whirlwind of fire and steel. Staff in his left hand, Dark Sister in his right, he hammered the creature. Every time the shadow tried to reform, Jon pulsed the staff, the golden radiance burning away the ink-like flesh while he carved the creature into ribbons with the Valyrian blade.
SCREE—!
After burning through six charges of the staff's durability, Jon delivered the final blow. Dark Sister swept through the center of the shadow, bisecting the entity. The shadow dissolved into a foul-smelling mist before vanishing entirely. The room returned to its natural silence, the moonlight through the window no longer feeling cold.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"Lord Jon! Are you alright?"
"Enter!" Jon gasped, leaning heavily against the bedpost, his chest heaving.
Narsas burst in with a squad of Chainbreakers, their swords drawn and faces pale with worry. They looked at the trashed room—the shredded curtains, the blood-stained floor—and froze.
"I... I am alive," Jon said, sliding down to sit on the floor. "The assassin was not a man. It was a shadow."
"A shadow?" Narsas whispered, looking around the empty room. "Did it escape?"
"It is gone. But the one who made it—the Shadowbinder—must be near. Search the island. Search the coves. Find the sorcerer."
Within minutes, the emergency bells of Cutthroat Isle began to toll. The Chainbreakers, disciplined by months of drills, rose from their beds and donned their armor in record time.
The news of the attempt on Jon's life spread like wildfire, igniting a cold, collective fury among the soldiers. To them, Jon was their savior, the man who brought them out of the pits. To strike at him was to strike at their very lives.
As the sun began to peek over the horizon, Jon stood at the balcony, his face pale from blood loss but his eyes burning. He didn't know who had sent the shadow, but he was going to find the Shadowbinder and make them realize that even shadows can be burned.