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墨書 Inktalez
Dark was caught in a mysterious grip, and it was a direct and decisive capture. The Executioners were a group of individuals known to very few, tasked primarily with assassination, covert operations, and intelligence gathering. They were rarely recognized, as most wore special silver masks that concealed their grotesquely disfigured faces beneath.
Only a select few Executioners could go without masks; they retained their complete appearance and stood out prominently within this unique group. A slight misstep could lead to dire consequences, including death or replacement, after which they too would don the special silver mask.
When captured, Dark felt a surge of surprise. He managed to escape by digging his fingers into the elbow of his captor, but in that moment of calmness, he realized the risk of exhaustion in battle. He gasped for breath, feeling as if a terrifying shadow had enveloped him—a sign of his crumbling confidence.
Since birth, only a handful had ever managed to hit him and completely defeat him, and those were seasoned veterans with decades of combat experience. Among them were masters like his own teacher, who could dismantle all his techniques in an instant. In other places, especially among assassins hired at high prices by the military for the roles of Scout and Executioner, his strength was invaluable. If his techniques were countered, it would be a catastrophic failure for the entire military camp; anyone challenging him could deliberately mimic the actions of others.
In the military camp, daily practice battles were essential. For soldiers issuing challenges under certain circumstances, as the Fighting Instructor, he had no choice but to accept their requests for sparring. This felt akin to walking to the guillotine; after over twenty years of rigorous training, it could all come to an abrupt end.
Dark believed he had not yet lost completely. After creating some distance, he melted into the surrounding darkness and employed his signature Shadow Step technique while waiting for the right moment. He bent his knees into the Limb Curve position, determined not to launch a hasty attack like before. He even used feints that many assassins would disdain to confuse his opponent's line of sight.
Assassins typically relied on swift strikes or quick kills; even a slight lapse in an opponent's focus could allow one assassin to take down a much stronger foe. Dark at least believed he would not lose; with the perfect combination of Shadow Step and Limb Curve, anyone would struggle to withstand him, finding themselves trapped in an impossible situation.
He seemed to find an opportunity; his speed was already impressive, and thanks to Shadow Step, he made no sound at all. Even if Gene Lock could detect impending danger by heightening hearing and bodily awareness to the ultimate level, in this sudden silence, patience would yield results—silence was the best moment to strike.
He aimed a knife-hand strike at the back of the man's head who had exposed himself. At the same time he executed this strike, it carried significant force capable of causing severe concussions in a soldier. Dark's methods were undeniably brutal; however, he did not wish to kill an opponent who could challenge him effectively.
Assassins were among the loneliest groups; while they were called assassins and would kill their targets for money or missions without concern for their victims' pasts—even if they were good people—it was irrelevant to them as those details were merely part of their assignments. What happened afterward was fundamentally outside their concern.
Despite their solitude, assassins harbored a strong desire to surpass those stronger than themselves; they would go to great lengths to outdo their rivals. Dark felt that eliminating such a worthy opponent would create an obstacle for his future growth—this person represented a barrier he needed to overcome in order to progress.
All these attacks transpired in an instant; there was no sound at all. The surrounding people remained silent, eyes wide open as they witnessed a dark shadow appear before them, followed by confusion about what had just occurred as the knife-hand descended with incredible speed.
Freyr seemed to be completely still, yet he suddenly braced his arm and forcefully deflected, his body straightening up. His hand struck down on the opponent's arm, delivering a powerful impact that felt like being hit by a hammer. The shock reverberated through him, causing a momentary numbness, and then he followed up with a punch that landed squarely on the opponent's chin.
In contrast to the suddenness of this move, the opponent gasped in surprise before being sent flying backward. As soon as he hit the ground, he felt a strong recoil, and his chin was already showing signs of swelling. It looked quite grim; some of the bones in his jaw were likely fractured.
Gasping in disbelief, he quickly asked, "Impossible! How could you know which one is me? I clearly had your back turned to my real self. I should have been able to knock you out. Why are you still—"
Freyr shook his head slightly and sighed, "Fool. If it were just an illusion, you would notice that only the shadow of the real body is darker on the ground. You can create shadows for your illusions too; honestly, that's a great tactic. If I hadn't seen through your trick, I might have found it quite troublesome. But now it seems that these illusions you've created are merely that—illusions. They are just for show. Even though they make no sound, how could I know they were fake? It's because when you hit me, some of my blood splattered onto your clothing. Although it was just a little, I could still sense it. Your deliberate attempts to hide it were pointless; all it did was make the blood more conspicuous."
"So that's how it is. The purpose of that suicidal move was for this reason? You really will stop at nothing."
Freyr smiled faintly, "Likewise."
The opponent chuckled and rubbed his chin. "That must be the Second Stage of Gene Lock, right? After you broke my most perfect and meticulously crafted assassin technique, there’s no chance for victory left for me. So I’ll concede first. Even if you broke my technique, I still have ways to create distance between us. Given enough time, you probably won't be able to escape unscathed."
Then, the Scout approached from behind and draped a coat over him. At that moment, he seemed ready to leave. Just as he was about to disappear into the darkness, he turned back and exchanged a glance with Freyr's eyes, saying with a smile, "Oh right, I forgot to tell you—I didn't poison you. If it were an enemy, I would consider using a chronic neurotoxin to impair their senses before executing them by severing their head."
"Compared to this exercise, there's no need for me to gamble with my family's fate. I've sworn an oath: if anyone can defeat me, then as long as they can beat me, I will retire. Now seems like the right time; please accept the flag of the Wolf Brigade. If you have time, come find me in the dark realm; I'll show you many interesting places from my family." He smiled again and added, "Goodbye!"
No sooner had he spoken than the flagpole suddenly crashed down with a loud thud, causing the flag to fall to the ground. Everyone around felt bewildered by this turn of events; however, at that moment, the entire Wolf Brigade camp erupted into chaos.
After a long while, a prolonged sound echoed through the military camp.
"The Wolf Brigade declares defeat and withdraws from the exercise!"
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