Episode-192

Words : 1556 Updated : Sep 27th, 2025

Chapter : 383 Ken Park, his silent shadow, adjusted his own course instantly, without a word, without a question. He had felt it too, of course. His own senses, honed by decades of paranoia and professional vigilance, were second to none. He knew. The artisan quarter was a labyrinth. A maze of narrow, winding streets, of tight, cramped alleyways that smelled of sawdust, coal smoke, tanned leather, and molten glass. The buildings leaned in on each other, their upper stories almost touching, casting the cobblestones below in a perpetual, shadowy twilight. It was a place where sound was muffled, where sightlines were broken, where a man could vanish in the space of a heartbeat. It was a perfect trap. Lloyd moved through the maze with a feigned, almost leisurely, curiosity. He paused to look in the window of a glassblower’s shop, admiring the delicate, swirling colors of a half-finished vase. He stopped to listen to the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, a sound that resonated with the steel in his own blood. He was playing the part of a young lord on a casual, aimless stroll, drawn by the sights and sounds of the city’s creative heart. But his senses were stretched taut, a web of awareness tracking the ghost that followed him. The presence was good. Very good. It mirrored his pauses, anticipated his turns, never getting too close, never falling too far behind. It used the shadows, the crowds, the architectural chaos of the quarter, with a masterful skill that spoke of immense discipline. This was no common thug. This was a professional. A predator. Lloyd led him on a long, circuitous, seemingly random path, deeper and deeper into the labyrinth. He was not just wandering; he was mapping. He was searching for the perfect location, the perfect stage for the confrontation he knew was coming. He needed a place with no exits. No escape routes. A place where the hunter would become the hunted. He found it, finally. A dead-end alley, tucked away behind a disused cooperage, the air thick with the faint, sour smell of old, spilled wine. It was a narrow, claustrophobic canyon of brick and stone, its far end a solid, high wall covered in moss and grime. The only way in was the way out. It was a place where fights were finished. He walked into the alley, his footsteps echoing slightly off the damp walls. He continued until he was halfway down, then stopped. The ambient noise of the artisan quarter faded, leaving only a heavy, expectant silence. He stood there for a long moment, his back to the alley’s entrance, a perfect, inviting target. He could feel the shadow pause at the mouth of the alley, assessing the situation. The sudden stop. The dead end. The trap was obvious. Did his pursuer have the confidence, the arrogance, to spring it? A faint smile touched Lloyd’s lips. Of course, he would. A professional of this caliber wouldn't be deterred by an obvious trap. He would see it as a challenge. An invitation. Lloyd slowly, deliberately, turned around. He faced the entrance of the alley, his expression calm, almost welcoming. The afternoon sun, blocked by the tall buildings, did not reach here, leaving him standing in a pool of deep, cool shadow. “You’ve been following me for the better part of an hour,” Lloyd called out, his voice quiet but carrying easily in the confined space. “Your dedication is admirable. Your stealth, even more so. But the tour is over.” He gestured to the empty alley around them. “You’ve chosen the location for our meeting. So please, feel free to dispense with the theatrics and show yourself. It’s rude to keep your host waiting.” For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then, a soft, almost soundless, thud from above. A figure dropped from the tiled roof of the adjacent building, landing in a perfect, silent crouch at the mouth of the alley, a dark silhouette against the brighter light of the street beyond. The figure rose slowly, a study in lethal, contained grace. He was clad head-to-toe in dark, tight-fitting leathers, the material designed for silence and flexibility. His face was concealed by a simple, black cloth mask that covered his lower face, and a deep hood that shadowed his eyes, leaving only a hint of a sharp, determined jaw visible. He held two short, wicked-looking swords, their blades a dull, non-reflective black, gripped in a reverse, professional grip. He was not a brawler. He was not a soldier. He was an assassin. Chapter : 384 The assassin said nothing. He simply watched Lloyd, his posture relaxed but radiating a coiled, predatory readiness. The air between them crackled with a silent, deadly promise. The hunter had walked into the trap. And now, the true predator was about to be revealed. — The desolate alley was a sealed arena, the high brick walls on either side trapping the stale air and the palpable, rising tension. The assassin stood at the mouth of the alley, a figure of disciplined menace, his twin black blades held in a low, ready guard. He was a creature of the shadows, patient, silent, his very presence a promise of swift, professional violence. He assessed Lloyd, his hooded gaze sweeping over the young lord’s seemingly unarmed state, his relaxed posture. He saw no fear, no panic. Only a calm, almost unnerving, stillness. It was not the reaction he expected from a cornered nobleman. Lloyd, in turn, assessed his opponent. The stance was perfect, balanced, ready to move in any direction. The grip on the blades was that of a seasoned professional, comfortable with his tools. The silence, the lack of taunts or bravado, was more intimidating than any threat. This was a man who let his blades do the talking. The faint hum of a focused, disciplined Spirit Core emanated from him, not powerful, but controlled. A Manifestation-level user, perhaps, but one who relied on skill and stealth, not overwhelming magical force. “No name? No dramatic monologue?” Lloyd asked, his voice laced with a faint, almost lazy amusement that was utterly at odds with the deadly situation. “Just straight to the business end of things? I appreciate the efficiency.” The assassin didn’t respond. He simply shifted his weight, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement, and then he exploded into motion. He didn’t charge in a straight line. He flowed, a blur of dark leather, moving with a terrifying, silent speed, his boots barely seeming to touch the grimy cobblestones. He closed the twenty paces between them in the space of a two heartbeats, his twin black blades a shimmering, intersecting web of lethal steel, aimed not at a single point, but at a dozen—throat, heart, ribs, tendons—a disorienting flurry of attacks designed to overwhelm, to confuse, to kill before the target could even mount a defense. Lloyd’s eyes, which had seemed merely calm, narrowed with a cold, analytical focus. The world seemed to slow down, the frantic dance of the assassin’s blades resolving into a series of clear, predictable vectors. The Major General, the man who had faced down hypersonic projectiles and dodged plasma fire in his battle suit, took over. He didn't try to block. He had no weapon. He didn't try to dodge backwards; the alley was a trap, there was nowhere to go. He moved forward. Into the storm of blades. It was an act of suicidal madness. But it was calculated madness. He moved with a fluid, almost boneless grace, his body twisting, turning, flowing around the slashes and stabs with an impossible, preternatural precision. He wasn't just dodging; he was using the assassin’s own momentum against him, a half-step here, a slight turn of the shoulder there, causing the deadly blades to whisper past his tunic by a hair's breadth, their passage stirring the air, but never touching flesh. The assassin’s hooded eyes widened in disbelief. His flurry, a technique that had felled seasoned knights and powerful mages, was being... evaded. Effortlessly. By an unarmed boy who was moving with the uncanny grace of a master swordsman, yet without a sword. The target wasn't just fast; he was predictive, seeming to know where the blades would be a fraction of a second before they arrived. Frustration flickering, the assassin shifted his attack, abandoning the complex flurry for a single, powerful, direct thrust, aiming to impale Lloyd’s heart. The black blade shot forward, a streak of deadly, non-reflective steel. This was the opening Lloyd had been waiting for. As the blade lunged towards him, Lloyd didn't retreat. His left hand shot out, not to block the blade, but to meet the assassin’s extended sword-arm at the wrist. His fingers, imbued with a subtle, contained pulse of his Steel Blood Void power, were like an iron vise. He didn't just grab; he seized, his grip absolute, unshakeable, arresting the deadly thrust inches from his chest. Simultaneously, his right hand moved, a blur of motion. But it wasn't a punch. It was a focused, almost surgical, strike with the hardened edge of his hand, aimed directly at the assassin’s elbow joint. It was a move from a forgotten Earth-based martial art, a brutal, efficient joint-lock designed to shatter, to disable.

Episode-192

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