Briana remembered her childhood as a succession of gray days in which she never fit in.
The other girls talked about dresses, about dances, about which ribbon color looked best in their hair. They would gather in a circle after class, whisper about cute boys, laugh with high-pitched sounds that Briana found fake.
(I don't understand why they care so much about that. I don't understand why they can't talk about real things.)
She would sit apart, legs crossed and arms against her chest, watching the garden from the window.
Her mother had given her a makeup basket for her tenth birthday. Briana opened it, saw the powders, the lipsticks, the tiny brushes, and felt an emptiness in her stomach. She never used it. She kept it at the bottom of her closet and it stayed there, gathering dust, until years later she donated it without anyone noticing.
(I hate my life. I hate having to smile when I don't want to smile. I hate having to listen when all I want to do is scream.)
The problem ran deeper than simple social discomfort. Briana knew it. She had known it since she could remember, since her hands began to clench into fists too easily. She felt the burning desire to hit people. Not just anyone. Not the weak or defenseless. But when she saw someone who thought themselves superior, who abused their power, who humiliated others for fun... her hands trembled. Her fingers curled. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to throw a punch.
(I'm not normal. I know I'm not normal. But I don't want to be. I don't want to be like them.)
Her parents took her to specialists. Men and women in white coats with notebooks in their hands who asked her uncomfortable questions about her feelings.
"Why do you want to hit people, Briana?"
"Don't you realize that violence isn't the solution?"
"Have you thought about how others feel when you act like that?"
(Lies. It's all lies. Violence isn't the solution for them because they don't feel what I feel. They don't understand that when I hit... when I hit, I can finally breathe.)
None of the specialists helped her. They all told her the same thing: that she had to control herself, that she had to find alternative ways to channel her anger, that violence would only bring more violence. Briana nodded her head, said "yes, doctor," "yes, ma'am," "I'll try," and then went home feeling the same emptiness, the same need, the same frustration.
(They don't understand. No one understands.)
Until that day.
Briana was twelve years old when she walked through the streets of the lower part of the city, where her mother had forbidden her to go, but where she escaped whenever she could. There the air smelled different. Of warm bread, of leather, of honest sweat. Not like in the mansions of the upper class, where everything smelled of perfume and lies. She walked with her hands in her pockets, watching the market stalls, when she heard the screams.
"Let me go! Please, let me go!"
It was a little girl, perhaps eight years old, in a blue dress with undone braids. Three boys surrounded her, all older than her, with smug faces and mocking laughter. One pulled her hair. Another had snatched a shopping bag from her and was emptying it on the ground while the third blocked her way.
(Bullies. That's what they are. Brave with the weak, cowards with the strong.)
Briana felt the heat run through her arms. Her fists clenched.
(Don't think. Just act.)
She walked toward them with a firm step. The biggest one, a red-haired boy with gap teeth, saw her approaching and frowned.
"What are you looking at, little girl? Go play with your dolls."
Briana didn't answer. She simply raised her right fist and slammed it into the boy's nose. She felt the cartilage crunch under her knuckles, heard the surprised scream turn into a howl of pain, and something inside her... something that had been asleep for years... finally woke up.
(I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but it feels so good...)
The other two boys tried to run. Briana didn't let them. She grabbed the second by the collar of his shirt, spun him around, and slammed him against the market wall with a dull thud. The third managed to run a few steps, but she caught up with him in two strides and kicked him in the back, sending him sprawling face-first onto the ground.
In less than ten seconds, the three bullies were on the ground, moaning and bleeding, while the crowd parted around them with expressions ranging from horror to admiration.
The little girl in the blue dress looked at her with huge eyes.
"You're... you're amazing," she whispered. "You're the strongest person I've ever seen in my life!"
Briana felt her cheeks warm.
(It's not a big deal. I just did what had to be done.)
But the sparkle in the girl's eyes, the way she looked at her as if she were a legendary heroine... she liked that. She liked it a lot.
"Are you okay?" asked Briana, trying to make her voice sound soft, though she felt it trembling.
"Yes, thanks to you," replied the girl, and then she turned to the crowd. "This girl just saved me! She's amazing!"
A man from the market, a butcher with arms as big as hams, approached Briana with a smile.
"Well done, girl. Those boys have been bothering everyone for weeks. We filed several complaints with the guards, but they never did anything."
"Yes!" added a woman with a flour-stained apron. "They're bullies! But you gave them what they deserved."
Briana smiled.
(I like it. I like being looked at that way. I like that they know it was me who stopped them.)
That night, when she got home, she couldn't sleep. She tossed and turned in bed, repeating the moment of the punch over and over, the sound of the impact, the feeling of power running through her muscles. (I want more. I want to feel that again.)
The next day, she went out looking for another similar case. And she found it. A group of thieves who stole from the elderly at the night market. She followed them into a dark alley and, when they tried to flee with the loot, she faced them alone. They were five grown men, all with knives, but Briana felt no fear.
(They are criminals. They are not innocent. I can hit them without guilt.)
She fought with a ferocity that surprised even herself. When she finished, four of them were unconscious and the fifth fled with trembling legs.
The market people lifted her onto their shoulders. They shouted cheers. Someone gave her a baked apple. Someone else gave her some coins.
(That's it. This is what I need. It's not just violence. It's justified violence. It's being able to hit without being the bad guy.)
Briana spent the following years roaming the city in search of criminals. Thieves, bullies, hired thugs. Every time she found one, she faced them. Every time she defeated them, she felt a wave of satisfaction that no specialist, no pill, no therapy had ever been able to give her.
(Hitting others makes me feel alive. When my fists impact flesh, when I see the evil person fall to the ground... then I know I exist. Then I know what I'm for.)
She didn't like hurting innocent people. She never had. But criminals... (they deserve it. They chose that path. I am merely the punishment.)
When she met Razel, she felt something similar to what she had felt that day at the market with the bullies.
(He is strong. He is different. I don't have to hold back with him.)
It wasn't that she held a grudge against him. It wasn't that she truly wanted to hurt him. It was simple: she needed an excuse. She needed a reason to let out everything she had been accumulating for years. And annoying Razel, provoking him, challenging him... that was the perfect excuse.
(If I ask him to fight me as a friend, he'll say no. If I tell him I want to measure my strength, he'll refuse. But if I annoy him, if I meddle in his affairs, if I show him that I am a nuisance... then he'll face me. And I'll be able to fight without guilt.)
Now, as she walked toward the designated place alongside Razel, she felt a mix of excitement and nerves.
(Finally. Finally, I'll be able to fight for real. Without holding back. Without worrying about hurting him. Because he is stronger than me. I know it. I've felt it since the first moment I saw him.)
The designated place was on the outskirts of the city, inside the forest there was a small mountain with an entrance with steel doors.
"This way," said Briana, pointing at the place.
◇◇◇
The place they arrived at was called "The Tomb of the 8," which stood before them like a monument to ancient glory. The entrance was a large gray stone archway, with time-worn reliefs still showing figures of warriors fighting nightmare beasts. On both sides, statues of knights with raised swords guarded the threshold, their stone faces looking toward the horizon as if still expecting an invasion that would never come.
"What is this place and why did we come here?"
"This place," explained Briana as they passed under the arch, "was built to honor the 'Eight Great Knights.' Centuries ago, they protected this city from an orc invasion. They also helped found the kingdom. Without them, nothing you see now would exist."
"We came here because it was the perfect place for our battle where no one would bother us."
Razel observed the interior walls, also covered in reliefs. He could make out scenes of battles, of knights facing hordes of orcs, of the townspeople kneeling in gratitude.
"The other reason we're here," continued Briana, raising her voice, "is that it's been reported that a strange man has been lurking around the area. Someone who shouldn't be here."
Briana glanced sideways at a third person, Leonora, who was accompanying them.
Her face asked the question: "What is she doing here?" While Razel answered her.
"I can't leave her alone or she'd escape."
"I'll ask for details about that later."
Leonora clicked her tongue in annoyance. She, walking a few steps behind, frowned.
"And isn't it disrespectful to use the tomb of heroes as a training ground?"
Briana shook her head.
"No. The knights were warriors. They would have wanted other warriors to use this place to strengthen themselves. Besides, no one comes here because they say there are ghosts. The locals have feared this site for generations."
Razel cracked a smile.
"Ghosts? And you're not afraid of them?"
"Ghosts can't stop my fists," replied Briana seriously. "And even if they could, I'd rather face them than my mother when she asks me why I haven't gone to the suitor gatherings she organizes for me."
Leonora let out a short laugh.
They entered the main chamber and everyone stopped.
The place was immense. The ceiling rose over twenty meters high, supported by stone columns carved with figures of dragons and eagles. Sunlight entered through strategically placed openings high above, creating rays that illuminated the polished stone floor. At the back, eight white marble sarcophagi were aligned in a semicircle, each with a recumbent statue of the corresponding knight. Between them, an obsidian black altar held eight ancient swords, rusted but still sharp, stuck into the stone.
Razel whistled softly.
"Impressive."
"That's why I don't want you to destroy anything," said Briana, pointing a finger at him. "It's a historical piece. If you break something, they'll chase you to the ends of the earth."
"Understood. I won't break anything."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Leonora moved away and sat on one of the stone steps that bordered the chamber.
"I'll be the referee," she announced, crossing her legs. "Let the duel begin. And Briana-sama..." a cruel smile curved her lips, "if you can, kill him."
Briana ignored the comment and positioned herself facing Razel, about ten meters away. Her feet planted firmly on the flagstones, her hands raised before her face, and her amber eyes fixed on his with an intensity that would have made any adversary tremble.
"The rules are simple," said Briana. "Whoever wins three rounds is the winner. The loser must prostrate themselves before the winner and acknowledge their defeat."
Razel nodded, without adopting any fighting stance. He simply stood there, hands at his sides, as if waiting for a bus.
"I accept."
Briana felt a pang of irritation.
(Isn't he going to defend himself? Is he that confident?)
But she didn't let it distract her. She took a deep breath, felt the blood boil in her veins, and launched her attack.
Her right fist cut through the air with a whistle. All her years of training, all her street fights, all the blows she had given and received were concentrated in that single movement. The impact against Razel's abdomen was so strong that the floor flagstones creaked under her feet.
But Razel didn't move.
He didn't step back. He didn't blink. His expression didn't even change. He simply stood there, with Briana's fist buried in his stomach, as if he were a statue.
"You have good fists," said Razel calmly. "You can tell you've trained a lot."
Briana felt panic begin to gnaw at her stomach.
"How... how could you withstand it?"
"But it's useless," continued Razel, unperturbed. "A while ago I defeated an orc champion. That guy hit hard. Compared to him... well, let's just say you still have a way to go."
Briana stepped back one step, then another.
(An orc champion? Is he serious?)
Orcs were three-meter-tall beasts, with rock-like muscles and strength capable of knocking down walls. The idea that a human could defeat one in direct combat was... absurd. Impossible. And yet, something in Razel's eyes told her he wasn't lying.
"I don't care," growled Briana. "I don't care who you've defeated. I'm going to beat you!"
She attacked again. This time she didn't hold back. She unleashed a flurry of blows: left, right, left, kick, hook, uppercut. Each impact sounded like a hammer striking an anvil. The floor flagstones cracked under her feet. The very air seemed to vibrate with the force of her attacks.
Razel dodged them all.
Not with fast or spectacular movements. He simply... moved. A millimeter to the left. A tilt of the head. A shift of the hips. Each blow passed grazing him, without touching him, as if he knew exactly where each punch would land before Briana threw it.
(Impossible. It's impossible. I've trained my whole life for this!)
Briana kept attacking, over and over, until her arms went numb and her breathing became a hoarse wheeze. But Razel was still there, without a drop of sweat, without a mark on his skin, looking at her with the same calm as always.
Finally, Razel raised an arm.
Briana braced for impact. She closed her eyes, tensed her muscles, expected the blow that she knew would send her to the ground.
But the blow never came.
She opened her eyes and saw Razel's fist a centimeter from her cheek. Stopped in midair. Motionless. As if time had frozen.
"Why...?" stammered Briana.
Razel lowered his fist.
"I didn't hit you," he said. "And it's not because you're a woman. I'm not one of those idiots who underestimate women. I think there are women who can destroy any man."
"Then why?"
"Because I don't want to ruin your face," replied Razel, and his tone was serious, without a trace of mockery. "If I break your nose, if I leave you a scar, that would ruin your future marriage. I don't know who you'll end up marrying, but I doubt he'll be happy if his wife has a destroyed face."
Briana stared at him.
(My... my marriage? Is he talking about my marriage?)
And then something inside her broke.
Her legs gave way. She fell to her knees on the cold flagstones, and before she could stop it, tears began to roll down her cheeks. They were not silent or discreet tears. They were deep, wrenching sobs that came from the depths of her chest.
"Hey, it's not that bad," said Razel, taking a step toward her. "I just said I didn't want to break your face..."
"That's not why," sobbed Briana, covering her face with her hands. "That's not why I'm crying!"
Leonora approached, with a mixture of confusion and discomfort.
"Hey, this is the most pathetic thing I've ever seen in my life. Are you really crying because you lost?"
"It's not because of the defeat!" shouted Briana between sobs. "I don't care that I lost! I don't care about prostrating myself or anything! I'm crying because... because...!"
Razel waited in silence.
"Because you reminded me of what comes next!" exclaimed Briana, lifting her head with her face bathed in tears. "In a few weeks... in a few weeks my family will force me to marry. And I don't want to. I don't want to marry some weakling who can't even withstand a punch from me. I don't want to spend the rest of my life fake-smiling while my insides rot with boredom. And I've been so stressed about it that... that..."
"That you needed to fight someone," finished Razel. "To let off steam."
Briana nodded, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for bothering you all this time. It wasn't personal. I just... I didn't know how to ask you to fight me without looking crazy."
Razel was silent for a moment.
(Now I understand what Erica told me. "My sister is very strong and kind. She hates corrupt nobles, not men. Don't think she looks down on you." She was right. She wasn't making fun of me. She was just desperate.)
"The problem," said Razel finally, "is your marriage. Why don't you cancel it?"
Briana let out a bitter laugh.
"Because if I cancel it, they'll force my little sister to marry that noble. And I don't want that to happen to her. I want her to live her life without getting involved in the world of nobles. For her to be happy. For her to be free."
Razel observed her. Despite her strength, despite her fists, despite her tough attitude, Briana was a sister who sacrificed herself for the younger one.
(It's admirable. And also stupid. But I can't judge her. We all do stupid things for family.)
"I have an idea," said Razel. "Tell your parents you'll marry someone stronger."
Briana blinked.
"Stronger?"
"Yes. You don't want to marry a weakling, right? You don't want your children to be weak. So demand that your future husband be stronger than you. That he proves his worth in combat. That he fights for your hand."
Briana was silent, processing the words.
"That... that's a good idea," she said slowly. "If I set that condition, the nobles who want to marry me will have to prove they can defeat me. And none of them will be able to. Because..." she stopped, looking at Razel, "because you're the only one who's ever defeated me."
"Exactly."
"So if I say I'll only marry someone who can beat me... then I'll never get married."
"Or you'll marry someone truly worthy," said Razel. "Someone strong enough to deserve you."
Briana cracked a smile.
"Thank you," she said. "Truly, thank you."
"You're welcome."
"I want to pay you. How much do you want?"
Razel shook his head.
"I don't want money."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
Briana got up from the ground, dried her last tears, and bowed respectfully.
"Then, at least allow me to apologize for my previous behavior. I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry. Even though I love hitting people, I was raised to be better than this."
Leonora, who had watched the whole scene from the steps, let out a laugh.
"This is the most pathetic duel I've ever seen in my life. Crying, apologizing, giving marital advice... It's like a boring novel."
Briana glared at her.
"Shut up."
"You shut up," replied Leonora with a smile. "You're the one who cried."
"You were giving me advice that touched my heart, it's not the same!"
Razel raised a hand to stop the argument, but at that moment his black eyes widened. Something had changed in the air. Something subtle, almost imperceptible, but his combat instinct screamed that something was wrong.
He jumped back without thinking after pushing her.
"Razel!" shouted Briana after falling on her bottom.
Right where Razel had been standing, the ground began to twist. The stone, solid and unmovable for centuries, wrinkled as if it were a sheet of paper. It spun on itself, forming a perfect spiral like a snail, a whirlpool carved into the stone that sank into emptiness.
Briana and Leonora watched, horrified, as the flagstone disappeared into that twisted hole, leaving a fissure that seemed to stare back at them.
"What... what the hell was that?" whispered Leonora.
A male voice with a high-pitched tone echoed from above.
"He dodged it. By luck, or perhaps he noticed my presence. Interesting."
They looked up. In a hole on the second floor, right above the main chamber, there was a figure. It wasn't large. It wasn't imposing. It was rather small, hunched over, with ragged clothes hanging from its body as if they had been used for decades. Its disheveled hair, a dirty green that recalled rotten moss, fell in greasy strands over its face. But it was the freckled face that drew the most attention.
Pig nose. Not a slightly upturned nose, but a true porcine nose, wide and flat, which lifted the upper lip when breathing. Its eyes were tiny, two black dots sunk in deep sockets, and its ears, huge and folded, stuck out from the sides of its head like those of a bat.
"My name is Voldo," said the strange man in a voice that was a raspy whisper. "And I've come to kill you."
◇◇◇
Before Voldo existed, there was Basler Maxis.
Basler had been born in a nameless country. Not because it officially had no name, but because those who lived there had forgotten what to call it. It was a place of perpetual conflict, where warlords succeeded each other every few years and where the only law was that of the strongest.
From childhood, Basler learned that the only way to survive was to be a mercenary. But there was a problem: his physical constitution was weak. His arms were thin, his legs scrawny, and although he tried hard in training, he never managed to compete with the other children who grew strong and muscular.
(I can't fight hand-to-hand. I can't wield a sword. I can't carry a shield. I'm a nuisance. I'm useless.)
But he had something the others didn't. Wind magic.
It wasn't special magic. He couldn't throw fireballs or summon ice storms. His power was subtler, stranger, more... twisted. When he pointed his finger at someone and made a clicking sound with his mouth, the air at the point of impact would suddenly compress. The pressure was so intense, so concentrated, that the matter twisted upon itself, spinning into a spiral until nothing remained but a twisted void.
The first time he used it, it was an accident. An older man tried to steal the only possession he had, a threadbare blanket his mother had given him before she died. Basler pointed unintentionally, made a "click" with his tongue, and the thief's arm turned into a bloody spiral.
The man screamed. Basler screamed too.
(What... what have I just done. What a horrible thing I've just done.)
But at the same time, he felt something else. Power. For the first time in his life, he was the strongest. Not because he had muscles, but because his magic was unstoppable.
He became an assassin. It was the natural path. In a lawless country, killing for money was as common as breathing. And Basler was good. Very good. His ability was unique. No one else could do what he did. No one else could kill from a distance without using weapons. No one else could turn a human body into a spiral of flesh and bone just by pointing and making a sound.
They called him the "Night Hawk." He always killed at night, when the shadows hid him, when his victims couldn't see him coming. Night after night, mission after mission, Basler accumulated wealth and reputation.
Until that rainy night.
Rain poured in torrents over the nameless city when Basler received his new target: the leader of the Phantom Troupe. The payment was generous. More generous than anything he had ever received before. He accepted without hesitation.
Following him was easy. The leader didn't seem worried about being seen. He walked through the streets in the rain as if taking a morning stroll, unhurried, unafraid. Basler watched him from a rooftop, adjusted his finger, made a "click" with his tongue.
The leader turned around.
"You know?" he said with a terrible calm. "You're the first assassin who's managed to find me."
Basler felt panic freeze his blood. He had failed. For the first time in his life, he had failed.
(How? How is it possible that he dodged my attack? No one is capable of that. No one.)
He didn't dodge it; his finger was slightly moved to another position by Skull, who was protecting Ghost.
Basler knew his end had come. But something happened.
The leader didn't kill him. Instead, he offered him something much more valuable.
"Come with me. I'll show you a new world. A world where magic like yours will be the currency. A world where you won't have to hide in the shadows. A world where you'll be free."
Basler, who had never known freedom, accepted.
He became the sixth seat of the Thirteen Night Swords. He changed his name to Voldo, a name without a past, a name without meaning. And he swore loyalty to the leader who had rescued him from his dump.
(First death, then betrayal. I will never forget those words. I will never betray the man who gave me a purpose.)
◇◇◇
"You already know who I am," said Voldo, jumping from the second floor and landing on the flagstones with an agility that contrasted with his scruffy appearance. "Now tell me, brat... are you ready to die?"
Razel didn't answer. Instead, he observed the place where Voldo had landed, the small spiral crater he had left on the ground.
(His magic seems to be distortion. It's different from mine, which is lightning.)
"Who else has come?" asked Razel. "And where are you from?"
Voldo smiled. With his pig nose, the smile was grotesque, almost nauseating.
"None other than the Phantom Troupe. And no, I won't tell you how many of us there are. That would be a surprise."
He attacked.
He pointed his finger at Razel's head and made a "click." The air compressed. The distortion formed. But Razel was no longer there. He had moved an instant before, by instinct, by experience, by that sixth sense that warriors develop after hundreds of battles.
The ground where he had been exploded into a spiral of pulverized stone.
"He's fast," murmured Voldo, moving his head like a bird. "But not fast enough."
He pointed again. Click. Click. Click.
Three consecutive spirals. Razel dodged all three, but each time closer. The third shot grazed the side of his arm, tearing a piece of fabric from his shirt like folding it.
(Damn, it barely grazed me and left my arm like this. This guy is extremely dangerous. If his ability hits me in the head, I'll die instantly.)
Thought Razel as Blut took care of returning his arm to normal.
"Razel!" shouted Briana from the entrance. "We have to escape!"
"You two escape," replied Razel without taking his eyes off Voldo. "I'll handle him."
"But if you destroy the place..."
"I'm not going to destroy it! I'm just going to fight!"
Leonora grabbed Briana's arm.
"Let's go. Now. If we stay, we'll only get in the way."
She pulled her arm and they ran out, while fleeing Briana hesitated to continue.
Managing to stop both of them.
It was her fault for having brought Razel to that place, for having exposed him to this danger; it hit her like a punch to the stomach.
(It's my fault. It's all my fault. If I hadn't brought him here, he wouldn't be in danger.)
"I don't care," she said finally, pulling away from Leonora's grip. "Because of me, his life is at risk. I can't..."
"Briana-sama!" shouted Leonora. "Don't be stupid!"
But before they could continue arguing, something happened.
A hand came out of the darkness and grabbed Leonora by the neck, lifting her off the ground as if she weighed nothing. Briana turned and saw a tall man, with black hair and a face marked by scars, holding Leonora with insulting ease.
"I found her," said the man with a smile. "I didn't think you'd survive, Leonora."
Leonora kicked in the air, her hands scratching the hand that strangled her.
"Let go... coward..."
"The boss gave the order to kill you," continued the man, squeezing tighter. "The truth is, we were all sick of you. You were always the clients' favorite. You always got the best-paying jobs. While you raked in money that we stole from you, the rest of us, including the boss, were left without work."
"It's not my fault... that you're all useless..."
"Anyway," said the man, ignoring the insult, "we were planning to kill you soon. Send you on a failed mission and blame your incompetence. Things don't change whether it's today or tomorrow."
Leonora felt the words freeze her blood.
(They were always envious of me. All of them. All those years thinking I was part of something, that I had a home... and they were just waiting for the moment to stab me in the back.)
Briana lunged at the man, trying to free Leonora, but he pushed her away with a backhand that sent her rolling on the ground.
"Let her go!" shouted Briana. "She's an assassin, but she doesn't deserve to die like that!"
"What do you care?" asked Leonora, her voice choked by the pressure on her neck. "I'm an assassin. Leave me. It's none of your business."
The man laughed.
"She's right. It's none of your business. But after I kill you, I'll kill her. I won't leave witnesses. Then I'll go for the ones inside. Everyone will die."
Leonora closed her eyes.
(It's okay. It's okay to die. I had already accepted that this would happen sooner or later. At least... at least it was quick.)
But Briana didn't give up.
"Six months!" she shouted, getting up from the ground. "Six months ago, in this very city, you killed an official by strangulation. Isn't that right?"
She frowned.
"Yes, and?"
"That official was corrupt. He trafficked weapons to the mountain bandits. I know because I investigated it. You killed him on orders from another corrupt man who wanted to take over his business. Did you know that?"
Leonora opened her eyes.
"No... I didn't know that. They just told me who to kill. Nothing more."
"That's what mafias do," said Briana, approaching slowly. "They use you without you knowing for what. They turn you into a tool. And when you're no longer useful, they discard you."
The man holding her said.
"That's right, and what about it? We only do political or commercial assassinations."
Leonora felt something change inside her.
(Is it true? Were my victims not just random names? Were they people someone wanted eliminated for political reasons? Was I... was I used?)
"That's why," replied Briana, "even if you are an assassin, you didn't kill innocent people, so from my point of view that doesn't make you a bad person. You were just manipulated."
The man tightened his grip on Leonora's neck, but she no longer felt fear. Instead, she felt something new. Something she hadn't felt in years.
Hope.
(There is a possibility that I can get out of this hole. There is a possibility that I don't have to just be an assassin. There is a possibility of being... something else.)
Her hands, which had been hanging limp, moved. They sought the threads still hidden in her sleeves. She found them. She tensed them. And in a quick movement she had practiced thousands of times, she wrapped them around her attacker's neck.
"What the...?!" the man let go of Leonora to bring his hands to his neck, but it was too late.
The threads tightened. The man fell to his knees. His eyes opened wide, his mouth opened in a scream that never came out. And then, simply... he stopped moving.
Leonora fell to the ground, gasping, rubbing her bruised neck. Briana ran to her.
"Are you okay?"
"I don't need your help," replied Leonora, but her voice was weak, broken. "I don't need you to save me."
"I wasn't saving you. I was just giving you a little tap as punishment," said Briana, and she gave her a light tap on the shoulder. "Because you were bad."
Leonora looked at her, confused. Then, despite everything, despite the years of emptiness, despite the nights of murder and loneliness... she let out a laugh.
"You're weird," she said. "Very weird."
"I know. But I don't feel malice in you unlike the guys I punched, that's why I decided to believe in you."
They stood up. From inside the main chamber came the sounds of the fight: stone cracking, compressed air snaps, the echo of Voldo's shots.
"We have to help him," said Leonora. "That guy isn't very agile. If he takes his time, he'll kill him."
"And how are we going to help him?"
Leonora smiled. For the first time in years, her smile was neither cold nor empty.
"I'll handle the threads. You handle the fists."
◇◇◇
Inside the chamber, the fight continued.
Razel moved constantly, changing position every time Voldo raised his finger. He had dodged more than a dozen shots, but he knew he couldn't keep this up forever.
(He's not hard to kill. If I could get close to him, if I could land just one blow, I'd end this in a second. But he hides like a rat. He moves among the shadows. And I can't destroy this place.)
That was the most frustrating part. If they were in an open field, if there were no restrictions, he would have activated Raijin Phase 1 and would have finished Voldo before he could blink. But the columns, the sarcophagi, the historical reliefs... he couldn't risk destroying them. Briana was right: if he damaged the tomb, the authorities would chase him forever.
For Voldo to do it is another story.
"You can't run forever," said Voldo, disappearing behind a column. "Three of us came to kill you. One of them was sent before me. He failed. Now it's my turn. And if I fail... the other will come."
Razel stopped running to interrogate him.
"The other?"
"Yes. After we finish with you, we'll go for the other person. Skull-sama told us not to leave that girl alive no matter the consequences. The one with the blonde braids."
(Iris? They're going after Iris?)
"What are you planning?" asked Razel, and his voice turned dangerously cold.
"I'll tell you if you win," replied Voldo, and appeared behind him.
The finger pointed at Razel's nape. The "click" sound echoed in the chamber.
But before the shot could fire, something tangled around his hands. Threads. Fine as hair, strong as steel, preventing him from moving his fingers.
"What...?"
Leonora appeared beside him, pulling the threads with all her might.
"Now, Briana!"
Briana emerged from the other side, fist raised, throwing a direct punch at Voldo's face. He raised his arms to block, but the impact pushed him back several steps.
"You missed," said Voldo, regaining his balance. "That punch didn't do anything to me."
Briana smiled.
"I wasn't trying to hit you. I was just distracting you."
Voldo turned his head just in time to see Razel approaching him. There was no way to dodge. No time to aim. Razel's fist struck his chest with the force of a battering ram, and Voldo flew backward, crashing against the stone wall with a crack of broken bones.
His left arm hung useless.
"Now you're going to tell me," said Razel, approaching slowly, "everything you know about the Phantom Troupe. Their plans. Their members. Where they hide. Everything."
Voldo spat some blood.
"The leader... took me out of my dump," he said in a choppy voice. "He gave me a purpose. He gave me a home. First death... before betrayal."
"Don't be stupid," said Leonora. "Those guys use you just like they used me. You're just a tool to them."
Voldo looked at her with his small black eyes.
"You don't understand. You never understood. We... we are not like you. We are loyal unto death."
With his good hand, the only one he could still move, he pointed at his own head.
"No," said Razel, stepping toward him. "Don't do it!"
Click.
The sound was soft. Almost delicate. Voldo's head twisted on itself, spinning in a spiral, the features of his face becoming a whirlwind of flesh and bone until they disappeared into a point. The body fell to the ground, headless, faceless, with nothing to identify it.
Razel clenched his fists.
"He was a damn madman. His loyalty was so great that he preferred to die rather than betray them."
Leonora observed the body with an unreadable expression.
"That's the code of an assassin," she said in a low voice. "We prefer to die rather than lose loyalty. Or at least... that's what I used to believe."
She turned to Razel.
"His companions will come too. To kill me and to kill you. We have to get out of here as soon as possible."
Razel shook his head.
"No. If three came and one is already dead, there are two left. And those two are going after Iris."
"What are you going to do?" asked Briana.
"Fight. I'm going to find them to keep her safe. Then we'll have to wait for them to arrive... and fight."
"Then I'll mobilize the troops," said Briana. "The city guards..."
"There won't be time."
They ran out of the tomb, crossing the forest that surrounded the monument. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. It was then that Cyril appeared from among the trees, breathing heavily, with torn clothes and a cut on his cheek.
Razel stopped dead.
"Where the hell did you come from?"
Cyril leaned against a tree, gasping.
"I... I was following you. At Iris-san's request, she asked me to... to watch you from afar. But you're very fast. It took me a while to catch up. And when I got to the forest... I ran into a guy. A strange guy. He tried to kill me."
Leonora examined the cut on his cheek.
"He was one of my companions, wasn't he? The second assassin."
"Yes. He had a mark on his arm. A snake."
"Then he's dead," said Leonora. "The third one is too. When neither of them returns, they'll assume I killed them. They'll come for me. They'll come for us."
"And what are you going to do?" asked Razel.
Leonora looked up at the sky.
"I'll face them. Far from the city. I don't want innocent victims."
Razel watched her for a moment.
"What happened to your attitude of 'I'm already dead, I don't care about anything'?"
Leonora smiled. A small, shy, but real smile.
"I discovered I wasn't as much human garbage as I thought."
Cyril looked at all of them.
"I don't know what you're talking about, but if there's a fight, count me in."
"No," said Razel. "You stay here. Watch Briana and Leonora. I'll go find the rest."
"Alone?"
"Alone."
They began to walk toward the city, toward the academy where Iris was waiting for them. But none of them noticed the mysterious figure watching them from atop the tomb. A hooded silhouette, motionless as a statue, who had witnessed the entire fight.
"I didn't expect Voldo to lose," murmured the figure in a male voice. "That brat is more interesting than I thought. I guess it's your turn to act, Void."
He turned and disappeared into the shadows, blending into the night that was beginning to fall.
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The fanservice is for Sharon.
https://danbooru.donmai.us/posts/9851530