Steel rang as Aden parried the second strike, then barely twisted out of the way of a third slash aimed at his ribs. He drove his boot hard into the first assassin's chest, sending the man crashing backward into a heavy vase.
The vase hit the floor… and shattered without a single sound.
Aden's eyes widened. Sound barrier. Someone had sealed the entire room.
And it happened the moment that damn maid walked in.
"That bitch…" he growled through gritted teeth, rage flaring hot in his chest.
He stopped thinking about why and started fighting for his life.
Seven years. Seven brutal years since his core cracked open and his family quietly tossed him aside like damaged goods. Only a handful of high-ranking Vasco elders even knew the truth. To the rest of the world he was still the young master. But every single day since that night he had pushed his broken body to the absolute limit , drilling sword forms until his muscles screamed, until blood ran from his hands, searching for any way to make up for the useless cracked core inside him.
None of it had ever been enough.
Until tonight.
He counted them in the chaos. Eight assassins. All moving like trained killers, blades whispering through the silenced air.
Midnight had already passed. In a few minutes it would be the start of the new day , the day of the banquet, the day they planned to pin Claire Remes's murder on him and paint his room with corpses.
Not if he had anything to say about it.
The brutal dance to the death kicked off for real.
Aden parried the first assassin's overhead strike, stepped inside his guard, and snatched a sharp cutlery knife from the nearby table. In one clean motion he drove it straight through the man's throat.
Hot blood sprayed across his arm.
He ripped the knife free and glanced at the small silver badge pinned to the dead man's chest.
A black circle with a broken crown in the center.
The Public.
Of course. The most ruthless criminal syndicate on the continent , the ones who'd do anything for fame, money, or power.
Aden's lips curled into a cold, bloody smile.
"So it's you bastards again…"
Aden's breath came sharp and fast. Eight killers. All of them wrapped in faint blue aura that made their blades sing with deadly edge. He had nothing. No aura to coat his sword, no core to pull from. Just seven years of broken-body training and pure fucking spite.
He weighed it in a heartbeat: run and they'd chase him through the estate. Fight and he might die tired. He chose fight..
But the others didn't hesitate.
Two came from the sides at once. Aden spun, blocking the right one with his grandfather's black sword. The impact jarred his wrists — the assassin was using full aura strength. Aden's arms screamed.
He kicked the left one's knee hard enough to buckle it, then shoulder-checked him into the wall. The vase shards stayed silent on the floor.
Five left. No… wait. He caught movement.
Eight total, but three were hanging back, aura steady. The five pressing him were first-tier knights. Experienced but lower in power. Their footwork clean, eyes cold, no wasted motion.
Aden's lungs burned. Sweat and blood mixed on his face. He couldn't match their power. So he stopped trying to.
He used the room.
He grabbed a heavy wooden chair and hurled it at the closest one. While the man dodged, Aden closed the gap and slashed low across the thighs.
The blade bit deep. The assassin screamed silently behind the barrier and dropped. Aden stomped on his throat. Cartilage crunched. Two down.
Another came fast — overhead strike, aura flaring bright. Aden ducked inside, too close for the long sword to work. He rammed his forehead into the man's nose, felt it break, then drove the cutlery knife twice into the side of his neck. Hot blood poured over his hand.
Three down.
His own body was paying the price. A shallow cut opened on his left forearm. Another grazed his ribs. Pain flared, but he shoved it down.
Four left in his face. The three in the back started circling.
That's when he saw it.
Faint threads of mana drifting in the air like smoke, all flowing from the direction of the assassins. Not random. Deliberate. Someone outside the room was feeding them power through the sound barrier.
Aden's eyes narrowed. He couldn't use aura, but he could see the mana. And if mana and aura annihilate each other…
He stopped defending wide. He started striking the threads.
Next swing, instead of blocking the blade, he cut straight through the faint blue mana line feeding the attacker.
The assassin's aura flickered and died for half a second. That was enough. Aden's black sword punched through the opening and sank into the man's stomach. He twisted and yanked free. Four down.
The killers noticed. They got angrier, sloppier, desperate.
One screamed, "Kill him now! The banquet's already started!"
One rushed him recklessly. Aden let the blade come close — felt the wind on his cheek — then pivoted and hacked down at the mana stream near the man's shoulder. The aura cut out. His sword found the throat. Five down.
His legs were getting heavy. Breathing ragged. A new cut burned across his shoulder blade. Blood soaked his shirt.
The last three in close went all-in. Coordinated. One high, one low, one straight. Aden couldn't block all three. He dropped low, took the low cut across his calf (sharp pain, but not deep enough to drop him), and slashed upward at the mana threads feeding the high attacker. Aura vanished. He rammed his sword up under the ribs. Six down.
The remaining two hesitated for the first time.
Aden didn't give them time. He limped forward, blood trailing, and feinted left. When the first one bit, Aden cut the mana line feeding him mid-swing. The blade went dead. Aden's follow-up slash opened the man's chest. Seven.
Last one standing.
The final assassin backed toward the door, aura flaring brighter, trying to call more power. Aden could see the thick mana rope feeding him from outside.
He lunged, ignored the incoming strike, and brought his sword down in a savage two-handed chop directly on that glowing mana line.
The thread snapped.
The assassin's aura died completely.
For one heartbeat they were just two tired men with plain steel.
Aden's blade was faster.
He drove it straight through the man's heart.
Eight down.
The room fell dead silent behind the barrier. Bodies everywhere. Blood pooling dark and thick on the stone floor. Aden stood in the middle, chest heaving, covered in sweat and someone else's blood, cuts burning all over his body.
His grip tightened on the sword until his knuckles went white.
Silence.
Outside the silenced room, faint music and laughter drifted through the walls.
The banquet had already begun.
Grieckel Academy was full of nobles, heirs, and smiling liars… while his room had turned into exactly what that cursed book predicted: a massacre with his name written all over it.
Aden looked down at the silver badges on the corpses, black circle with a broken crown.
The Public.
He wiped blood from his mouth and whispered hoarsely,
"Not tonight, you bastards."