A frigid wind swept across the wasteland beneath the shroud of night. In the silent darkness, Punk's eyes gleamed with an almost tangible blue light beneath the hood of his robe. Faint magical runes shimmered across his cyan robes, casting an eerie glow. At his feet, a red gemstone, once bright, now dimmed as the moonlight sculpted sharp shadows across his pale, expressionless face.
Kane halted nearby, golden battle aura coiling around the joints of his armor. His lance, sharp and gleaming, stood poised like a drawn blade, ready to strike.
Pute, however, trembled uncontrollably behind Punk, his face drained of all color.
Just moments ago, Punk's heightened perception had detected an unnatural shift in the air's flow. Reacting instantly, he stopped in his tracks—but even with his secondary deflection barrier activated, he had to sacrifice his precious apprentice-level staff to block the full-force strike of a hidden Stalker. That dagger had been coated in vicious magical poison.
In this treacherous world of Faerûn, such poisons weren't like those in mundane martial arts tales, where recovery took weeks or months. Here, they were crafted for instant death—one scratch, and the victim wouldn't live to see the next breath. The consequences were unthinkable.
"A Stalker... No, there could be more than one," Punk muttered, his expression darkening. This night-shrouded wasteland was the perfect hunting ground for assassins wielding shadow energy. The oppressive darkness was their domain.
But despite the imminent danger, something gnawed at Punk's mind.
"How did they know our escape route?"
That was the real question. The Stalker had clearly been lying in ambush for a long time.
But how?
Their retreat paths were supposed to be unpredictable.
A ghostly voice drifted through the darkness, its origin impossible to pinpoint.
"There were twenty-eight viable retreat routes. We stationed seven groups of assassins. The odds of an ambush were one in four."
Punk narrowed his eyes.
So they had gambled on probability… and he had been the unfortunate target.
A deep irritation welled up inside him.
Why did he always find himself tangled in such troublesome situations?
He never should have taken part in this night raid.
The voice spoke again, a whisper carried by the wind.
"Mages always have their little tricks... but that strike should have landed."
"You're rather confident in yourself."
Punk's tone carried a hint of mockery.
This meaningless exchange had only served as a distraction—both sides probing for openings. But now, it was clear that neither would fall for such simple bait.
There was no more room for words.
This would be a battle of life and death.
"Prepare yourselves, Mage and Warrior. I won't miss again."
The final threat dispersed into the wind, and a suffocating tension settled over the night.
Punk and Kane stood motionless, every fiber of their being coiled in anticipation. They couldn't afford to make a mistake.
Somewhere in the darkness, the Stalker lurked, dagger poised to strike.
Seconds stretched into minutes.
Nearly ten had passed, yet the assassin remained unseen, refusing to act recklessly.
Punk's face darkened further.
The longer they remained trapped in this stalemate, the worse their situation became.
The Stalker was patient. Disciplined.
If reinforcements from the enemy camp arrived, their fate would be sealed.
And given the strength of that earlier attack, the assassin was at least an advanced trainee of the eighth level.
Worse still, shadow energy was particularly potent under cover of night—it consumed less energy and concealed movements almost entirely.
The battlefield was completely in the enemy's favor.
They had to take the initiative.
Punk swiftly cast an apprentice-level summoning spell—Smoke Screen Cloud.
Within moments, thick, colorful smoke billowed out, swallowing half a battlefield's worth of space. Within the dense fog, neither side could see the other.
If he couldn't find the enemy, then he would ensure the enemy couldn't find him either.
But that alone wasn't enough.
Stalkers possessed shadow-based perception skills, allowing them to sense magical fluctuations even through barriers. Even if their detection wasn't perfect, it was precise enough to locate the general position of a spellcaster.
To counter this, Punk immediately invoked another spell—
Mana Distortion Body.
A low, hoarse incantation resonated through the smoke, and several small spheres materialized from swirling magical energy.
These floating orbs, barely the size of a palm, had six short, insect-like legs. They twitched and spun in the air with an eerie liveliness.
To an outsider, they might seem harmless—almost cute.
But the occasional arcs of white lightning flickering across their forms hinted at the violent energy they contained.
Under Punk's command, the distortion entities scattered throughout the fog.
Simultaneously, Punk silently moved away from his original position.
Using minute adjustments, he manipulated the magical auras of these orbs, causing them to mimic his own mana signature.
The imitation wasn't perfect, but it would be enough to mislead a Stalker relying on shadow perception.
If the assassin mistook one of these orbs for Punk and got too close...
He would detonate them.
A deadly surprise awaited in the darkness.
Now, all that remained was to see whether the Stalker had the courage to step into the mist.
Punk had already calculated his next move.
If everything proceeded according to plan, he and Kane would be able to retreat before reinforcements from the enemy camp arrived.
As for Kane himself...
Punk didn't particularly care whether he survived.
That man was cunning—there was no doubt he had his own tricks for staying alive.
And indeed, as Punk monitored the magical flow within the fog, he noticed that Kane's aura had all but vanished.
"Of course," Punk mused.
"That bastard has a method to hide himself too."
Now, it was the Stalker's turn to play the waiting game.