The air grew heavier with each breath.
Zixuan turned his gaze toward Spindle, then shifted back to Noct. His expression was calm, almost divine, as though the storm within him had found clarity amidst chaos. His voice carried through the base—not loud, but undeniable, like truth etched in marble.
"I am not afraid of death," Zixuan said, his tone not defiant, but simply honest. "This life… holds no more worth for me. Goals, accomplishments, victories—they are fleeting illusions. And when even the universe offers no meaning… you learn to stop pretending it does."
He slowly raised one hand, fingers shaping into an ancient, silent symbol—something lost to all but the oldest of the Assassin Federation's archives.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper but heavy with power, he said,
"Crimson Lions of the Abyss."
The ground cracked softly beneath his feet. A quiet pulse of red light spiraled out in all directions, and then they appeared.
Two lions formed from energy and pain.
The first lion stepped forward, shaggy and unkempt, its fur a mess of deep crimson and black. A long, jagged scar ran down its left eye—yet that eye still gleamed with awareness, as if it had survived a hundred battles and was ready for a hundred more. There was fear in its posture, but also loyalty. A broken beast that had learned to keep standing.
The second lion was sleek and silent. Its body bore strange carvings that glowed faintly—ancient symbols, older than language. Its gaze was locked forward, unblinking. A beast made for war.
Zixuan tilted his head, watching Spindle float eerily above the ground.
"I heard you were brave," he murmured.
The lions roared and charged. The scarred one faster, fueled by instinct. The carved one slower, more precise—like death moving with intention.
Spindle's eyes narrowed. The earth's gravity seemed to shift beneath him as he began to drift, weightless. He twisted in the air like a leaf caught in a silent storm, barely evading the lions' first strike.
Then—from behind—
A blade sliced through the stillness.
Reinhard. Swift and clean, his blade nearly found Spindle's neck. It grazed the back, drawing a thin line of blood and surprise.
Spindle flinched. "Ahh... I see."
He hadn't expected this.
Meanwhile, Noct had broken from Ice's grip. His cloak fluttered behind him as he stepped forward, rage swelling in his veins like fire.
Ice didn't hesitate. With the cold fury of the north wind, he surged at Noct—not with a blade, but with his bare hands.
Noct raised an eyebrow, bemused. "What kind of shit is this?"
But before he could finish, a frost-laced blow landed squarely across his face. The air froze. The world held its breath. A sound like cracking stone echoed.
Noct staggered slightly, then touched his cheek. Blood. Ice. A burning cold that went deeper than skin.
He looked down at his fingers, and for the first time since the mission began—he smiled.
"This is gonna be interesting," he murmured.
Ice stepped forward, his grin cold as steel.
"Yes," he replied, "It will… Prince of Agony."