The silence after the chaos of the forest didn't last.
A distinct presence rose ahead — metallic, imposing, the air itself seemed to bend around it.
Karna, Isabela, and Lyra stopped at the same instant — not from fear, but instinct.
And then, from the dark, he emerged.
The presence made the air heavy.
The black hood and mask hid his face completely — only the golden gleam tore through the shadows.
The armor he wore seemed built to intimidate: black, form-fitted, with golden details that shimmered with every move.
The lines of the metal were sharp, elegant — as if darkness itself had been forged into gold.
Two sword hilts crossed behind his back, and the blades seemed ready to leap out in a blink.
The golden plates on his shoulders and legs gave him the air of an ancient warrior, yet something in the way he moved felt modern — silent, precise, wasting no motion.
The long coat swayed with the wind, cutting the ground like a mantle of authority.
It wasn't just the look — it was the way he stopped and watched, as if he already knew what was coming.
No one dared to approach.
There was something in him — a mix of discipline and threat, elegance and death.
The forest's silence now felt oppressive, almost solid, as if every tree held its breath.
The soldiers, wounded and staggering, trembled before the figure that watched them.
Every breath felt too heavy, every step uncertain.
Isabela turned her eyes toward Karna.
He was still, his expression more serious than ever before.
Without words, she slid her hand to the shield strapped to her back, pulling it free with resolve.
The blade of her sword already rested in her grip — ready, poised to strike.
Lyra, sensing the vibration in the air, rose with precise, instinctive movements, taking her place beside them.
Her blue eyes swept the darkness, catching small changes, small intentions that escaped ordinary sight.
The silence stretched on.
Every instant seemed to measure the patience of the living before the metallic, imposing presence.
Then a voice broke through — deep, slow, charged with authority, cutting through the stillness like a death rite.
"Advance!" the voice roared, echoing through the forest gloom. "Leave no one standing!"
Before the order had even finished echoing, Karna had already loosed the first arrow.
The metallic string cut through the air, striking an approaching assassin cleanly, tearing a path through the crowd.
The battle was already roaring through the forest.
Arrows sliced the air, pistols cracked in precise bursts, the metallic scent of blood mingling with damp earth.
Every step calculated, every motion decisive.
Isabela swung the shield with force, blocking blades that came from nowhere, carving a path for the wounded soldiers.
Her strikes were wide, certain, leaving a trail of fallen bodies and blood spattered across the ground.
Lyra stayed slightly behind, pistols in hand.
Each shot was short, lethal, dropping assassins before they could reach Karna or Isabela.
Her blue eyes swept the dark, reading subtle intentions that no other gaze could.
Cries erupted from all directions — wounded soldiers in agony, assassins collapsing, distant echoes.
The wind carried every sound, every trace of iron and blood, a tension so thick it could be felt.
And in the midst of chaos — a blade.
A silver flash cut through the air, too fast to see.
Karna, advancing toward the leader, felt the incoming impact before he saw the shape.
Lyra reacted instantly.
Two short shots thundered like strikes of lightning, aimed at the blade flying toward Karna with deadly speed.
But the assassin didn't falter — he twisted the katana with almost supernatural precision, slicing through the air and deflecting the bullets as if he could hear the sound, not the movement.
The metal gleamed mid-motion, catching the faint moonlight between the trees.
The deflected shots cracked against the ground.
He stepped back slightly, but not from fear — only to reposition, his gaze locked on Lyra, cold and calculating.
Lyra held steady, pistols aimed, every muscle ready, breathing slow, controlled.
For a heartbeat, time held its breath — instinct against instinct, speed against precision.
The assassin, blade raised, watched her — a shadow made of steel.
The hood covered most of his face, and the mask — cold, expressionless — left only the eyes visible. And those eyes said everything: focus, calculation, danger.
The armor he wore was unlike anything ordinary.
Silver-edged, layered over black, it seemed to fuse to his body — not a single gap.
Each metal plate caught a trace of light, but faintly, as if even the shine obeyed him.
He stepped sideways — slow, controlled, guard high — reading her every move.
Karna didn't hesitate.
He moved forward; every step firm, straight toward the leader.
The first arrow killed one.
The second, another.
Cold precision.
No mistakes.
The assassins around him fell as he advanced, clearing a path toward the leader.
The noise of battle roared around them — metal tearing flesh, cries of pain, the distant sounds of those Zeph led to safety, the desperate rustle of trees under chaos.
Still, in the center of it all, the leader remained still, watching.
Every arrow that pierced an assassin seemed to echo his silent authority — his golden gaze cutting through the dark, unwavering.
Karna pressed forward, lethal — each arrow a sentence, each step drawing closer to the metallic presence that stared back without moving.
A hiss sliced the air behind him — another assassin emerging from the shadows, blade ready to pierce his spine.
Karna didn't turn.
Didn't slow.
Isabela was already moving before the assassin could even breathe in to strike.
The lasso gleamed, cracking through the air, twisting with cruel precision.
It coiled around the invader's ankle, locking tight.
Isabela turned her hips, pulling with brutal force.
She gave him no time to scream.
The next pull slammed him headfirst into a nearby rock.
The impact echoed sharp.
The body fell limp, formless — as if life had been switched off by a divine hammer.
Karna kept running.
The confidence was absolute, almost defiant.
Steps firm.
Bow steady.
The leader ahead.
The assassins behind — irrelevant.
Karna loosed an arrow — not a common one, but an impact shot.
The leader of the assassins raised his hand — and caught it.
The arrow exploded.
The blast made him stagger two steps back; dust rose, his forearm trembled — but he didn't fall.
Karna was already in the air as the smoke cleared, body twisting.
Spinning kick.
His heel struck the leader's chest like a hammer.
The man's body sank two centimeters into the earth before being thrown backward.
Karna drew another arrow and began firing in sequence —
fast, precise, one after another.
The leader dodged — body leaning by mere millimeters, feet scraping the dirt.
Each arrow ripped through the space where his head had been a heartbeat before.
"Keep moving," Karna murmured, not looking back, not even acknowledging the idea of danger there. "I want to see how far this goes."
Karna took the last step — calm, yet with the precision of someone who had already chosen the strike.
The leader regained balance from the previous impact, feet firm, knees aligned, torso low — stance of absorption and read.
Karna didn't wait.
His front foot pivoted, hips turned, and he launched the first strike: a front kick straight to the chest, explosive — a test, a gauge of the opponent's weight.
The leader raised his forearm — short, dry block — didn't move an inch.
Karna's shin crashed into the golden armor; the impact rang, vibration rising up his leg.
Karna thought, fast, without words:
Armored. But he feels it. Doesn't absorb — blocks. Technical.
Karna spun in the air with the same leg, converting the motion into a descending side kick aimed at the collarbone and mask — a finishing move if it landed.
The leader leaned back exactly three centimeters — minimalist — letting the strike skim the mask's edge.
No emotion.
No sound.
Still in motion, Karna landed lightly, right hand going to his bow — not to shoot.
He used the bow's edge as a curved weapon, swinging it sideways toward the leader's temple.
The leader raised his arm, deflecting with his forearm and stepping half a pace forward — reducing distance, turning Karna's reach into weakness.
His arm rose under the archer's, angling to trap the elbow and control the torso's rotation — classic immobilization.
Karna read it — and before the lock closed, leapt back with a short twist, escaping the grab and regaining space.
He landed softly, half-smiling, breath calm.
"Still not using the blades?" he said, tone almost amused. "I'm starting to think I don't deserve the effort."
The leader answered with absolute silence.
He moved first this time.
One dry step.
Elbow shooting straight toward Karna's jaw — fast, compact, focused force.
Karna tilted his head by a hair's width; the elbow passed less than a finger away, cutting air.
With the same fluidity, he dropped his center of gravity, sweeping his leg horizontally — a quick low kick at the commander's ankle.
The leader didn't jump — he stepped on the incoming leg, crushing the motion with controlled pressure.
Pain climbed up Karna's shin — minimal, but real.
He locked his jaw, and without breaking rhythm, used the pressure of the pinned leg to roll backward, recovering stance.
The commander didn't pause — his palm strike came next, aimed at the sternum — a technique to stop the heart if it landed hard.
Karna blocked by crossing his forearm and pushing aside, diverting the line.
In the same motion, he spun a low circular kick at rib height.
The leader absorbed it with his torso — muscles tense, feet steady.
Not a step back.
Karna narrowed his eyes — almost smiled.
He pushed the bow aside, freeing both hands, and came in with two quick punches:
First to the chin — a timing test.
Second to the plexus — meant to fold him.
The leader dodged the first with a bare twist of the neck.
The second he caught — open palm, trapping Karna's fist like a claw.
Karna stepped high, knee rising toward the jaw.
The leader released the grip, sidestepped half a pace, letting the knee cut through air, and tried to grab the ankle for a throw.
Karna reacted instantly — pushed backward, freeing the leg, landing low, one knee to the ground, hand on the bow.
He looked up with a half-smile.
"You playing with me? Or is this your idea of being gentle?"
The leader only adjusted stance — left arm forward, right back, fist closed.
A killing stance, not a fighting one.
He drew one deep breath — absolute control.
The tension grew so thick even the sounds of the forest seemed to stop.
Karna spun the bow in his hand, steady.
Heart at perfect rhythm — not adrenaline, focus.
The leader was reading the next strike — to kill.
The next move would decide it.
No test.
No study.
Only impact.