The blade came in low.
Silent.
Precise.
Zeph turned his body before the thought could form.
The staff rose in a short arc — not to block, but to break the angle — and the tip struck the side of the assassin's skull with a dry crack, muffled by the rain.
The man fell without a sound.
He would not get up.
The second did not hesitate.
Came from behind, two knives, direct advance — a mistake that only exists when one believes in numerical superiority.
Zeph yielded space.
One step.
Two.
On the third, he rotated his torso, let the blade pass where his neck had been a moment before, and returned the entire motion through the staff, which dropped vertically.
Ribs.
The impact folded the assassin's body in midair.
Before it touched the ground, Zeph was already on another axis.
The rain turned the courtyard into treacherous ground — and he used it.
He slid where others slipped.
Changed levels.
Never stayed in the same place.
An assassin leapt from the side wall.
Zeph advanced into him.
The staff spun, locked the enemy's forearm, and the body followed the motion like a gear — hip, shoulder, torque.
Crack.
The arm gave way.
The blade fell.
Zeph pulled.
The assassin cut through the air and hit the ground on his back, the impact ripping the air from his lungs.
Another came immediately.
And another.
They did not attack as a mass. They attacked in calculated waves, maintaining constant pressure, trying to force error, fatigue, irregular breathing.
They failed.
Zeph split the staff in motion.
The separation was almost imperceptible — a turn, a short snap — and now he had two weapons, short enough for close combat.
He advanced.
The first strike passed through the throat.
The second broke the base of the nose.
The third was not visible — only the sound of a body dropping heavy into the pooled water of the courtyard.
Blood mixed with rain, running through the grooves of ancient stone.
And still… they kept coming.
Dozens.
Then more.
Shadows emerging from corridors, rooftops, internal stairways of the wall.
Blackthrone.
All with the same silence.The same intent.
Kill.
Zeph took a deep breath.
He felt the air compress around his body, not as raw power, but as continuity — each movement already preparing the next, each strike born from the previous position.
There was no room for hesitation.
The tower was there.
And the entire courtyard seemed to close around him.
The first advance came in formation.
Three.
They did not run.
They walked.
One in front, two flanking — measured distance, blades low, short steps to avoid betraying intent.
Professionals.
Zeph advanced as well.
The collision happened in the middle of the courtyard.
The short staff in his right hand deflected the first blade with a dry, minimal strike, while the left came straight for the face.
The assassin stepped back half a pace — enough.
The second entered the open space.
A direct elbow to the jaw.
Zeph absorbed the blow with his shoulder, rotated his body, used the impact to enter the clinch and lock the enemy's arm against his own torso.
He tried to off-balance him.
Failed.
The man answered with a short, low knee aimed at the thigh.
The impact forced Zeph to adjust his base.
It hurt.
It worked.
They separated in the same instant.
Neither fell.
The third came from above.
He didn't jump — he descended, using the wall as an axis.
Zeph raised the staff into a high guard, but the blade did not come to kill.
It came to open.
The knife cut the forearm.
Shallow.
Controlled.
Intentional.
Blood appeared, mixed with rain.
Zeph stepped back two paces.
Breathing steady.
Eyes alert.
More movement.
Other assassins were already in position, forming an unstable semicircle.
They did not all attack.
They alternated.
Forced responses.
Tested timing.
Broke rhythm.
A low advance.
Zeph rotated his hip, kicked the supporting leg — a low kick, dry, technical.
The assassin yielded for an instant.
Another took advantage.
A takedown entry, projection attempt.
Zeph widened his base at the last second, rotated his torso, and went down with him, rolling across the wet stone.
Both rose almost at the same time.
The staff in his left hand cut diagonally.
Blocked.
The right followed immediately.
Also blocked.
Metal against metal.
Metal against bone.
Heavy breathing.
Muscles drawn tight.
This was not a massacre.
It was resistance.
An assassin entered from behind.
Zeph felt it before he saw it.
He dropped his body, let the blade pass over his shoulder, and answered with a short backhand strike — not lethal, but disabling.
The man dropped to his knees.
Another already filled his space.
The rain made everything slower.
Heavier.
More real.
Zeph felt the impact of a closed fist against his rib.
Another on the clavicle.
Nothing that broke.
Enough to remind him he was not untouchable.
He answered with a full turn.
The staff swept low in an arc, catching two ankles.
One fell.
The other managed to keep his base.
He advanced with a direct strike, almost military.
Zeph trapped the arm, rotated his body, and broke the elbow alignment.
The scream was short.
Muffled.
More steps.
More shadows.
Blackthrone did not retreat.
They adapted.
Zeph spat water from his mouth.
The tower was still there.
But now, to reach it, he would have to go through all of them.
And they knew it.
The steps stopped.
Not because they had halted.
Because they had closed the circle.
One of the assassins took half a step forward.
The voice came low, effortless, cutting through the rain.
"You will not enter the tower."
A slight tilt of the head.
"You will die here. Alone."
The circle tightened.
Zeph looked around.
Shadows.
Blades.
Contained breaths.
Then he smiled.
Not wide.
Not confident.
A minimal smile.
Almost intimate.
And, for an instant, the courtyard vanished.
The stone ground became packed earth. The rain became suspended dust. The weight of the staff changed in his hands.
"Base."
Karna's voice did not come from outside.
It came from the body.
"When there are many, strength doesn't matter."
A dry shove to the back.
Zeph stumbled.
Missed.
Fell.
"What matters is where you place your feet."
Feet adjusting.Knees bent.Hips loose.
"And the rhythm."
Attacks came in sequence.
Too fast.
Disordered.
Zeph tried to follow.
Reacted.
Always arrived late.
The impact came.
"The moment you start fighting on their time…"
A blow to the chin.Another to the ribs.
"…the fight is over."
Silence.
Karna in front of him.
Still.
Waiting.
"You don't follow the enemy."
Zeph breathed deep.
Felt the weight of his own body.
The ground.
The axis.
"You impose yours."
The world returned.
The rain.
The courtyard.
The blades.
Zeph adjusted his feet.
One short step.Another.
The staff turned in his hands, not as threat — as continuity.
The smile vanished.
"Try," he said, low.
And moved.
The first assassin came in low.
Short blade, clean trajectory, aiming for the leg.
Zeph rotated his hip before the strike arrived.
The staff dropped in a short arc, meeting the assassin's wrist with a dry snap — bone gave — and the body was pulled forward by its own attack.
Zeph did not finish.
Another was already there.
The wind contracted around the staff, not visible — felt.
A lateral step.
A minimal turn.
The staff split in motion.
Both ends advanced together.
One strike hit the throat.The other drove under the rib.
There was no time to scream.
Air displaced on impact, pushing the body backward as if it had misjudged its own weight.
But the circle did not open.
They advanced.
Three.Five.Ten.
Blades crossed trajectories.One jumped too high — a distraction.Another came from the flank, low, almost crawling.
Zeph felt the wind change.
Not by choice.
By pressure.
He raised the staff in time to deflect a blow that would have opened his shoulder.
The impact drove his arm back.
Pain.Real.
The wind answered too late.
A blade cut the forearm.
Another grazed the side of his torso.
Blood mixed with rain.
They learned.
Blackthrone did not advance as a mass. They advanced in waves.
While one attacked, another already filled the space left behind. When the wind pushed, they yielded. When it ceased, they pressed.
Zeph stepped back twice.
Breathed.
The air compressed around his body — not as brute power, but as continuity.
Each movement already preparing the next.Each strike born from the previous position.
The wind began to follow the staff.
It did not push.
It cut.
One assassin had his chest opened without direct contact. Another lost balance when the ground seemed to vanish beneath his feet.
But they did not stop.
One fell.
Two took his place.
Another emerged behind.
The wind deflected a blade by centimeters.
Centimeters that cost breath.
Zeph turned, staff now short, striking in sequence — clavicle, knee, base of the skull.
Bodies fell.
More came.
The courtyard was no longer space.
It was friction.
And even with the wind singing around him, Zeph understood:
They were not trying to defeat him quickly.
They were trying to tire him.
His left foot traced half an arc on the wet ground.
The body followed.
The wind reacted in the same instant — not as explosion, but as containment.
Short currents closed around him, deflecting blades, breaking angles, forcing assassins to retreat half a step before even attacking.
None of them fell.
But none could advance.
Zeph breathed once.
Low.
"I could use…" he murmured, more to himself than to the field.
He felt the vibrations again.
They did not come from the ground.
They came from the tower.
Irregular.
Intermittent.
As if something inside was detuning reality itself.
Using divine abilities now would not be strength.
It would be noise.
The wind held firm around his body.
Then his eyes caught something different.
Among the moving assassins, there was a figure standing still.
Watching.
The armor he wore resembled nothing common.
Silvered at the edges, fitted over the black of the uniform, it seemed an extension of the body itself — no gaps, no looseness.
Each plate reflected the rain's light in a restrained way, obedient, as if even the shine knew when to stop.
He did not advance.
Did not attack.
He waited.
And, for the first time since the fight began, Zeph felt something shift in the rhythm.
Not in the wind.
In the field.