The Knife Market still burned. The stalls were charred husks, the cobblestones slick with blood. Bodies lay in grotesque piles—mercenaries, assassins, nameless killers who had come for gold and found only death.
And in the center of that ruin stood Ethan Cross.
His chest rose and fell like a war drum, dagger dripping crimson, his eyes fever-bright with the fury of Blood Vow. He had carved his way through the carnival, but the true slaughter had only just begun.
For now, the Blades had come.
The Four Blades
The Shadow stood foremost, mask gleaming with its single scar, his voice steady as eternity.
To his right, a giant clad in chainmail, wielding twin cleavers each the size of a man's arm. His mask bore horns, jagged and cruel. They called him The Ox.
To the left, a woman draped in silken black, her twin scimitars curved like a serpent's smile. Her mask was painted white, lips red. She was The Widow.
Behind them, silent as mist, knelt a figure whose presence felt like the absence of all sound. Daggers glimmered at every angle on his armor, his mask blank. He was The Wraith.
Four Blades. The Syndicate's executioners. The knives that cut empires apart.
Ethan tightened his grip. Marcus and Aria shifted beside him, pale but unbroken.
The Shadow raised his blade."Ethan Cross. You defied the Syndicate. You survived the carnival. Now you face judgment."
Steel and Blood
They struck as one.
The Ox thundered forward, cleavers crashing like boulders. Marcus braced, shield raised—and the impact nearly split him in half. He staggered, blood spraying from his mouth.
The Widow danced in, scimitars spinning in a blur. Aria barely leapt aside, one blade grazing her arm, blood welling instantly.
The Wraith was already gone, vanished into smoke. A dagger whispered across Ethan's throat—only his Shadow Sense saved him, twisting aside as steel kissed skin.
And then came the Shadow himself. His strike was precise, elegant, inexorable. Ethan blocked, sparks exploding, but the sheer weight of the blow rattled his bones.
Four Blades moved in deadly harmony, their rhythm flawless, each strike flowing into the next. It was not a battle. It was a symphony of death.
Blood Vow Ignites
Ethan roared, Blood Vow surging. His dagger blazed crimson as he drove it against the Ox's cleaver, forcing the giant back a step. He spun, slashing at the Widow, the strike grazing her shoulder.
The Widow hissed, eyes flashing. The Wraith's daggers flickered, barely deflected.
Marcus screamed as his shield finally shattered, wood and steel exploding under the Ox's weight. He staggered but swung his sword upward, carving a deep gash across the giant's leg.
Aria, bleeding, nocked one of her last arrows, channeling every shred of strength into the shot. It flew true, piercing the Widow's thigh. She shrieked, staggering, but her fury only grew.
The system burned in Ethan's skull:
[Enemy Class: Elite – Blades of the Syndicate][Survival Probability: 12%][Warning: Blood Vow nearing critical backlash.]
Ethan ignored it. He could not stop.
He would not stop.
The Butcher's Rage
The fight became madness.
Ethan's dagger sank into the Ox's arm, severing tendon. Blood gushed, but the giant swung back, cleaver tearing a gash across Ethan's ribs. Pain seared him, but Blood Vow devoured it, turning agony into fury.
The Widow's scimitars carved arcs of silver, each one singing for his flesh. Ethan ducked, rolled, came up behind her—and slashed her mask. It cracked, revealing one pale, furious eye.
The Wraith struck from the shadows again, dagger plunging toward Ethan's spine. This time, Ethan twisted and caught his wrist, snapping bone with a savage wrench. The Wraith hissed, inhumanly silent, fading back into the dark.
The Shadow remained calm amidst it all, every strike patient, every movement perfect. He did not tire. He did not falter. His mask tilted as he watched Ethan fight like a demon.
"You are wasting yourself," the Shadow murmured between blows. "The Syndicate does not kill men like you. It consumes them."
Ethan's dagger clashed with his blade, sparks showering between them. His voice was raw with defiance."Then choke on me."
The Turning Point
Marcus fell to his knees, blood soaking his armor. The Ox raised both cleavers, ready to split him in two.
"Marcus!" Ethan roared.
He lunged, body screaming as Blood Vow drained him near death. His dagger streaked upward, plunging into the Ox's throat. The cleavers froze mid-swing. The giant gurgled, collapsed like a mountain breaking apart.
The system howled:
[Elite Kill Confirmed – The Ox][Blood Surge: Strength +30% for 60 seconds]
Power flooded Ethan, fire and ice in his veins.
The Widow screamed in fury, charging. Aria's arrow pierced her other thigh, slowing her for a heartbeat—just enough for Ethan's dagger to slash across her belly. She stumbled back, entrails spilling, shrieking until the Wraith dragged her into the shadows.
The battlefield shifted.
Only two Blades remained.
The Wraith, crippled but alive.The Shadow, untouched, calm, inevitable.
The Shadow Stands Alone
The Shadow stepped forward, his blade dripping red. His voice was quiet, but it silenced even the dying screams.
"You've killed my Blades, Ethan Cross. That is no small feat. But it changes nothing."
He lifted his weapon, stance flawless."I am the First Blade. The Syndicate's will. You will fall."
Ethan's dagger trembled in his hand. Blood Vow seared his veins, threatening to burn him alive. Marcus lay barely breathing. Aria clutched her bleeding arm, too weak to draw another arrow.
And yet Ethan stood, dagger raised, eyes burning with oath and fury.
"Then come and try."
The Shadow smiled beneath the mask."With pleasure."