Saile pushed the heavy iron doors of the Black Market auction house closed behind him. The loud, angry shouts of the wealthy merchants and dangerous criminals faded away, completely muffled by the thick metal.
He stepped back out into the freezing, wet muck of the hidden sewer tunnel. The smell of raw sewage and stagnant water was terrible, but the cool night air felt incredibly good against his sweating face.
He reached over his shoulder, his fingers brushing against rough cloth.
The rusted, pitch-black blade was securely tied to his back.
He had just spent all nine of his hard-earned Weapon Fragments to buy it.
To anyone else in the world, the sword looked like a piece of burnt, worthless scrap metal pulled from a garbage fire.
But to Saile, it felt like carrying a solid block of dense lead.
"You actually bought it," Naicul whispered in Saile’s mind.
The ancient God sounded incredibly satisfied. His deep voice purred with dark, wicked pride.
"I honestly thought you would hesitate. But you claimed my broken sword. Once we reforge that rusty iron with the System, you will hold the most dangerous weapon in this pathetic world."
"It is incredibly heavy," Saile thought back.
He rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly at the strain. Even with his Level 22 physical strength, the corroded divine blade weighed down on him like a massive stone boulder.
"It feels like it is fighting me. Every time I take a step, the dark mana inside the iron tries to shock my skin."
"Of course it is fighting you," Naicul laughed coldly. "It is a divine artifact. It remembers the taste of God’s blood. It does not want to be held by a skinny, unawakened peasant. You have to force it to obey you. Show it who is the boss."
Saile climbed carefully out of the sewer tunnel, pushing a heavy iron grate aside.
He stepped out into a narrow, dark alley in the frontier city of Valerius. The night sky was pitch black, hiding the stars behind thick, gray clouds.
The city was still on total lockdown.
The Gold-Rank Church Executor was actively hunting him.
Saile could hear the loud, rhythmic marching of armored Church guards patrolling the main dirt roads just a few streets away. Bright orange torchlight flickered violently against the cold stone buildings.
"We need to get back to the safe house," Saile muttered softly to himself, pulling his dark stealth cloak tightly over his head. "I cannot stay out in the open. The Executor’s magical compass is still sweeping the city for dark mana."
"Then you better focus on your breathing," Naicul warned strictly. "Lock your mana core down tight. If a single drop of my EX-Rank energy leaks out into the air, that holy compass will snap right to our location."
Saile closed his eyes for a second.
He initiated the ancient, agonizing breathing technique Naicul had taught him earlier that day.
He breathed in slowly and deeply. He forced his chest muscles to contract inward, violently crushing his own mana core into a tiny, dormant point.
A sharp, hot pain spiked straight through his ribs.
He clamped his teeth together, swallowing a painful groan.
The breathing technique was pure physical torture, but it worked.
It completely hid his dark aura from the outside world.
Saile stuck to the deepest shadows of the alleys. He crept quietly behind ruined merchant stalls and leaped silently over low stone fences.
His Level 22 agility made him incredibly fast, but the rusted sword on his back made every single movement much harder.
The weapon was stubbornly heavy.
It pulled aggressively at his center of balance and forced his tired leg muscles to work twice as hard just to land a simple, quiet jump.
He sneaked across a quiet courtyard, hiding quickly behind a stack of rotting wooden barrels as a pair of guards walked past.
His heart hammered loudly in his ears.
The physical strain of holding the painful breathing technique while carrying the heavy, cursed blade was pushing him to his absolute limit.
Sweat poured down his face in thick rivers, stinging his brown eyes.
"Keep your focus," Naicul barked sharply in his mind. "Your heart rate is climbing too fast. The dark mana is pushing against your ribs. Squeeze it down!"
"I am trying," Saile thought back, gasping desperately for a tiny sliver of air.
"The sword... it is draining my stamina."
Saile pushed off the dirt ground, aiming for the roof of a low, flat bakery.
He planted his boot firmly against the brick wall, intending to execute a quick, smooth wall-run to escape the street level.
He pushed upward, his leg muscles firing perfectly.
But as he reached the very edge of the stone roof, the rusted black blade shifted awkwardly on his back.
A sudden, violent pulse of ancient dark magic shot directly out of the corroded iron.
It shocked Saile’s spine like a brutal bolt of cold lightning.
The unexpected pain caused his body to jerk wildly in mid-air.
Saile missed the edge of the roof completely.
His hands scraped uselessly against the rough stone.
He fell backward through the air, crashing heavily into the dirt alley below.
He hit the ground hard, rolling instantly onto his side to kill the falling momentum.
The heavy impact knocked the breath completely out of his lungs.
He gasped loudly, his chest expanding in a sudden, desperate reflex to find oxygen.
For a tiny, microscopic fraction of a second, the ancient breathing technique slipped.
Saile’s chest relaxed.
The crushed mana core opened up.
A thick, concentrated wisp of EX-Rank dark mana instantly leaked out of his body.
It floated up into the freezing night air like a drop of black ink spreading in clear water.
Saile immediately grabbed his chest and squeezed his muscles tight again, locking the core back down.
But the terrible damage was already done.
"You fool!" Naicul roared, his voice echoing with sudden, explosive panic. "The aura! You let the aura out!"
Saile scrambled quickly to his feet.
He looked around wildly.
The dark alley was completely quiet, but the air suddenly felt incredibly dense and heavy. The temperature plummeted to freezing in a single heartbeat.
"Run!" Naicul commanded. "They felt it! The compass found us!"
Saile sprinted down the narrow alley.
He pushed his Level 22 legs to their absolute maximum speed. The wind shrieked past his ears.
He needed to reach the safe house.
He needed to hide.
But as he turned the corner into a dead-end street, the shadows high above him moved.
They did not drop with loud shouts or heavy, clanking crashes.
They fell from the high stone rooftops with perfect, terrifying silence.
Four figures landed gracefully in the dirt, completely blocking the only exit out of the alley.
Saile skidded to a violent halt, kicking up a thick cloud of dry dust.
He stared at the men blocking his path.
They wore form-fitting, highly polished silver armor that gleamed faintly in the moonlight. Thick, dark cloaks hid their faces entirely.
Unlike the bulky, loud Church guards, these men were lean, fast, and completely silent.
They were the Gold-Rank Executor’s elite assassins.
The Hounds.
A glowing red System screen flashed instantly in front of Saile’s eyes.
[Target: Elite Church Assassin.]
[Level: 35.]
[Talent: B-Rank (Shadow Strike).]
[Threat Level: Extreme.]
"Level 35," Saile whispered, his chest tightening painfully.
"B-Rank assassination Talents," Naicul growled.
His ancient voice dripped with raw, burning hatred.
"These are not regular, stupid soldiers. They are highly trained killers. They specialize in hunting down Heretics in the dark."
Two more assassins dropped silently from the roof right behind Saile, completely cutting off his retreat.
He was entirely boxed into the dead-end alley.
There were six of them in total.
Six Level 35 killers against one exhausted, Level 22 boy.
The assassins did not speak a single word.
They did not demand his surrender or ask foolish questions.
They operated with cold, mechanical efficiency.
In perfect, terrifying unison, the six killers reached down to their belts.
They drew long, curved daggers.
The sharp blades did not glow with bright holy light.
Instead, the metal was coated entirely in a thick, sickly green liquid.
"Poison," Naicul warned sharply. "Do not let those blades scratch your skin. A single cut will paralyze your muscles and melt your blood."
Saile took a slow step back, but his back hit the solid stone wall of a locked building.
He was completely surrounded.
He reached slowly over his shoulder.
His fingers wrapped tightly around the cold, rough hilt of the rusted black blade.
He pulled the heavy weapon free from its cloth wrapping.
The corroded iron scraped loudly against the quiet night air.
Without his dark EX-Rank mana to fuel it, the divine weapon was just a heavy, blunt piece of rusty scrap.
It felt incredibly heavy in his tired hands.
His forearms ached deeply from the sheer weight of the metal.
The lead assassin tilted his head slightly.
He raised his poisoned dagger, pointing the sharp green tip directly at Saile’s heart.
The Hounds were unleashed.
The hunt was over.
"Get ready, boy," Naicul whispered coldly, the ancient God’s presence pressing heavily against the back of Saile’s skull.
"There is no more running. Tonight, we bathe in silver blood."
Saile gripped the heavy, rusty hilt tightly with both hands.
He lowered his stance, bending his knees, and braced himself for the absolute worst.