Darkness swallowed everything.
No light. No shadows. Only a dense void pressing against the eyeballs.
Luka's breath hitched at the base of his throat. His stomach pressed against the wet, ice-cold limestone floor. The sparks from the impact of Brog's axe on the cave wall had died, leaving the scent of scorched s tone and sour sweat in the air. This darkness was not merely the absence of light. This was a sensory prison. The place where The Hollow Syndicate tore their prey's sanity before slitting their veins.
His ears took over, replacing the role of blind eyes.
The sound of dripping water. Drip. Drip. The echo of heavy footsteps shifting to his left. The sound of coarse cloth scraping against the cave wall. Heavy breaths pumping lungs in a cramped space.
Not one person. Three different breaths existed around him.
His street instinct thrashed. The prince's ego, demanding an honorable duel with drawn swords, had died, strangled by the dark. On muddy streets, the first rule of survival was shattering the opponent's knees from behind. No time to think about an upright posture. Survival was the purest language of violence.
The bare fingers of his left hand crawled fast, scavenging the cave floor and sweeping the rough rocky surface. His nails gathered sharp-edged limestone fragments left over from the wall impact earlier. He scooped a handful of pointed gravel. The small stones pressed into his palm until it bled.
The air to his right parted. The sound of a heavy object slicing the wind.
Luka rolled to the left. His stomach scraped roughly against the ice.
Crash.
The weapon struck the floor where he lay a split second ago. Stone fragments flew hitting the side of his face. Scratching his pale skin.
Luka did not stand. He remained ducking. Relying on his knees and one hand as a support. His arm muscles tensed. He threw the sharp gravel in his grip scattered toward the source of the heaviest snorting breath. A blind attack designed to provoke a reaction.
The sound of pierced flesh echoed. A small groan shattered the silence. Someone cursed filthy in the cave corner. Their blind spot disturbed by a cheap street throw.
Luka exploited that crucial gap. His hand crawled down to his right calf. His fingers slipped behind the fold of his worn leather boot. Drawing a span-long hunting dagger. Filthy iron lacking elegant carvings. A hidden weapon never taught by any palace sword master.
Heavy footsteps charged forward. Brog. The stocky man cared not for the gravel throw. His massive body charged piercing the pitch black, bringing his weapon swinging horizontal.
Luka caught the air pressure shift. The scent of rusted copper invaded his smell. He lowered his head extremely low. The heavy weapon passed one inch above his hair. Bringing pure killing intent. An odd hiss came from that weapon as it cleaved the wind. Not blacksmith-forged metal. That was the sound of solid bone cleaving the air. Brog's own arm bone mutated into a giant axe blade due to the release of Soul Energy.
Luka pushed his body forward. Slamming his shoulder toward Brog's large gut.
A hard impact occurred. Flesh met thick muscle. Brog was only pushed back half a step. The giant man's breath spewed rough, his neck veins tensed enduring wrath. His bone axe was too long and rigid for combat this close. Brog discarded distance. His remaining normal left hand hooked fast. Locking Luka's cloth-wrapped right arm. Brog's right hand mutated into an axe raised by force in a narrow space, pinning Luka's neck.
Luka thrust his dagger from below.
The short iron pierced the skin of Brog's gut. Tearing the protective fat layer. Warm blood spurted heavy soaking Luka's fist. The metallic tang of internal organs radiated sharp.
Brog groaned muffled. The pain did not make the man run. Brog's killing instinct instead exploded. Brog's left hand tightened its grip. Crushing Luka's cloak collar and chest at once. Slamming Luka's back against the uneven limestone cave wall.
A strangling dead lock.
Luka's ribs crunched squeezed by Brog's feral strength. The stench of breath smelling of rotting meat struck his face. His lungs failed to expand. Air squeezed completely from his chest.
"Defective prince." Brog's voice slit the ears. "I will snap your neck."
Brog's grip tightened further. Pressing the scaled red muscles behind Luka's right arm cloth. The bone axe blade from Brog's arm pressed the side of Luka's neck, scratching his pale skin until fresh blood flowed down soaking his collarbone.
Pain crawled. His collarbone screamed. If he let this lock hold for five more seconds, his veins would be severed and his ribs crushed.
Luka could not use his dagger anymore. His left hand pinned between their chests. Darkness swallowed everything. He could not see vital points.
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His palace ego demanded he rebel with pure strength. Demanded he use elegant Soul Energy. Yet, his muscles were not massive enough to fight this stocky monster. Knight stances did not apply when your neck was pinned by a bone axe in a lightless void.
He had to discard his sanity.
Luka rotated his left shoulder hinge. By force. In the opposite direction of normal human anatomy. Forcing his striated muscles to work beyond design limits.
Cartilage rubbed roughly. The veins around his shoulder pulled taut to their maximum limit. He pressed his heel against the stone wall, providing extra repulsive force to ruin his own body.
Crack.
The sound of bone shifting from its joint socket echoed loudly. Wet. Sickening.
Agony exploded at the base of his brain. His vision whited out for a moment, enduring pure suffering. Cold sweat seeped instantly, soaking the bandages on his face. His left shoulder joint dislocated, detaching completely from its supporting cavity.
His left arm elongated unnaturally. Brog's lock on his left chest suddenly loosened because Luka's shoulder collapsed inward.
Brog fell silent for one second. His brain failed to process the sound of a dislocating bone done on purpose by his target. What prince tore his own joint in a fight?
That one second was a death gap.
Luka used that leeway. His freed right hand immediately moved up. The scaled red veins behind his bandages throbbed pumping predator strength. He thrust his stiff fingers straight up. Aiming for the stocky neck before him.
His fingers embedded into Brog's Adam's apple. Pressing the man's airway extremely hard. His fingernails pierced the skin.
Brog choked. His grip released spontaneous. The man's body staggered backward seeking oxygen. His bone axe shifted from Luka's neck.
Luka fell to the stone floor. Landing resting on his knees. His left arm hung defective at his side. The pain tortured his sanity. He fought a groan. His molars clashed until his gums bled.
He twisted his body. Swinging his right leg from below. Kicking Brog's shin with all his might.
Brog collapsed kneeling. His hands gripped his own neck. Coughing vomiting black blood onto the floor.
Luka rose. Standing towering before the stocky man in the middle of the pitch black.
"Wild dog." Brog vomited blood onto the stone floor. His voice hoarse. A twitch at the corner of his lips revealed an ego torn seeing his opponent willing to crawl on the floor for a gap. "Your fighting style... where is your palace sword, Prince? Ulric truly ruined your brain. You fight dirtier than a sewer rat."
Luka kicked Brog's jaw.
The man's head launched backward. The sound of a cracking neck rang loud. His body collapsed striking the cave floor. Dead. Luka did not care. His gut churned hungry. His monster flesh thrashed wanting to tear the corpse's chest and siphon its soul. He held it back. His target was not this pawn. His strength had to be saved for the leader.
He held his numb left arm with his right hand. Taking a deep breath. Finding the right joint angle. Ignoring the blood dripping from his temple.
He rotated his shoulder, then pushed the arm joint back in brutally.
Crack.
The joint returned to its cavity. Agony stabbed his solar plexus. He hunched over, vomiting acidic fluid onto the cave wall. His lungs roared hunting oxygen. His body trembled enduring nerve shock. Yet his arm functioned again. He squeezed his fist to restore blood flow.
Silence froze inside the tunnel.
Several other assassins hiding in the pitch-black corners held their breaths. They smelled Brog's blood. They heard the sound of a bone broken and reattached by force. That psychological horror paralyzed their intent to advance. This target was no fragile noble. This was a street predator willing to tear his own body to win.
Rhea stepped slow approaching from behind. No wounds on the woman's body. Darkness was never an obstacle for the eyes of a maid who always moved in the shadow of death.
Without warning, sparks ignited.
One torch on the cave wall lit bright. Followed by a second torch. A third.
Orange fire spread in succession. Illuminating the long limestone tunnel. Bright light struck Luka's corneas. He narrowed his eyes. Adjusting his vision.
Brog sprawled beneath his boots. Blood pooled from the stocky man's gut and head. The man's right arm slowly shrank, returning from a bone axe form into a normal human form smeared with blood and bile. At the end of the tunnel, two assassins stood petrified. Their daggers lowered. Their faces pale seeing their strongest comrade destroyed in the filthiest street manner.
Luka stood straight. Ignoring the ache in his left shoulder. His eyes locked onto the end of the cave opening wide forming a massive hall blanketed in phosphor moss. The hall radiated a horrific aura. Dense Soul Energy pressed the chest of anyone approaching.
The sound of clapping echoed.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
A slow tempo. Highly demeaning. Deliberately provoking wrath.
At the end of that hall, atop a throne composed of hundreds of rusted weapons, a figure sat cross-legged. His body gaunt and dry. His arms elongated abnormal. His arm bones curved defective mimicking the shape of a bird of prey's claws. His nails pitch-black as sharp as knives. His face pale turning blue. A mutation form from the Threshold of Echo pressing sanity.
Silas.
The leader of The Hollow Syndicate stared at Luka from atop his throne. Silas's eyes swept Luka's filthy body, the shoulder trembling enduring pain, and Brog's corpse beneath his shoes. Lacking a single speck of fear or respect in his eyes. The man displayed the arrogant aura of a merchant calculating the selling value of scrap metal.
Silas stopped clapping. His black nails tapped the rusted metal backrest. The tapping sound dominated the hall, killing the sound of dripping water.
"A highly sickening fighting style," Silas's voice hissed. Bouncing off the stalactite ceiling. The defective man leaned his body forward, staring at Luka as if staring at an earthworm. "I thought I would be visited by a throne heir prince from the grand Reinhardt bloodline today. Someone who knew how to hold a sword with honor."
Silas smiled cynical. His rows of filth-smeared teeth visible clear.
"Turns out... only a defective prince who has lost his sanity.”