The academy fell into its usual nocturnal rhythm as the evening hours deepened into full night. Most students had retired to their dormitories after completing their studies, while the night watch began their regular patrols of the grounds. The ancient stones seemed to exhale the day's accumulated warmth, creating gentle drafts that stirred the tapestries hanging in the corridors.
Yoshua had finally managed to fall asleep. His dreams were troubled, filled with visions of burning cities and fallen crowns that he had learned to endure as another aspect of his curse. In the depths of sleep, he could almost ignore the whispers of destiny that plagued his waking hours.
Two floors below his room, the academy's main entrance stood beneath the watchful eyes of the night guards.
Willem stood at his post near the great oak doors, while Garrett patrolled the nearby corridors with measured steps. The routine was familiar and comfortable, broken only by the occasional late-returning professor or the need to investigate some minor disturbance. Neither man expected this night to be different from any other.
They were wrong.
The first sign of danger came not as a sound or movement, but as an absence – a subtle wrongness in the familiar atmosphere of the academy's entrance hall. Willem frowned, his hand instinctively moving to the sword at his side as he tried to identify the source of his unease.
A figure materialized from the shadows near the stairs, moving with fluid grace that spoke of extensive training in the arts of stealth and murder. The assassin wore dark clothing that seemed to drink in the moonlight streaming through the windows, and their face was hidden behind a mask of black silk.
Willem had time to draw breath for a shout of alarm before a blade found the gap between his ribs, piercing his heart with surgical precision. He collapsed without a sound, his life's blood pooling on the marble floor as his killer stepped over his body with casual indifference.
Garrett heard nothing amiss from his position in the eastern corridor, but years of military training had taught him to trust his instincts. Something felt wrong, though he could not yet identify the threat. He began to make his way back toward the main entrance, his hand resting on his sword.
"But how could these two scoundrels get in here when the academy is shielded by a magic barrier strong enough to deter an entire army?"
The second assassin had been waiting in an alcove, patient as a spider in its web. As Garrett passed, a garotte wire whispered around his throat, cutting off his air and his ability to cry out. He struggled briefly, his hands clawing at the merciless cord, but his attacker was skilled and strong. Within moments, Garrett's body went limp and was carefully lowered to the floor.
The two killers met in the entrance hall, communicating through subtle hand gestures that spoke of extensive training and coordination. They wore identical masks and clothing, making them appear almost like shadows given human form. Their movements were economical and purposeful as they made their way deeper into the academy.
They navigated the corridors with the confidence of those who had studied the building's layout extensively. Past the library they went, beyond the lecture halls and faculty offices, until they reached the residential wing where the students slept peacefully in their beds.
They climbed the stairs without a sound, their soft-soled boots making no whisper against the stone steps.
In her room adjacent to Yoshua's, Mia Blackwood sat at her small writing desk, working by the light of a single candle as she penned a letter to her family back home. The daughter of a minor lord from the kingdom's southern provinces, she had earned her place at the academy through exceptional intelligence and fierce determination. Her sharp mind and fearless pursuit of truth had made her both respected and, unknown to her, marked for death.
One month earlier, she had stumbled upon evidence of corruption that reached into the highest levels of Gloria's nobility. Count Aldwin Ravencrest, whose lands bordered the academy grounds, had paid substantial bribes to ensure his son's admission despite the young man's obvious lack of qualification. The bribes had gone not just to academy officials, but to members of the royal court itself.
She had share the information to several men, and it succeeded in creating buzz about this to undermine the prestige of Count Ravencrest, who was part of the prince's faction in the palace. She had no way of knowing that her discovery had already been reported to those involved in the conspiracy, or that her death warrant had been signed by men who viewed her as nothing more than an inconvenient obstacle to their continued prosperity.
A soft sound in the corridor outside caught her attention – barely more than a whisper of fabric against stone. Mia paused in her writing, listening intently. The academy's night sounds were familiar to her after three years of residence, and this was something different.
She rose from her desk and moved quietly to her door, pressing her ear against the polished wood. For a moment, there was only silence. Then she heard it again – the faintest suggestion of footsteps moving with deliberate stealth.
Fear began to bloom in her chest as she realized the implications. If her investigation had indeed attracted dangerous attention, she might be in immediate peril. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the door's heavy bolt, sliding it home with a soft click that sounded thunderous in the quiet of her room.
The precaution came too late.
The assassin had already reached her door, within moments, the bolt slid back with barely a whisper of sound.
Mia heard the soft click and felt her blood turn to ice. She looked around her room desperately, searching for a weapon or means of escape. The window was too high and narrow to provide a viable exit, and her few possessions included nothing that could serve as an effective weapon against trained killers.
The door swung open silently, revealing two figures that seemed to have stepped from her worst nightmares. The assassin entered her room with fluid grace, their masked faces turning toward her with predatory focus.
"Please," she whispered, knowing even as she spoke that no appeal to mercy would stay their hands. "I don't know what you want, but—"
The assassin moved with inhuman speed, a blade appearing in their hand as if conjured from shadow itself. Mia tried to dodge, but there was nowhere to go in the confines of her small room. The steel found her throat with clinical precision, ending her words and her life in the same terrible instant.
She fell backward across her bed, her final letter scattered by the movement of her body. Blood spread across the simple white sheets as her killer stood over their work with professional detachment.
At that time, another assassin silently crept into the room while Yoshua slept, moving like a shadow through the darkness. Their footsteps made no sound on the cold stone floor, years of training evident in every carefully placed step. The moonlight filtering through the narrow window cast pale silver across the sparse furnishings, creating a maze of shadows that concealed the killer's approach.
Yoshua lay motionless on his narrow bed, his breathing deep and even, completely unaware of the danger that now loomed over him.
In almost an instant, the killer had drawn a short sword from beneath their dark cloak and pressed it close to Yoshua's throat.
But Yoshua's eyes snapped open just as the steel kissed his skin, and he suddenly jerked awake and rolled to the side, escaping death by a hair's breadth.
The assassin cursed silently. Before Yoshua could even fully register his close call, he immediately locked Yoshua's neck with their free arm, iron-strong fingers crushing against his windpipe. The young man gasped and struggled, but the killer's grip was relentless. They positioned the sword carefully, angling the point to stab straight into his heart with surgical precision.
But then from the void above, a sharp, cold sound suddenly rang out, like metal being torn from reality itself. The air seemed to shiver and part as from a point in mid-air, a streak of pure silver light manifested – long and thin like a sword blade – slicing downward and flying straight toward the assassin's head with deadly intent.
The killer's eyes widened in shock and disbelief. He recoiled instinctively, hastily releasing Yoshua to dodge the mystical projectile. The silver streak passed so close to their face that they could feel its otherworldly coldness against their skin.
At that moment, two more streaks of brilliant light appeared in the air above him, materializing from nothingness, flying toward the assassin in rapid succession with trajectories perfectly calculated to cut off any avenue of escape.
The assassin's training kicked in, and they growled under their breath: "Flying swords?! What manner of sorcery is this?" Without hesitation, they drew out a curved dao blade from their belt, its dark steel contrasting sharply with the ethereal weapons that threatened them.
The battle that followed lasted only ten seconds, but in that brief span, hundreds of sparks had already scattered through the air above them. Steel met supernatural force in a display of incredible speed and skill. The assassin's swords moved in desperate arcs, deflecting the mystical projectiles that seemed to attack from impossible angles. Each clash sent cascades of silver fire through the small room, illuminating the deadly dance with otherworldly light.
Just as the assault reached its crescendo, the second assassin arrived, moving like a phantom without shadow or trace, with presence barely disturbing the air as they glided across the room. While their companion battled the mysterious flying swords, they closed in on the stunned Yoshua, their own blade gleaming as they thrust straight toward his heart with lethal precision.
A perfectly timed thrust from the first assassin slipped under his guard, the blade punching through his ribs to find his lung. He gasped, blood frothing at his lips as he fell to his knees.
The wound was mortal, he realized with strange detachment. The blade had found something vital, and he could feel his strength ebbing away like water from a broken vessel. The sacred flame still burned within him, but even its power could not overcome the reality of steel in his flesh.
The assassins stood over him with professional satisfaction, watching as their target collapsed onto the stone floor of his room. Blood spread in a growing pool beneath his body, and his breathing became increasingly labored as his punctured lung filled with fluid.
"It's done," one of them spoke for the first time, their voice muffled by the silk mask. "Should we go brothel for relief tonight? hehe."
They began to withdraw from the room, confident that their work was complete. No one could survive such a wound, and even if help arrived within minutes, it would be too late to save their victim's life.
But as they reached the doorway, something unprecedented began to occur
The flame within Yoshua's chest, which had burned steadily throughout his life, suddenly erupted with power that dwarfed anything he had experienced before. The divine fire, faced with the imminent death of its chosen vessel, refused to allow its instrument to perish before his destined purpose was fulfilled.