The morning was quiet, almost too quiet. The Revolutionaries' headquarters was lighter than usual—Dalren and his squad had set out the previous night, and both the commander and Smith had gone to the front lines for negotiations. Those who remained carried out their duties with the kind of restless calm that only came when too many strong figures were away.
It was in that fragile silence that the attack came.
A ripple in the air, like heat haze, swept through the courtyard. The Revolutionaries barely had time to register it before three dark figures emerged from the distortion. Their bodies were twisted and ink-like, the kind of shadows that clung too tightly to form. And then, stepping out behind them, came a figure in a bright pink mask, the cruel contrast almost mocking.
Her voice cut through the morning stillness.
"Where is your strongest fighter?"
The Revolutionaries froze, some gripping weapons, others staggering back. She didn't shout, didn't rage—her tone was casual, almost playful. But behind the mask, there was a promise of carnage.
At that moment, Smith's brother—a broad-shouldered warrior named Kaelen, the strongest among those left behind—stepped forward. He hefted a massive, spiked maul that looked capable of felling a small tree. His face was set in grim defiance, his presence steadying the trembling fighters around him.
"You're looking at him."
The masked woman tilted her head. "Perfect."
The shadow minions lunged first. Their movements were jagged, unnatural. The courtyard erupted into chaos as the Revolutionaries clashed with them, blades cutting through smoke-like bodies that reformed again and again. Screams and shouts tangled in the morning air.
Kaelen wasted no time—he let out a roar that shook the windows and charged straight at Pink Mask. He didn't feint or probe; his first attack was a declaration of war: a devastating overhead swing meant to crush her into the cobblestones.
Pink Mask didn't block. She flowed to the side. The maul struck the ground where she'd stood, and the impact was thunderous. Cobblestones shattered, erupting in a cloud of dust and debris, and a web of cracks shot across the courtyard. The force of the blow sent a tremor through the feet of every fighter present.
Before he could even wrench the weapon free, she was on him. Her thin, curved blade licked out like a serpent's tongue, aiming for the gap in his armor at the shoulder. Kaelen was surprisingly fast for his size; he abandoned the maul, dropping into a roll and coming up with a short-handled axe from his belt. He parried her next thrust, and the clash of steel sent a shower of orange sparks into the air.
"You're strong," she said, her voice amused even as she pressed the attack. Her strikes were a blur—high, low, at his throat, his knees. Each one was a pinpoint of lethal pressure he was forced to deflect. "But strength isn't enough."
He answered with a guttural shout and a sweeping axe blow that forced her to leap back. Seizing the opening, he reclaimed his maul with one mighty heave. Now with space, he began a relentless assault, using his weapon's incredible reach. He didn't just aim for her; he aimed for her space, destroying the environment around her. A bench splintered into kindling. A stone planter exploded into dust and petals. A supporting pillar for a nearby awning sheared in half with a sickening crunch, causing the roof to sag.
The Revolutionaries, inspired by his furious defense, fought with renewed vigor against the shadows. For a moment, it seemed the tide might turn.
But Pink was never in danger. She weaved through the destruction, a ribbon of death in the chaos. She used the debris he created—leaping onto a fractured wall, using a collapsing beam as a springboard to change angles. Her movements were economically perfect, expending no more energy than absolutely necessary.
The taunting ceased. Her playfulness vanished, replaced by a chilling focus. She saw the pattern in his rage, the micro-second of recovery after each titanic swing.
He brought the maul around in a wide, horizontal arc meant to bisect her. This time, she didn't dodge.
She dropped, sliding under the whistling weapon on the dust-covered stones. The wind of its passage whipped at her clothes. As she slid past him, her blade lashed out, not at his armored torso, but at the back of his knee. The strike was precise, severing tendon.
Kaelen roared, not in anger but in agony and surprise. His leg buckled. His immense momentum became his enemy, spinning him off balance.
It was the opening she needed.
Time seemed to slow. She rose from her slide in one fluid motion. Kaelen, stumbling, tried to bring his maul up to guard, but he was too slow, his weight on his wrong leg.
Her blade flashed once.
It wasn't a wild slash. It was a single, perfect, thrust. It slipped between two plates of his chest armor, piercing deep.
The roar died in his throat. The massive maul slipped from his grasp, hitting the stones with a final, dull clang. His body stiffened, his eyes wide with shock more than pain. He looked down at the slender blade buried in his chest, then back at the expressionless pink mask.
Pink Mask held the stance for a breath, then smoothly withdrew her blade. A torrent of crimson followed it, spilling across the shattered stones.
Time unfroze. Kaelen's knees gave way, and he collapsed onto the ruins he had created.
The Revolutionaries shouted his name, their voices breaking with grief and rage, their newfound hope extinguished in an instant. Pink stepped back, flicking the blood from her blade with a precise, dismissive snap of her wrist.
"One down," she murmured, her tone flat and bored.
The shadow minions, feeding on the despair, surged with renewed malice. The Revolutionaries began to fall one by one. Half of the crew was cut down in that morning massacre, their bodies left broken across the courtyard. The survivors fought with pure desperation, dragging comrades away, but there was no denying the devastation.
By the time Pink Mask finally sheathed her blade, the once-proud headquarters was reduced to blood and ruin. She turned her gaze to the trembling survivors.
"Tell your leaders," she said, her voice chilling in its calmness, "that they really expect to defeat us with all this weaklings."
With that, she and her shadows vanished into the morning mist, leaving only silence and the dead.