A figure flew out of the shadows. Before any of the other assassins understood what had gone wrong, a head arced through the air, lifeless. Blanc gripped the threads, and with his immense physical strength, they might as well have been an unstoppable guillotine. Poison mist surged into his system, boiling him alive from the inside. His body screamed in agony, his breath faltered. All he wanted in that moment was to let go, to embrace the eternal darkness that licked at the corners of his vision.
But the weight on his back—growing heavier with every passing second—dragged him back. It reminded him of what mattered most. He clenched his teeth and flexed, turning the needles lodged in his flesh into shards of death that exploded in every direction. Blood streamed from his wounds as he dove into the shadows, using the trees around him as cover. Every second felt stretched into eternity, dripping with blood and dread.
Running was futile. The dome covering most of the forest ensured safety was nothing more than a cruel illusion. Six assassins remained, and killing just one had drained everything he had—physically and mentally.
"Running is futile," came a voice. Jovial. Mocking. A sound that had come to mean only one thing: dread.
The youth leaped down from the canopy and landed lightly in front of Blanc. Words were wasted here. Blanc acted. He kicked backward, shattering a tree trunk. Pivoting, he drove another kick into the falling trunk, sending it hurtling toward the youth. The air erupted with a thunderous explosion. Blanc didn't wait. He snatched splinters from the air and hurled them in five precise directions. Hidden assassins gasped as the shards found their marks.
But there was no pause. No reprieve. Blanc slammed into the youth, shoulder-first, like a predator on the brink. A father on his last stand. The youth staggered, reeling. Blanc seized his arms in an iron grip, locked them, and drove his boot into the youth's chest. Bones cracked. Crimson sprayed in all directions.
The scream began—but Blanc didn't let it finish. He shoved his hand into the youth's gaping mouth, silencing him. But then they came. Five figures lunged at him from all directions, their weapons gleaming like death itself.
Time slowed. His muscles burned, his vision blurred. He grabbed the youth by the neck and hurled him backward. The body smashed into two of the attackers, halting their advance. Flesh and bone disintegrated on impact, leaving only blood and mist.
But the other four struck. Blades sank into his flesh. Axes crushed bone. Daggers pierced deep, finding every weakness. They pinned him like a lifeless training dummy. Darkness crept into his vision. His golden core shattered. His blood vessels burst. Weakness consumed him.
Still, he forced his head up. His gaze locked onto the four figures, piercing through their visors and into the souls behind them. His lips curled, defiant, even as life slipped away.
"You'll pay," he rasped, his voice raw and broken. "All... of... you…"
"Don't finish him off. He'll be of better use now that we've grasped his fatal flaw," a cold, crisp voice—devoid of all emotion—blurred into Blanc's ears.
He tried to push the darkness away. He tried to stand. For Beth. He felt her stir awake, faintly, somewhere beyond the abyss. But the darkness swallowed him whole. Death's fleeting flirtation caught him, and he sank into stillness.
---
Time passed. The dark of night gave way to the pale light of dawn. Blanc stirred from unconsciousness, weak and broken, lying in a pool of his own blood. His body was on the verge of collapse. By all logic, he shouldn't even have been alive. Fear gripped his spine then, its cold, calloused hands dragging him into a realization so chilling it turned his insides over.
Beth.
The thought hit him like a hammer. Tears streamed down his face. Was she alive? He couldn't move to see. Couldn't even lift his head. Panic clawed at him, but he clenched his jaw and forced himself to remain still. Only thoughts that brought him closer to the truth mattered now.
When the sun reached its zenith, hanging above him like an emperor gazing down at a failure, sound returned to his ears. Slowly, light came into focus. The canopy above the forest was gone, burned to nothing. Blanc wished the lush green still covered the skies. At least then, he wouldn't have to stare at the mockery of the sun's light, exposing everything he had lost.
But wanting didn't make it so. The sun crept toward the horizon, and by the time it did, Blanc had gathered enough strength—what little was left of it—to sit up. A chill ran through him.
What should have been a sprawling forest was now barren ash. The blood pooling beneath him was the only trace of the battle. There wasn't a single drop of it belonging to the assassins he had fought. He couldn't understand. Had they erased everything? But why leave him alive?
He dragged his body upright, trembling. Behind him should have been the home he had shared with Beth for fifteen years. But there was nothing. Just an endless wasteland stretching to the horizon. The realization tore open old wounds, sending fresh blood splattering to the ground. He didn't want to believe it. He couldn't believe it. So he trekked forward.
Blood trailed behind him as he staggered through the grey ash and desert-brown sand, held upright only by sheer will and the desperate hope that this was all a nightmare. Just as the sun dipped below the horizon, sensation returned to his body. Pain. Blistering, searing, all-consuming pain. With no strength to resist, it crippled him. He collapsed face-first into the sand. Agony and tears carved thick veins around his temples. He wanted to scream, to release the torment, but the sobs caught in his throat, choking him.
Hours passed. His body convulsed and shivered. He begged for it to end. But it didn't. The night dragged on, and the pain persisted, relentless, unyielding. His psyche shattered, fragile as glass. His wounds burned as though a thousand insects gnawed at him with flaming pincers, biting endlessly.
He was lost. Broken. He couldn't tell where he was, who he was, or what he was supposed to do. At some point, everything blurred into a whirling purgatory.