The night was quiet, too quiet.
A silver moon hung over the valley fortress, its pale light spilling across half-built walls and newly dug trenches. The faint hum of crickets should have soothed weary soldiers, yet Eugene felt the silence as a weight.
He stood atop the watchtower, gazing down at the flickering torches below. The AI's mechanical whisper broke the calm.
[Alert: Unusual heat signatures detected. Multiple lifeforms approaching perimeter undetected. Estimated number: 7. Probability: Assassination squad – 89%.]
Eugene's lips curved into a thin smile. So, Ishida has chosen daggers over words.
Inside the barracks, Hiroshi awoke to Eugene's hand on his shoulder.
"My lord?" he murmured, rubbing his eyes.
"Assassins," Eugene whispered. "Wake the Silent Spears. Tonight, we hunt shadows."
Hiroshi's expression hardened instantly. Within moments, a dozen men slipped into armor and cloth, faces masked, weapons gleaming in the dark.
The assassins came like smoke—black-clad shinobi, blades curved and short, slipping over the outer wall with ropes and claws. Their steps were soundless, their eyes glinting like cold stars.
The first moved to slit a sentry's throat—only for his wrist to be caught mid-strike.
"Too slow," Eugene's voice murmured.
Steel flashed. The shinobi collapsed, throat cut by his own blade turned against him.
Chaos erupted. Shadows clashed in the moonlight as shinobi met Eugene's men in silence—no war cries, only the hiss of steel and the dull thud of bodies hitting earth.
Hiroshi dueled two assassins at once, his spear dancing like lightning. One shinobi leapt to his back, knife aimed at his neck—but Hiroshi spun, impaling him through the chest before kicking him off the spearhead.
"My lord!" Hiroshi shouted.
Eugene moved like water, katana whispering death with every arc. His AI calculated every strike, predicting the angle of enemy blades before they fell.
[Enemy stance detected. Counterstrike opening at 1.2 seconds. Execute diagonal slash—]
The shinobi lunged. Eugene's blade cleaved through his arm, then his neck in the same breath.
Blood sprayed like black ink across the dirt.
Three assassins circled Eugene, moving with eerie coordination. Kunai flew at his chest, his legs, his throat.
He caught one in his off-hand, deflected another with the katana, and sidestepped the third. His counterstrike left one shinobi's ribs shattered, his scream cut short as Eugene drove his blade through his heart.
The last two came together—one high, one low.
Eugene feigned retreat, then pivoted sharply. His sword split the first man's mask in half while his heel crushed the second's windpipe.
Both fell in silence.
When the last assassin fell, the fortress was still again. Torches flickered, illuminating bodies scattered across the ground. Not a single one of Eugene's Silent Spears had fallen.
Hiroshi wiped blood from his spear and spat. "Ishida grows desperate. He risks Takeda's wrath sending shinobi into his own vassal's fortress."
Eugene's eyes glinted cold in the moonlight. "Wrath requires proof. Ishida leaves no seal, no order written. He strikes from the dark, knowing Takeda cannot punish whispers."
The AI chimed:
[Surviving assassin captured. Probability of extracting confession: 61% through interrogation, 87% through psychological warfare.]
At Eugene's feet, one shinobi writhed—his leg broken, his arms bound. His mask had been torn away, revealing a young face twisted in pain.
Eugene crouched, meeting the man's gaze. "Tell me who sent you, and your death will be quick."
The shinobi spat blood. "We are shadows. We name no master."
Eugene's voice was calm, almost kind. "Then you will die a shadow, forgotten. But if you speak, I will carve your name on a shrine. You will live in memory, not in nothing."
The assassin's resolve wavered—but his lips stayed shut. Hiroshi raised his spear to end it.
Eugene lifted a hand. "No. We keep him. Shadows are patient. So am I."
As dawn rose, the fortress bustled again. New barricades were built, new patrols set. The men whispered of the midnight battle, awe in their voices.
"Assassins," one said. "And our lord cut them down like grass."
"A demon in human form," another muttered.
"A savior," countered a third.
The legend of Eugene grew with every retelling, each whisper a stone added to the monument of his reputation.
Yet in the great hall of Kai, Ishida smiled as though nothing had passed. His hands remained clean, his lips silent.
For now.
Eugene, sharpening his blade by lantern light, thought only one thing: If Ishida wants war in the shadows, then let him choke on darkness.