Night settled over Mondholz like a heavy velvet curtain. The manor stood calm beneath the starlit sky, glowstones dimmed to a softer hue, their light pooling quietly against stone walls and carved wood.

  Most of the household had retired.

  But not all.

  On an open balcony overlooking the courtyard, Cilian stood with one hand resting lightly on the stone railing. The air was cool, carrying faint traces of river mist and distant timber. Beside him stood Vel Auilinwood, posture straight, hands folded behind her back, gaze sweeping the darkened town beyond.

  For a time, neither spoke.

  Then Vel exhaled softly. “She doesn’t fit.”

  Cilian did not look at her. “That’s vague.”

  “You know exactly who I mean.”

  His fingers tapped once against the stone before going still. “Xulian.”

  Vel nodded.

  “She is, by every measurable standard, inconsistent,” Vel continued. “Her level is low. Modest. Yet she performs far beyond it. Reaction speed. Combat instincts. Emotional control. Even under pressure.”

  Cilian’s jaw shifted slightly. “You mean in the dungeon.”

  “I do.” Vel’s voice remained even. “And I saw her tonight at dinner.”

  He glanced at her now.

  Vel’s gaze sharpened. “Her posture. Her utensil control. The pacing of her bites. The silence. The restraint. That was not an imitation.”

  “No,” Cilian agreed quietly.

  “That was noble training.”

  The words lingered between them.

  Cilian leaned back slightly against the railing. “Many nobles train their children.”

  “Not like that.” Vel’s voice cut cleanly. “That was not provincial refinement. That was court-level conditioning. Years of instruction.”

  “And yet,” Cilian said, “she acts as though it is nothing.”

  “Exactly.”

  Vel turned toward him fully now. “It was natural. Not performed. She doesn’t even seem aware of it.”

  Cilian’s gaze drifted back toward the courtyard below.

  “A lost noble daughter?” Vel mused. “Trained in etiquette. Combat-capable. Disciplined. Then somehow separated from her lineage?”

  “Maybe,” Cilian replied.

  Vel studied him. “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “I don’t need to know her origin to judge her character.”

  Vel’s brow lifted faintly. “That’s na?ve.”

  “It’s intentional.”

  The word held weight.

  “She has never endangered us,” Cilian continued. “She has never lied when directly questioned. And she has acted to protect others more than once.”

  “She hides things.”

  “So do we.”

  That silenced Vel for a moment. The night deepened around them. The glowstones flickered faintly as the breeze shifted.

  Vel’s voice softened slightly. “I am not accusing her. I am… concerned.”

  “For her?” Cilian asked.

  “For all of us. She seems unaware of many things. Yet knows more than is normal.”

  Cilian turned to face her fully now.

  “She is strong,” he said evenly. “Stronger than she should be at her level. She functions under pressure with almost unnatural composure. Yes, her etiquette suggests a noble upbringing. Yes, she acts like it’s instinct.”

  He paused.

  “But whatever she is, she chose to stand with us.”

  Vel held his gaze.

  “And I will protect those under my command,” Cilian finished.

  There was no bravado in the statement. Just a fact.

  Vel studied him carefully. “You’ve decided.”

  “Yes.”

  “Even if her past is dangerous?”

  His eyes did not waver. “Then I will stand between it and her.”

  Silence settled again. Then Vel stiffened. The air felt… wrong. Too still. Cilian noticed it a heartbeat later. No wind, no shifting leaves, not even a distant insect hum. The night had gone unnaturally quiet.

  Vel’s eyes narrowed. “Do you hear that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing.”

  Their gazes snapped toward the courtyard. Shadows moved. Not natural shadows. Not cast by lantern light. But figures. Clad in black, hugging walls and slipping over the outer boundary like ink bleeding across parchment.

  Vel’s voice dropped to a whisper. “How many?”

  “Eight. No—ten.”

  Cilian focused, his vision sharpening as one of the figures briefly crossed beneath a beam of glowstone light.

  A translucent window flickered into his sight.

  [Level 45 / Main Class: Assassin / Sub Class: Shadow Mage / Title: Shadow Assassin]

  Cilian’s expression hardened instantly.

  Vel saw it. “What?”

  “Level forty-five,” he replied quietly. “Shadow Assassin.”

  Vel’s breath caught. “They’re not here to scout.”

  “No.”

  The figures split, movements precise and coordinated.

  “Wake the others,” Cilian ordered immediately.

  Vel did not argue.

  “What about you?” she asked sharply.

  “I’ll intercept,” he said.

  That was enough. Vel turned and vanished into the interior corridor, boots silent against stone.

  Cilian did not hesitate. He stepped onto the balcony railing. Then dropped. The descent was controlled, coat snapping once in the air before he landed in the courtyard below with a muted impact, blade already forming in his grip as shadows began to shift toward him.

  ***

  Xulian’s mental space fractured without warning.

  One moment, she was standing in the vast white expanse, sword moving in steady arcs through still air. The next— Something tugged at her awareness. It was wrong.

  Her swing halted mid-motion. The white space trembled faintly around her.

  Too quiet.

  She opened her eyes.

  Darkness greeted her. The shared room was still. Lilian slept peacefully beside her, breathing slowly and evenly. But the world outside the room felt… tense.

  Ever since her breakthrough, her spiritual sense had sharpened. Not fully refined, not mastered, but sharper than before.

  And right now, it brushed against something foreign. Cold and moving with an unwelcome intent.

  Her gaze shifted toward the door. She could feel them. Multiple signatures. Suppressed, but not invisible.

  Guests, she thought dryly. Uninvited ones.

  Carefully, she rose from the bed without waking Lilian. Her hand reached for the sword. The blade felt steady in her grip, familiar despite its recent arrival in her life.

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  With no hesitation, she moved to the door and opened it just enough to slip into the hallway. The corridor was dimly lit by distant glowstones, leaving many areas darkened by shadows.

  Xulian shifted her stance just as a window along the hallway slid open with practised silence. One figure slipped through. Then another. Then two more.

  They landed lightly on the corridor floor, dressed in dark cloth, faces partially veiled. One of them straightened and turned— And froze.

  Xulian stood three paces away, sword resting casually at her side. They stared at her. She stared at them. One of the intruders slowly glanced at the others. Another blinked. All four looked back at her in unison.

  For a suspended, ridiculous heartbeat, no one moved.

  …Really? Xulian thought flatly.

  One of them made a small hand signal. They attacked.

  Steel flashed in the dim corridor, short blades angling for speed rather than power. Their footwork was coordinated, meant to overwhelm quickly and quietly.

  Xulian stepped back, raising her sword.

  Their levels flickered at the edge of her perception.

  [Level 17]

  [Level 19]

  [Level 15]

  [Level 20]

  Manageable. She could end this instantly with qi. She didn’t.

  No.

  If she was going to walk the path of the sword, she needed to stop hiding behind the system’s crutch. Her skill activated reflexively.

  [Nine-Lotus Sword Art (Unique)]

  The technique flowed into her mind. Angles. Timing. Optimal counters.

  But this time, she did not allow her body to surrender completely to it. She halted just before she felt the Qi drain to activate the skill.

  She moved. And it was wrong.

  Her foot placement lagged a fraction behind the ideal. Her wrist angle was slightly off. The blade met the first dagger with a jarring scrape that vibrated up her arm.

  So this is what it feels like without autopilot.

  The second attacker lunged from her flank. She twisted awkwardly, parrying too high. A third blade grazed her sleeve, slicing cloth.

  Damn it… This is from Vel!

  She clicked her tongue in annoyance.

  Fine. Again.

  She forced herself to think through the motion instead of letting the system dictate it. Step. Pivot. Redirect. The next clash rang cleaner. Her breathing steadied.

  The corridor narrowed the engagement. Only two could press her at once. The other two circled, waiting for openings.

  Remembering Cilian and his domineering sword strikes in the dungeon, she made a choice. She advanced instead. That surprised them.

  Her blade swept low, forcing one back. She shifted her weight deliberately this time, copying the motion the skill had shown her but executing it through her own muscles.

  It was less efficient. But it was hers.

  A dagger thrust toward her ribs.

  She rotated her wrist, deflected, and followed through with a shallow cut across the attacker’s forearm. He hissed and staggered.

  Better.

  Her movements smoothed with each exchange.

  The system continued to feed her the blueprint, but now she adjusted it. Shortened a step. Altered the angle. Felt the weight of the blade instead of merely knowing where it should go.

  One fell first.

  A clean thrust through the chest after she baited an overextension.

  The second rushed in anger. She sidestepped, slightly too slow, felt the whisper of steel against her shoulder, then drove her elbow into his jaw before finishing with a diagonal slash.

  The third hesitated.

  That hesitation cost him. Her blade flicked upward, precise now, and opened his throat. The last one backed toward the open window in panic.

  Wrong move.

  She closed the distance in three measured steps and struck. Silence returned to the hallway, broken only by the soft drip of blood against stone.

  Xulian exhaled slowly. Her arms ached faintly, not from exertion, after she broke through her body could handle this much. It was from the slight strain from imperfections that built up with each move.

  Clumsy, she assessed. But improving.

  A door creaked open behind her. She turned. Lilian stood in the doorway, hair loose, eyes half-lidded with sleep, one of her droopy ears flipped over her head and dishevelled golden hair still fighting gravity.

  Then she fully registered the scene. Four bodies. Blood staining the corridor. Xulian standing in the centre, sword lowered but unsheathed. Lilian’s eyes widened.

  “Xulian…?”

  Before she could respond, hurried footsteps thundered from the far end of the hall. Vel appeared, fully alert, aura tight with tension.

  “Intruders!” she called sharply. “Everyone arm your—”

  Her words died as she took in the sight. Her gaze moved from the bodies. To Xulian. To the blood. A beat of silence.

  Xulian tilted her head slightly and gestured with the tip of her sword toward the fallen assassins.

  “A little late,” she said calmly.

  Vel blinked once. Then her composure snapped back into place.

  “There are more,” she said immediately. “Stronger ones. Cilian is holding them off in the courtyard.”

  Something in Xulian’s expression changed. The faint dryness vanished. Her spiritual sense expanded outward instinctively.

  There.

  Clashing steel.

  Heavy signatures.

  A much stronger presence.

  Without another word, she stepped past Vel.

  Then— She vanished. No sound. No blur. Simply gone from where she had stood. Vel stared at the empty space she had occupied.

  “…What,” she muttered under her breath.

  ***

  Steel rang against steel in the courtyard below.

  Cilian moved like a line of lightning drawn in human form.

  Ten figures encircled him, black-clad and disciplined, their coordination far tighter than the four who had slipped inside. Blades struck in layered sequences, forcing him to shift, parry, counter, never still for more than a heartbeat.

  Three had already broken away during the initial clash, vaulting toward the manor’s upper levels while the remaining seven locked him in place.

  He had allowed it.

  For now.

  A dagger swept toward his throat. Cilian tilted his head just enough for it to pass, his sword flashing upward in reply. Blue-white electricity crackled along the blade’s edge as it met steel.

  The impact detonated in sparks, and the attacker was thrown back, muscles spasming as current surged through him.

  “Who sent you?” Cilian asked evenly, pivoting to intercept another strike from his blind side.

  No answer.

  Two advanced low, one high.

  His blade traced a crescent arc, lightning snapping outward in branching tendrils. The high attacker was forced to retreat, cloak smoking.

  “You’re organised,” Cilian continued, voice calm despite the storm building around him. “Not some bandits taking a risk.”

  A blade scraped along his sleeve, slicing fabric but not flesh.

  One of them laughed under his mask.

  “Perseptive,” the man hissed sarcastically.

  Cilian’s sword thrust forward, lightning spearing toward the speaker. The assassin twisted aside, barely avoiding a direct hit.

  “Then what are you?” Cilian pressed, raising an eyebrow.

  Another voice answered, fervent and sharp.

  “Purifiers.”

  Electricity flared brighter along Cilian’s blade.

  “Ah your the Surillian black hands. What may I ask, are you purifying?” Cilian spat, a hit of disdain flashing in his eyes

  The attackers shifted formation again, forcing him back two steps. Sparks leapt between colliding weapons, briefly illuminating their eyes.

  “Corruption,” one spat. “Blasphemy.”

  A blade lunged for his ribs. Cilian twisted and countered, his strike grazing the man’s shoulder, leaving scorched cloth and burning flesh.

  “Be specific,” Cilian replied coolly.

  A harsh laugh cut through the clash.

  “You, prince, will die soon enough.”

  The words were delivered almost proudly. Cilian’s eyes sharpened.

  “Vel Auilinwood must die,” another declared. "An elf elevated in noble courts. Filth wrapped in silk. Only fit for the goblin nests.”

  “And that blasphemous saintess,” a third added with zealous rage. “She will be claimed, leashed and used as the dog she is.”

  “Really?” Cilian’s voice lowered.

  “For the true faith,” the first speaker snarled. “She will be paraded beside other beastmen and half-breeds like ornaments.”

  Religious zeal burned in their tone.

  Cilian’s sword hummed. A silent anger flared within him; one was just a girl, barely an adult, the other was one of his best friends.

  “You came across a border,” he said, blocking two simultaneous strikes and countering with a surge of lightning that forced them back. “For this stupidity?”

  “For purity!” one shouted.

  As one, all seven reached for vials at their belts. Cilian’s eyes narrowed at the vials of blackened blood-red liquid. Glass shattered as they drank. Energy spiked violently as their auras surged outward, swelling, distorting.

  [Level 43 → 53]

  [Level 45 → 55]

  [Level 44 → 54]

  ...

  Across the formation, levels jumped by ten each.

  Veins darkened beneath the skin, and movements sharpened.

  Cilian clicked his tongue softly.

  “Booster... How troublesome.”

  They attacked as one, and the courtyard exploded into motion.

  Where before he had outpaced them comfortably, now their speed nearly matched his own. Blades came in layered waves, faster, heavier, relentless.

  Cilian’s sword became a streak of lightning.

  Electric arcs burst with every clash, illuminating the courtyard in violent flashes. Stone cracked under misdirected force. Cloaks smouldered. Air burned.

  But there were too many. Not stronger individually. Just faster and more coordinated, pressing him from every angle.

  A dagger slipped past his guard and sliced shallowly across his side before he retaliated with a thunderous strike that hurled the attacker into a pillar.

  He shifted tactics. Lightning flared once more, then— Changed. The electric glow thinned, replaced by a swirling current of compressed wind. Air condensed around his blade, invisible but razor-sharp, and his movements accelerated.

  Wind gathered at his feet, propelling him in short bursts that blurred his outline, leaving shockwaves as he broke through the air. He appeared between two attackers and struck in a cross pattern, sending both skidding across stone.

  But still they came with fanaticism. A blade grazed his thigh, another clipped his shoulder. Nothing critical, but the pressure mounted.

  Then—the wind shifted. Not from his spell. Something else entered the courtyard. A presence. Light and precise like a whisper.

  Cilian felt it before he saw her. A figure in green appeared at his side as though the air had simply decided to condense into a person.

  Xulian.

  She did not speak. Her green eyes lifted and landed on the assassins. The effect was immediate; several of them flinched.

  Her very presence felt as though a thousand invisible blades had just passed across their skin, testing angles, measuring weaknesses. A phantom slicing that never broke flesh yet left their nerves screaming.

  “What is—” one began.

  Xulian stepped forward and lifted her sword. A low hum filled the courtyard. Soft at first. Then louder. Every blade in the area vibrated. Cilian’s sword sang. The assassins’ daggers trembled in their hands, metal resonating as if responding to a silent call.

  The hum deepened, turning into a chorus of steel. Xilian's sword stayed silent like a king entering court.

  The zeal in the attackers’ eyes flickered for the first time.

  Cilian glanced sideways at her, wind still swirling around his form.

  “You took your time,” he said lightly.

  Xulian’s gaze never left the enemy.

  “You disturbed my cultivation,” she replied, making up an excuse.

  The hum sharpened. And the courtyard held its breath.