The Age of Martial Enlightenment.

Chapter Twelve – The Shadow Behind the Blade

The Emerald Plains had gone quiet again.

The great BattleTusks had vanished into the distance, their wrath satisfied. Trampled grass and smeared blood remained in their wake, silent markers of the storm they had become.

And in the center of that destruction, barely clinging to breath, knelt the assassin.

The Assassin Lord of Blades.

His robes were torn and crusted with drying blood. One leg hung limp, the hip joint shattered from a tusk's grazing blow. His ribs felt cracked. Breathing came shallow, short, and sharp. One arm—the one that had once gripped his saber with predatory ease—was completely broken.

He sat in the grass, spine against a large stone, eyes glaring upward at the blue sky with simmering rage.

"I should have listened," he whispered hoarsely.

His voice was raw, not from injury but from admission.

His master, the previous Assassin Lord of Blades, had warned him.

"You've only refined your marrow for a decade," the old man had said, reclined beneath a cherry blossom tree deep in the Eastern Wrymspine Mountains. "Your talent is undeniable, but you mistake sharpness for strength. Time tempers both."

The younger assassin hadn't listened. He couldn't.

Not with the knowledge that Merzhin was at the Peak of the Sixth Pillar, only a few years from entering Marrow Refinement himself. If Merzhin crossed that threshold, killing him would become far more difficult.

So, he had left early.

He had made his move.

And now, his bones were broken, and Merzhin was still breathing.

His master had once said something else—something he had scorned at the time.

"The greatest swordsmen don't chase their prey. They wait in the shadows, sharpen their edge, and cut once. Only once. That is all it takes."

The young assassin clenched his jaw.

It was true. He was talented. A genius even. But genius didn't replace time. And talent alone did not grant dominance in the realm of true martial monsters.

He had proven that… the painful way.

With a trembling hand, he drew a small cylindrical device from the folds of his cloak. It was etched with fine runes and filled with refined powder. He jammed it into the ground beside him.

He hesitated.

Then, with a bitter sigh, he activated the rescue flare.

A streak of red smoke spiraled into the sky—a beacon of failure.

Hours later, three figures approached swiftly across the plains. They were dressed in black-gray robes with long masks carved like wolf fangs. These were Shadow Fangs, elite subordinates of the Blades Division of the Black Lotus.

They knelt before him, reverently.

"Lord of Blades," the first one said. "We feared the worst."

"You should have," he rasped, gritting his teeth as one began dressing his wounds with spiritual salve and bone-setting powder.

The second figure knelt closer. "We bring updates… on Merzhin."

The assassin's eyes narrowed.

"Merzhin has exited the Emerald Sea and is heading southwest, deeper into the heart of Sylvestris," the Fang continued. "We believe he is making his way toward the Monastery of Ashen Hollow—a retreat used by several unaffiliated Martial Grandmasters. He likely seeks allies or healing."

The Lord of Blades said nothing at first.

Then, through clenched teeth:

"Let him."

He turned his head toward the setting sun, fire returning to his expression.

"I'll give myself sixty more years… the full cultivation of marrow refinement. No more shortcuts. No more recklessness."

The Shadow Fangs gently lifted their injured commander onto a reinforced litter. As they turned northward, toward the nearest Black Lotus outpost, he looked one last time toward the edge of the horizon where Merzhin had vanished.

"This isn't over," he whispered.

"It's only the beginning."