The silence did not last long.

No sooner had the still-warm bodies of the two guards been laid on the ground than hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor. Torches burst out of the shadows, illuminating angry faces armed with crude blades, clubs, and chipped daggers.

"What the hell was that noise?!" shouted one of them.

"The guys found an intruder! Take him down!"

A dozen men rushed at Jarek. Their coordination was sloppy, but their numbers would have been enough to intimidate an ordinary opponent. Jarek, however, did not move an inch.

He calmly picked up his short sword, twirled it in his hand, then stepped forward with confidence.

"You're a little late."

The first man lunged at him, armed with a rusty axe. Jarek leaned down, dodged with a simple twist of his torso, and slit his throat with a sharp movement. Blood splattered the wall, and already two others were rushing at him.

He parried one, hooked the other's leg, and plunged his sword into the chest of the one who was falling. Without waiting, he pulled out his blade and turned it around to block the second man's blow. A fluid movement, like a dance.

A cry rang out behind him. Jarek spun around and threw his dagger without even aiming. It plunged straight into the eye of a brigand who collapsed with a scream.

"Damn! He's too fast!" shouted one of the survivors, already hesitating.

They tried to surround him, but that was their mistake. Jarek leaped forward, breaking the circle before it could close. His blade moved from a chest to a thigh, then to a throat, without stopping. Each movement was optimized, precise, almost calculated.

In less than a minute, half the men were already lying on the ground.

The rest began to retreat, fear replacing rage. Jarek lazily wiped his sword on the jacket of a corpse and advanced further.

"Did you really think you could stand up to the Order of Assassins?" he whispered with chilling calm.

One last man dared to charge, brandishing an unbalanced spear. Jarek sidestepped, grabbed the shaft, and with a sharp jerk, snapped it clean off against his knee before plunging the remaining piece of wood into the man's throat.

Silence returned. Only the crackling of burning wood from a fallen torch broke the stillness of the scene. A dozen corpses littered the ground, spreading a metallic, sticky smell.

Jarek took a deep breath, sheathed his sword, and walked past the bodies without a glance. His boots clicked softly against the bloodstained stone.

He hadn't lost a breath. His movements had been efficient, clean, without extravagance. It hadn't been a fight... only an execution.

At the end of the corridor, a large reinforced door loomed in the shadows. Behind it, he knew, lay his true prey: the leader of the Black Fang.

However, before he could start moving in that direction, a whistling sound cut through the air.

Jarek's instincts reacted before his consciousness even registered what was happening. He spun around sharply, raising his sword across his face. A metallic clang rang out as a dagger struck his blade, ricocheting off it before crashing to the ground.

His gaze hardened. He hadn't sensed anything. Not the slightest breath, not the slightest presence. Yet the attack had been precise, deadly.

"Interesting..." he murmured, scanning the shadows.

A slight rustling sound, imperceptible to the ear of a normal man, echoed behind him. Jarek leapt to the side, narrowly avoiding a second dagger that passed where his neck had been a fraction of a second earlier.

A figure then briefly appeared in the shadows, like a tear in the night: a man dressed in a dark cloak, whose contours seemed to dissolve into the darkness itself. His eyes glowed with an animalistic yellow light.

"The Cloak of the Wandering Wolf..." Jarek whispered, a thin smile stretching his lips.

The man did not respond. He began to disappear into the background again, his footsteps muffled, his aura completely stifled. Jarek knew he was not dealing with a simple bandit. This man was a predator.

An icy breath brushed his neck. He instinctively parried, his sword meeting a third dagger that had appeared out of nowhere. The impact vibrated through his arm, but he pushed the attacker away with a roundhouse kick.

The figure reappeared, crouching a few feet away, dagger ready to strike again.

"Not bad," the man said in a hoarse voice. "Few people spot me when I wear the Cloak. "

His eyes shone with a strange intensity, and Jarek felt something disturb his mind for a moment. It was as if the room had expanded, the shadows had multiplied, and a dozen attackers were now staring at him.

The man had just used his Ushi: Beastly Mirage.

This assassin's ability projected deceptive images into the environment, making his approach even more elusive.

Jarek chuckled softly, calmly.

"A cape that erases you... and an Ushi that deceives the senses. You must be one of your leader's henchmen. No wonder this gang has survived for so long."

The man started moving again, blending into the darkness, and already, shadows were appearing all around Jarek. Dozens of silhouettes, all armed with daggers, leaped towards him at the same time.

But Jarek didn't move. His eyes didn't follow the illusions. They watched for the rhythm of footsteps. Breathing. The flaw.

He spun around abruptly and struck. His blade met with real resistance, eliciting a groan of pain. The figure masked by the Cloak collapsed briefly before disappearing again.

"Hit," Jarek whispered, his gaze sharp as a blade.

The real duel had just begun.

Another dagger flew through the air like a viper. Jarek moved instinctively, the steel grazing his cheek and leaving a thin red line. He turned, blade in hand, but the assassin had already vanished into the darkness.

An icy breath passed behind him.

A flash. Another dagger.

Jarek parried it just in time, the metallic clash vibrating through his arm. The man reappeared for a moment, a hooded figure draped in the Cloak of the Wandering Wolf, before vanishing again, sucked into the shadows.

"I like this..." Jarek whispered, tightening his grip, a smile on his lips.

The ground began to shake. A hoarse, almost animalistic howl filled the corridor. A dozen human figures burst out of the darkness, staring at him with an almost palpable murderous desire. Their eyes burned with an unreal glow.

They all pounced at once.

Jarek dodged the first one, his sword slicing through the air. But the illusion dissipated like black smoke. A second one appeared from the left, its sword slashing his side, leaving a searing pain. Real or illusion? He didn't have time to doubt: a third one hit him head-on, throwing him against the stone wall.

Breathless, Jarek rolled to the side at the last second to avoid his opponent's dagger, which struck like lightning. The impact shattered the stone.

"You're starting to weaken, assassin," sneered a hoarse voice.

Jarek spat out a trickle of blood, but his eyes remained calm. "You talk too much. "

He straightened up, focusing every fiber of his being. The silhouettes surrounded him, their sounds clouding his mind, confusing his perceptions. But he knew: only one presence among them was real.

The specters leapt in unison.

This time, Jarek did not retreat. He charged straight into the fray, daggers grazing his flesh, swords scraping his leather armor. The illusions passed through him like blades of icy air, but amid the turmoil, he heard what he was looking for: a breath too heavy.

He spun, blade outstretched. The impact was brutal. Steel bit into flesh, tearing the enemy's shoulder. A very real scream caused the specters to burst like bubbles.

The man staggered, but the cloak wrapped itself around him, pulling him back into the shadows. With one leap, he reappeared behind Jarek and plunged his dagger forward. The mercenary turned too late: the blade sank into his left arm.

The pain radiated, burning. But instead of retreating, Jarek grabbed his opponent's wrist with an iron grip.

"Bad choice."

He pulled brutally, pulling the attacker closer to him, and plunged his own blade straight into his chest. The man spat blood, but attempted one last dagger thrust at his throat.

A moment hung in the air. Two wills ready to collide.

Jarek delivered a violent headbutt, breaking his opponent's nose. His wrist relaxed. Only then did the mercenary push his sword deeper, piercing the rib cage with a sharp crack.

A cry of pain rang out, halfway between man and beast, then died away. The body slumped, and the Cape of the Wandering Wolf slid to the ground like dead skin, stripped of its power.

Jarek stood motionless, breathless, his muscles taut as strings ready to snap. Blood flowed down his wounded arm, dripping onto his fingers. But he remained standing.

He picked up the cloak, watched its shifting fabric, which still seemed to pulsate, then stuffed it into his bag.

"You were fast, strong... but you made a mistake, and it cost you your life."

Silence finally fell, thick and heavy, as if the stone itself were holding its breath. Jarek stood motionless for a few seconds, sword still raised, listening to the echo of his own heart beating against his temples.

Then he took a deep breath and sheathed his blade. His left arm, pierced a moment earlier, burned with a dull pain that grew with every movement. He lifted the sleeve of his coat slightly: the wound was clean, deep, and blood continued to flow in a dark trickle.

"Tch..." A grimace crossed his face. It wasn't fatal, but if he left it untreated, his arm might give out at the worst possible moment.

He moved away from the field of corpses and leaned against the wall, where a flickering torch cast a faint light. Taking a small leather kit out of his bag, he knelt down and set to work methodically, as he had been taught.

First, he pressed a cloth soaked in alcohol onto his wounds. The sting of the liquid made him grit his teeth, but he didn't flinch, accustomed to this kind of pain. Next, he took out several strips of clean cloth, wrapped them around his arm and side, and tied them tightly to stop the bleeding. The blood quickly soaked through the first layers, but the bandages held firm.

He allowed himself a few minutes, sitting on the cold stone, his head tilted back slightly. His eyes closed for a moment. The faces of his defeated enemies flashed before him, but he banished them with a blink. He couldn't afford to weaken now.

"Just a little more patience..." he murmured to himself, staring at the large door at the other end of the corridor.

His fingers brushed against the Cape of the Wandering Wolf tucked away in his bag. The black fabric still seemed to breathe, rippling beneath his fingers as if refusing to accept the death of its wearer. A dangerous artifact, no doubt. Jarek seemed to hesitate for a moment, undecided. Should he use it, or leave it behind?

Finally, he put it away carefully. He didn't need a veil of shadow to kill. His own hands would suffice.

Slowly straightening his body, he laid his coat on the ground, checked his weapons, and picked up his dagger, which had been lying on the floor. A pain lingered in his arm, but his movements remained steady. His side, meanwhile, seemed less injured than he had thought.

One last breath. Calm returned.

However, despite this precious calm, Jarek had noticed a presence for several minutes, staring at him somewhere in the room.

Fortunately for him, this presence did not seem to mean him any harm, at least not for the moment. But that wasn't what worried him most; he didn't really want to know why it was here, but rather why it was staring at him like that, motionless, like yet another shadow lurking in the darkness.

He decided not to dwell on it any longer and set about exploring the various rooms of this abandoned warehouse.

As he had expected, apart from the large main room, the corridor where he had fought, and the huge door at the end of that corridor, he didn't find much else.

Only a small, locked door prevented him from exploring the entire building.

He finally returned to the large door, the heavy silhouette of wood and iron standing before him like an irrevocable barrier. His breathing had slowed, becoming steady, but each breath carried the metallic taste of the dried blood around him.

He placed a hand on the handle. This time, there was no hesitation. The door gave way under the pressure, creaking like a wounded beast.

Behind it, the scene imposed itself brutally upon him.

A vast circular room, lit by a few braziers placed against the walls. The acrid smell of smoke and battered flesh hung heavy in the air.

In the center, a long, roughly hewn solid wood table served as an improvised throne for the two men who occupied it.

The first, immediately recognizable, was the leader of the Black Fang. Broad-shouldered, his skin marked with ancient scars, he held a sacred sword pressed against his seat, its silver blade streaked with scarlet veins that pulsed like living blood. Around his neck glowed faintly a dark necklace that appeared to be the artifact of major rank, the Night Howl, which vibrated with a palpable aura, like a threat ready to be unleashed.

To his right, sitting more upright, was his right-hand man. Thinner, more nervous, his eyes reflected the vigilance of a predator. At first glance, he carried no artifacts or sacred weapons.

But what really chilled Jarek was neither the weapons nor the scars.

It was the figure suspended above the table.

A child. Barely over ten years old. Her frail body was covered in purple bruises, her skin marked with fresh cuts, and her clothes had been torn or ripped off, leaving her with only rags to hide her nakedness. Her arms and ankles were bound with rough ropes, holding her to the ceiling like prey offered up for the taking. Her breathing was weak and wheezy. Her half-closed eyes barely opened when Jarek arrived.

Without even looking at her for long, he recognized her immediately. It was the child he had met earlier that morning in the Order of Assassins, in front of the quest board: Mira.

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