The four assassins stood on edge. Ahead of them stood Imirna, calm as still water, her eyes sharp and cold. Behind them loomed a black-cloaked figure whose appearance gave nothing away—Lyle.
The air itself seemed to tighten, like it, too, was holding its breath.
In a flash, the assassins exploded into action. Two darted toward Imirna, the other two veering toward Lyle with practiced coordination.
"Tch, amateurs," one hissed mid-sprint.
Their footfalls were featherlight, movements overlapping like dancers on a stage. One assassin ran behind the other, synchronized perfectly until their profiles seemed to blur into a single shadow.
The frontmost leapt into the air, a glint flashing from his sleeve—a compact hand crossbow, tightly strapped to his wrist.
Then—the second assassin vanished entirely.
Lyle finally spoke, voice low and dismissive.
"Stealth isn't about vanishing. It's about not being seen in the first place."
He shifted. Just one step.
His boot whipped into a patch of darkness nearby.
The so-called invisible assassin screamed as he was flung out of the shadows, blood spraying from his mouth. His chest had caved inward, ribs shattered like glass.
Lyle casually lowered his foot. "Using sneak attacks in plain sight? I've seen goblins with better instincts."
He turned to the airborne assassin, who was now falling—eyes wide, trajectory ruined by sheer panic.
The other two assassins who had charged at Imirna screamed in agony.
They now lay twisted on the ground, throats opened with surgical precision.
Imina stepped over the bodies. Her white armor, faintly engraved with Re-Estize runes, glinted faintly in the moonlight. Her voice came cold and even:
"Shall I leave one alive?"
The last assassin froze. Sweat poured down his temples as his limbs locked. His voice trembled, but he still tried to snarl:
"You… You two have no idea who you've just crossed! You're dead! All of you! No one's going to save—"
An arrow flew from the shadows, piercing his thigh.
He dropped, howling in pain.
"Too much talking," Imina muttered, striding forward. She kicked him to the ground, then planted her brown leather boot directly onto the arrow wound and pressed down.
The resulting scream could probably wake the dead.
Oddly enough, even with the noise, no one nearby noticed a thing.
No soldiers. No guards. No passersby.
The Silence field Lyle had cast earlier remained in full effect. His enchanted wand hummed faintly at his side.
"Interrogation's your specialty," Lyle said, tossing her a glance. "Mind finding out where they're roosting?"
He pocketed the wand, now drained. A fresh one hung at his side—two, in fact: one for Poison Cure, and one for Disease Cure. Basic but handy.
Still cost me 600 gold, though. Ridiculous markup.
Luckily, Lyle wasn't exactly poor. His last count showed 9,000 gold in assets. Give or take a few decapitations.
Screams eventually died out.
Imina approached again, this time dragging the unconscious assassin like a sack of laundry.
"Got what we need," she said, flicking a strand of hair behind her ear. "He's part of the Eight Fingers' Security Division. Trained under the Thousand Kills program—elite Six Arms candidate."
She let the body fall with a thud.
"Their base is just outside the capital. Brambles Estate. Fancy name for a poison den."
Lyle raised an eyebrow. "Really? I thought they'd send slavers. Didn't expect the Security Division to bite this fast. Guess we caught a whale."
Imina's expression tightened. "You sure you want to pick a fight with them? Eight Fingers isn't just some gang. They've got nobles, merchants, and maybe even the Royal Guard in their pocket."
Lyle just smiled faintly. "I'll handle the rest. Don't worry."
He hoisted the unconscious assassin onto his shoulder and turned back toward the dark horizon.
"Who knows," he added, "maybe tomorrow will come with a surprise."
And just like that, he vanished into the night.
Imina stood still for a moment, then bit her lip, eyes filled with growing concern.
She wasn't stupid. From Reness's attitude alone, she'd guessed that Lyle was far more dangerous than he let on. But infiltrating an enemy base alone?
A sprawling manor nestled outside the capital. To the public, it was famed for its extravagant vineyard and the legendary Blood Red wine. One bottle could cost 15 silver—some vintages even fetched dozens of gold.
Blood Red didn't just refer to wine.
This was the hidden headquarters of the Security Division of Eight Fingers—Six Arms.
Lyle stood on a craggy stone outcrop, gazing down at the estate. The main building, aglow with warm light, sat like a decadent jewel amid a sea of grapes.
"Security's this lax?" he muttered. "Might as well send an invitation."
Behind him, the bodies of fallen assassins stirred.
One by one, corpses twitched and groaned. Eyes dim, joints jerking awkwardly—they began marching forward. Lyle's fingers traced a simple rune midair.
Not flashy, but effective.
"Let's give them a proper greeting."
Truthfully, even Lyle hadn't expected to locate the Security Division's headquarters this quickly. It was a rare stroke of luck.
But he hadn't come to the capital just to lay low or prepare for some far-off war.
No—there were two classes that had caught his eye.
One was the high-tier profession Ninja, currently held by a pair of infamous sisters in Blue Rose.
The unique class held by the Six Arms' leader himself—Zero the Battle Demon.
In the records of this world, only two low-leveled characters had ever stood toe-to-toe with elite enemies.
One was Brain, the swordsman known for his precision and heart.
The other—Zero, who relied not on strength, but the raw power of his class.
Inside the estate, the scent of rich wine and roasted meats floated through the halls. A chandelier cast soft light across the banquet table, heavy with golden platters and silver cutlery.
But only six people sat there.
Malmvist, "Thousand Kills."
Davernoch, the "Unded King."
Succulent, called "Phantom Devil."
Peshurian, the "Bloodmoon Blade."
Edström, "Dancing Scimitar."
And at the head: Zero, "The Battle Demon."
These were the Six Arms—the mightiest branch of Eight Fingers.
Each one, a match for an adamantite-ranked adventurer.