They came hunting.
At dawn, with the scent of burned tents still curling through the broken trees, the Caerenhold sent in the rest of their force—believing the ghosts had fled, the squads were shattered, and the basin ripe for conquest. What they walked into was silence.
And what waited for them… was death.
Renard Valtierre stood over the ravaged central clearing, cloak shredded and stiff with blood, HUD flickering faintly across his vision.
[Unit Status: Alpha – 36% combat-capable | Omega – 42% | C-Team – 57% (Support Only)]
[Phantom Squad: 3 Active]
[Enemy Forces Remaining: 112 Soldiers (Confirmed)]
All around him, his people were slumped in makeshift shelters or propped against shattered barricades. Elric had a split lip and two fingers wrapped in cloth. Silva was barely upright, her gloves scorched. Even Kael, ever grinning, sat with blood trailing from his temple.
They had taken out almost two hundred Caerenhold elites.
They couldn't fight another wave.
Renard exhaled. Not regret. Not fear.
Pride.
They gave him everything. Now it was his turn.
He turned to Elric. "Your dagger."
Elric stared. Then slowly pulled the obsidian-hilted blade from his boot sheath and passed it over.
"You going full ghost?" he asked, voice dry.
Renard simply nodded.
Elric almost smiled. "Then I almost feel bad for them."
He turned to Phantom Squad. They were already standing.
"Stay in the mist," he told them. "And if I fall—"
"You don't," Maera said, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Elric and Tarn of Phantom Squad.
He gave one final nod. "Then let's show them the teeth of the fog."
They moved.
The Caerenhold force entered in spread formation, checking corners, blades drawn. Illusions flickered at the edges of vision—C-Team's last glyphs still functional. Confusion lingered. That was Renard's cover.
"I have 112 enemies left," he whispered, breath misting against the cold. "Let's begin."
[Remaining: 111]
The first never even saw him. Renard dropped from a low branch, blade to throat, rolled the body into the fog.
[110]
A whisper of steps. The second turned, struck high.
Renard ducked, slid forward, and carved upward beneath the breastplate.
[109]
The third ran. Renard didn't.
The dagger left his hand like a whisper, hitting between the ribs.
From the ridgeline, Kael crouched beside Sorell, eyes wide.
"He's thinning them," Sorell said.
"No," Kael muttered. "He's bleeding the fear into them."
[108–103]
Six soldiers fanned out.
Only two returned—and one of them fell mid-run, throat already cut.
[102]
A fire mage lit the brush.
It only made the fog boil.
Renard emerged through smoke, low and angled—strike to the ankle, spin, up through the gut.
Vale, standing at the rear line, frowned.
"Sector six gone dark. Five in sector four not reporting."
His lieutenant paled. "Commander, it's not skirmishers. Something's hunting them."
Vale scanned the terrain.
Fog.
And silence.
"Fall back to defensive V-shield," he ordered.
[101–91]
Ten men. Steel-locked formation.
Renard circled, marking every step. Glyph pulses from Phantom Squad triggered in sequence.
A ripple.
Confusion.
Then his dagger bit low through greaves, tendons severed.
A scream.
Then a silence.
He moved like water through panic.
Every slash deliberate.
Every step pre-calculated.
[Target Movement Predictions: 87% Accuracy]
[Enemy Response: Delayed – Terrain Compromised]
[90–70]
Squads broke.
He hit where they fled—never chasing, only predicting. His system overlaid paths like threads.
He tugged one.
Killed three.
Another.
Five down.
A commander raised a horn.
He didn't finish the breath to blow it.
Kael's voice was low. "He's… orchestrating."
Sorell blinked. "This isn't fighting."
"It's doctrine. Assassin-level pathing. Battlefield choreography."
Sorell swallowed. "How long until they realize?"
[69–40]
The middle ranks broke. Vale watched, expression grim.
This was not a skirmish.
This was an execution.
He stepped forward.
"Form on me."
His personal guard—twelve men in red lamellar—advanced.
Phantom Squad engaged them in flashes, pinning with smoke.
[39–20]
Renard moved through them like ink through water. Strikes landed with surgical finality.
One. Two. Three.
Heart. Neck. Spine.
His cloak was torn. Mask cracked.
He didn't stop.
He was death, and he had numbers to settle.
Vale finally caught sight of him—moving between shadows like wind with a blade.
He raised a hand.
"Stop."
The surviving soldiers hesitated. Only fifteen remained.
"You. Assassin," Vale called.
Renard paused.
"You've used outlawed combat styles. That's treason… in your kingdom."
Renard said nothing.
Vale raised his sword.
"I call duel. One on one. Commander to Commander."
The mist held still.
Then Renard stepped forward.
And said:
"Accepted."