Boris narrowed his gaze at the four figures standing before him. His grip tightened around the shaft of his spear.

  The helplessness, the humiliation. The shadow man had moved like mist, struck like lightning, and vanished before Boris could even raise his weapon. But he had made a vow since then. Next time, he would react. Next time, he would not be an easy target.

  Next time, he would land a blow.

  There was more to the spear than just thrusting and swinging. He’d seen Professor Fin demonstrate—slow in stance, deliberate in step—but his strikes were something else. Fast. Heavy. Devastating. Without using a single skill.

  It hadn’t made sense at first, but now he understood. It wasn’t about speed alone. It was about weight distribution, posture, intent—years of practice condensed into a single motion.

  If Boris could master even a fraction of that—if he could deliver a strike that didn’t rely on skill but still carried the weight of everything he had trained for—then maybe… just maybe… he’d get a chance.

  He lowered his stance.

  Focused.

  One of them drew a sword, muscles tensing beneath a weather-worn coat. Another—leaner, lower to the ground—moved with the grace of someone in Kana’s field. [Thief], or maybe [Rogue]. Fast and dangerous.

  A crack of thunder echoed above, it sounded like a cue.

  The fight began.

  A flash of steel—one of them hurled a dagger. Not a casual throw. It gleamed with the burn of mana. A skill.

  Fast. Deadly.

  Boris didn’t flinch. He shifted his weight, angling his spear just so. The dagger rang against the shaft, deflected cleanly. The others paused, surprised—just for a moment. Then they smiled, impressed but still confident.

  The [Swordsman] lunged forward, boots pounding against the dusty ground. The [Thief] mirrored him, curving in from the flank.

  Boris inhaled deeply.

  He swept the spear in a wide arc, fast and heavy. The movement was fluid, practiced, like the swing of a pendulum. The [Swordsman] managed to block, steel catching wood—but the [Thief] stumbled back, wisely keeping his distance.

  Boris didn’t pause.

  He flowed into an overhead strike. A clean, vertical motion—no skill. Just raw power. The [Swordsman] raised his sword holding with both hands to intercept, but the impact drove through him, knocking blood from his lips. He hadn’t expected that kind of weight behind the blow.

  Boris stepped in. Another sweep.

  The spear flexed with the momentum, a whip-like bend from haft to tip. The [Swordsman] tried to brace—this time with his body.

  The strike landed full force, hurling him across the room like a broken doll. He slammed into the stone wall and crumpled, groaning.

  The other man—faster, smarter—backed away again.

  No more smiles.

  The remaining three looked at one another, reassessing, faces turned serious. Boris held his ground, steady, relaxed and focused.

  The three lunged at once.

  Another dagger shimmered with mana—thrown fast, guided by skill. Boris caught it again, knocking it aside with a twist of his spear’s shaft. But this time, they didn’t hesitate. They closed in from three directions, confident they could overwhelm him.

  He let them.

  Boris planted his foot and activated [Consecutive Spear Strikes].

  The tip of his spear blurred.

  The trio scattered, dodging instead of blocking—wise, considering what had happened to the swordsman. But even dodging wasn’t enough. A grunt followed as one cried out in pain, blood blooming along his hip where the spear touched his flesh.

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  Boris didn’t pause.

  He pressed forward, each movement a continuation of the last—fluid, seamless. His spear bent mid-swing as he transitioned into a powerful overhead strike. One opponent couldn’t get out in time and was forced to block. The man staggered under the force, grunting.

  Boris stepped in and activated [Spear Strike].

  A burst of power. The tip of the spear struck clean into the man’s chest, shattering his light armor like cracked glass and flinging him backward. He hit the ground hard and didn’t rise.

  Two down.

  The last man didn’t flinch. He darted in close—too close for a proper spear thrust. His daggers flashed, hands becoming a blur. A skill, quick and relentless, like Kana’s [Dagger Assault]—but slower, weaker.

  Boris spun the shaft of his spear, using the wood like a rotating shield, blocking strike after strike in a tight circular motion. Sparks flew.

  He activated [Spear Strike] again.

  The blunt force sent the man stumbling back, but Boris didn’t give him time to recover. He stepped forward, a tight thrust—not wide, not fancy, just fast. A straight, quick jab.

  The man jumped—too late.

  The tip of the spear clipped his leg, twisting him awkwardly in the air. He crashed to the ground, dazed.

  Boris’s final move was simple. A downward strike, the wooden shaft cracking against the man’s head.

  Silence.

  Only the sound of Boris breathing, steady and stable. Around him, the four men lay still—groaning or unconscious.

  He rolled his shoulders, grip steady on the spear.

  Not fast enough for the shadow man yet, he thought.

  But getting there.

  Suri gave a low whistle behind Boris and clapped twice, smirking. “I don’t know all the details,” she said, “but you definitely improved.”

  Kana stepped out of the shadows startling them, red eyes flicking toward the unconscious men on the ground.

  “That was quick,” she said, brushing a speck of blood from her cheek. “Looks like you're done.”

  Boris lowered his spear then they walked to Kana. Noticed another man collapsed in strange clothes—likely the one who controlled the animals—and the two animals lying beside him: a wolf and a thick-bodied snake. Both motionless.

  “Are they... dead?” he asked.

  Kana raised her blade slightly, revealing a faint shimmer of violet coating the edge. It dripped slowly, “Not exactly. I picked up a few tricks from the man who tried to kill us.” She gave a tight smile. “Bought a sleep poison. Non-lethal. One cut’s enough to send someone dreaming. Looks like it works.”

  Boris frowned. He swore there was a massive swelling on the man’s temple—probably her doing. “Right. Sleepy. Sure.”

  Suri knelt beside the tamer, fingers to his neck. “Alive,” she confirmed, then gestured at the wolf. “All of them.”

  She stood, torch in hand, casting flickering light across the far end of the chamber—vaults. Dozens of them. Stacked and sealed in dark iron. The glint of wealth, barely contained.

  Boris let out a low whistle of his own.

  Kana didn’t waste time. With a motion of her hand, the first vault vanished. Then the second. Third. Her [Inventory] devoured them one by one.

  “We’ll worry about opening them later,” she said. “I don’t like the smell of this place.”

  Less than a minute passed. Where once the room had held a big fortune—vaults sealed, stacked to each other—now it held nothing.

  Only the three of them, the unconscious enemies, and the sound of rain tapping faintly from the world above.

  …..

  Somewhere in the academy, Valdis clenched the parchment so hard it wrinkled between his fingers.

  Failed.

  He rubbed his eyes and read the letter again. The first attempt had failed.

  Impossible!

  He had hired the best. That assassin wasn’t just some random assassin—he was a legend, the kind of name you only heard spoken in the dark with a few people knew about, followed by a hefty price tag and a guaranteed success. And now Valdis was in debt because of it. He stared at the words again. No names. Just failed.

  His thoughts raced. Perhaps one of the professors had interfered—some of them were rumored to possess extraordinary detection skills. Or maybe it was the principal’s installed barrier. He’d heard it was... unnatural. Restrictive. Stronger than the rumours. Maybe the terms had been too specific. They must die inside the academy. Foolish.

  He dipped his quill and scrawled a short response:

  Kill them. Anywhere.

  He rolled the parchment tight and fastened it to the crow waiting at the window. The bird took off with a flutter of wings, vanishing into the cloudy dark night.

  He sighed, long and slow, his jaw twitching with frustration.

  Every now and then, he caught the other students glancing at him—not with admiration like before, but with something colder. Disgust. Pity. Mockery. They used to whisper about his noble lineage and untouchable powerful skills. Now they whispered about his defeat. A copper class student had punched him unconscious. And Suri, an [Illusionist], classified as a support type had stopped his strongest skill.

  He gritted his teeth.

  It didn’t matter.

  Once the payment was received, the Underground Temple would not stop. They didn’t care about pride or reputation. They only cared about finishing what they were paid for. Even if it took a hundred attempts... those three would die in the end.

  And when they did, so would the rumors about him. Just like before.