Suddenly, both figures vanish mid-charge, and Merin's eyes widen.
He senses them reappear—one to his left, one to his right—blades slashing toward him.
He throws his palms up to block, magma brimming at his fingertips, but they vanish again, blinking a few meters away.
He narrows his eyes.
They're not martial artists—he knew that much—but now he's sure: they're moving through shadows.
His gaze sharpens, watching for the telltale ripple—and then he sees it.
The shadows on the ground twist, then rise like whips and lash toward him.
Merin dodges, and the whips obliterate everything in their path, carving scars into the concrete and trees.
He conjures white fire, shaping it into searing arrows that hiss through the air.
The shadow whips move to intercept, but the arrows explode on impact, tearing through the dark tendrils.
Merin stomps, and dust billows outward, blinding both sides.
With a sharp breath, he channels ice through the ground—spikes erupt in a wide arc toward one of the attackers.
The figure catches sight of them a second too late, dodging with a deep gash to the thigh before slipping back into the shadows.
Merin exhales slowly, controlling his heartbeat as silence returns—thick, tense, unnatural.
He closes his eyes for a brief moment and listens.
The shadows to his left tremble—he spins and punches.
His magma-gloved fist connects with a shoulder, the impact sending the attacker crashing into a tree with a hiss of burning flesh.
The cloaked figure grunts but rolls back into the shadows before Merin can follow up.
The second attacker uses the moment—his dagger slips from the dark and grazes Merin's ribs.
Merin grits his teeth, jumping back, but the blade has already cut through his shirt, drawing a line of blood.
He doesn't falter.
A thin burn, nothing deep.
Still, it reminds him—he's not fighting amateurs.
He slams both palms into the ground.
The park trembles, and a wave of molten cracks spirals outward, forcing the shadows to retreat.
One of them misjudges the distance—fire lashes his leg, and he stumbles into the open.
Merin dashes in, lands a sweeping kick that sends the man skidding across gravel.
But again, the other uses distraction—appearing behind Merin, the shadow blade slicing at his calf.
Merin barely shifts in time—the dagger scrapes across his leg, shallow but sharp.
Blood dots the ground.
Their rhythm is set now—attack, vanish, wound, withdraw.
Merin breathes harder, his true energy surging like molten tide beneath his skin.
His wounds sting, but they are shallow annoyances, not threats.
The magma gloves on his hands pulse brighter, each beat syncing with his heart.
The shadows stir again.
One dives from the left, blade flashing toward Merin's neck.
He ducks low and sweeps with a fire-coated leg, forcing the attacker to leap back.
But the moment he raises his head, the second one appears behind him, blade aiming for his spine.
Merin twists, barely in time—his forearm catches the strike, deflecting the dagger with a burst of heat.
Sparks fly as steel meets magma.
He swings upward with his other fist, but only grazes the side of the attacker's cloak, leaving a smouldering tear.
They're using real killing moves now.
Precise, clean, silent strikes meant to end a life in one motion.
But Merin is faster than they expected.
He steps back, spinning, and fires a short burst of ice shards from his palm.
The attacker blocks with a raised whip of shadow, but one shard cuts across his shoulder, leaving a pale line.
The attacker hisses, cloak sizzling as blood stains the edge.
The second comes low, blade glinting with a faint poison sheen.
Merin meets him head-on.
He parries with a flame-covered elbow and kicks, but the attacker vanishes into shadow again.
"Cowards," Merin mutters.
His feet shift into stance—ice gathers around his legs, anchoring him, while his fists glow hot.
They come at once—one high, one low.
Blades converge.
Merin raises his arms and blocks both in a crossed guard, flames erupting outward, throwing both men back.
He lunges after one, unleashing a fiery jab.
The attacker backpedals, cloak now singed along the chest.
Merin catches him across the arm with a grazing punch—the smell of scorched flesh fills the air.
But before he can press further, the second attacker slashes across his side again.
Merin winces as blood seeps through his shirt, but he doesn't back away.
They've injured him three times now.
He's landed four counterattacks.
Non-fatal.
Non-decisive.
They're fast.
But he's catching up.
And the next move—they won't walk away unscathed.
Merin grits his teeth, heat rolling off his skin in waves as molten energy churns under his veins.
The two assassins circle like jackals, their blades dancing with shadows, eyes locked on his every movement.
Another flicker—he steps back just in time, their twin daggers crossing where his throat had been.
He slams his foot down, sending a ripple of fire across the ground.
They leap apart, but not fast enough—embers lick the edge of one cloak, burning through and blistering the attacker's calf.
The man stumbles, and Merin is on him, magma-coated fist swinging.
The attacker blocks with his blade, but the sheer force sends him skidding backwards, smoke trailing from the weapon's cracked edge.
Behind him, the other lashes out with a spinning shadow whip.
Merin ducks—but not fully.
It grazes his back, tearing a long, shallow cut that draws blood.
He grunts and twists, launching a backhand of white flame, catching the attacker across the shoulder with a burst of searing heat.
They fade into the shadows again.
Merin steadies his breathing.
Their rhythm is exact—kill, vanish, flank, strike.
His fingers twitch. He's learning that rhythm too.
The shadows on his right shift.
He feints left and catches the attacker mid-lunge with a sudden ice wall.
The assassin crashes into it, dazed for half a second, and Merin's knee slams into his ribs.
A muffled crack sounds. The man snarls and vanishes before Merin can follow up.
The other comes instantly, trying to take Merin's head.
Merin blocks, but not clean—his forearm gets sliced, blood dripping down over his fist.
He retaliates with a straight punch to the gut, forcing the attacker to absorb the full weight of magma and chakra.
The man stumbles back, coughing, his cloak smouldering and cracked open at the chest.
They're breathing harder now.
Sweat glistens on their brows, blood on their sleeves.
But Merin bleeds too.
Four cuts. Two bruises. One shallow stab.
He rolls his neck and wipes blood from his chin.
"Still want to try killing me?" he mutters.
The shadows stir.
The assassins don't speak.
They move.
Faster.
Sharper.
But Merin is no longer defending.
Now, he's hunting.
Merin narrows his eyes, feet planted firm as the shadows lurch again.
One of them appears behind—Merin lets him in, allowing the dagger to pierce deep into his shoulder with a grunt.
But his other hand lashes out in that same moment, catching the second assassin's wrist mid-strike. His grip locks like iron.
With his free palm, he unleashes a blast of ice-fire.
White flames laced with freezing frost explode point-blank into the assassin's chest, flinging him back like a broken doll, smoke and ice trailing from his scorched cloak.
Merin roars and rips the embedded dagger from his own shoulder with bloodied fingers.
Before the first assassin can pull back for another thrust, Merin lunges forward.
Their blades clash—steel against stolen steel—and Merin's strength forces the attacker's arm wide.
The assassin stumbles, regains footing, but Merin is faster.
The dagger slashes upward in a precise arc, cutting through cloth and grazing the man's ribs. The attacker growls, swings, but Merin ducks low, parries, and knees him in the thigh.
The assassin stumbles again, but steadies himself, both daggers raised.
Merin spins the stolen blade in his fingers, blood dripping from his shoulder, chest rising and falling.
"You won't get another clean strike," he says, eyes sharp and calm.
The assassin charges—Merin meets him head-on.
The assassin rushes in, twin daggers flashing—one low, one high. Merin pivots to the side, blocking the high slash with the stolen dagger and letting the low one graze across his ribs.
Blood seeps, but Merin doesn't flinch.
He twists his arm, locks the assassin's wrist, and slams his forehead into the man's face.
Bone cracks.
The assassin reels back, staggering.
Merin doesn't let him breathe. His palm glows white-hot—then a burst of frost erupts as he fires a concentrated blast of ice-fire into the assassin's gut.
The cloak burns and shatters in white steam, revealing scorched skin and splintered armour beneath.
The assassin crumples to one knee, trembling.
Merin walks forward.
The other assassin, the one flung earlier, now tries to rise, clutching his charred chest.
Merin's eyes lock on him.
He raises the dagger, then throws it.
It whistles through the air, spinning once—twice—and buries deep in the second assassin's throat.
The body jerks, spasms, then collapses to the ground, twitching once more before stilling completely.
Silence returns to the park.
Merin breathes, his wounds throbbing, his shoulder soaked red—but he stands.
Only one assassin left.
Merin exhales sharply, body loosening for a moment as the second assassin lies lifeless on the ground.
His fingers relax—but only for a breath.
A crack splits the silence.
A black shadow whip slams into his back.
Merin's eyes widen—then his body is flung forward like a ragdoll, smashing through branches and crashing hard into a tree trunk.
Bark explodes around him. He grits his teeth, blood spraying from his mouth as he drops to his knees.
A sharp wailing rises in the distance—police sirens.
The remaining assassin charges forward, his dagger glinting in the dark.
Merin coughs and staggers upright just in time to see the dagger plunge toward his chest.
Too fast to dodge.
Steel bites into his right chest, deep.
Pain flares white-hot, but Merin clamps down on the assassin's wrist with one hand.
His other hand glows as a jagged ice lance forms.
With a grunt, he drives it upward through the assassin's belly.
The icy blade pierces through back and armour, splitting out with a burst of mist.
The assassin jerks violently, then slumps forward, dead in Merin's grip.
Merin collapses to the ground, panting, blood pouring from his chest wound.
Inside him, something twists.
A foul, burning sensation spreads from the stab wound—demonic energy writhing through his blood, crawling toward his mind.
Merin clenches his jaw and presses his hand to the wound, trying to force the corruption back—but it's strong. Too strong.
Footsteps echo through the trees.
He lifts his head slowly, vision blurred.
Figures approach with raised torches—and in the flickering light, he sees uniforms.
Police.
He sighs in relief.
Then everything goes black.