Wazed picked up the fallen honor guard's broadsword, which was far too extravagant for his taste. The long, polished blade glittered in the flickering candlelight, its handle wrapped in black leather and studded with gems. What could one expect from a guard that was only for show?

  "The others will be here soon. Surrender now, and you might live," the lanky guard said, pointing his spear at Wazed with unsteady hands. His words rang hollow, the fear in his eyes betraying his conviction.

  Ignoring Selena's trembling form on the bed behind him, Wazed approached the guard with slow, deliberate steps, feeling sorry for the man. He muttered a curse under his breath. If only he had not deviated from the plan, there would be no need for the senseless slaughter that was about to occur.

  The young guard inched away as Wazed advanced with trembling lips. He couldn't blame him - common guards were ill-equipped to deal with a mage. Not surprising since houses had no reason to anticipate an assassin of his caliber.

  Magic flowed down from the king to his subjects. If the monarch desired, he could strip away the abilities of any lord. If a noble misused their power to kill a member of another house, the king could strip them of their abilities and execute them and their entire family without a second thought.

  And among commoners, magic was a rarity, akin to finding a needle in a haystack. Those who possessed it were typically limited to D-grade skills and had painfully inadequate mana reserves, barely enough to fend off a mere squadron of common soldiers, let alone a noble.

  But Wazed was not of noble birth nor of common stock. He was a faceless. The king had no control over his powers, something that the crown did not appreciate. Thus, they had massacred his tribe.

  [Are you sure you want to activate a second face?]

  {Warning: high mana drain}

  (Y/N)

  Yes, he internally assented.

  "I'm warning you—"

  Wazed dashed. In an instant, he closed the distance between himself and the young guard. The guard was taken completely off guard, unable to react in time as Wazed's sword plunged deep into his throat. Blood gurgled out of the guard's mouth as he collapsed to the floor, his lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling.

  Footsteps echoed from the end of the hallway, marching down from the stairs. Wazed calmly stepped into the corridor, coming face to face with a wiry guard with a bushy mustache. The guard's eyes widened in shock as he caught sight of Wazed looming over the corpse as if he were death himself. More soldiers quickly pooled into the corridor, their expressions ranging from disbelief to horror. In total, there were five of them, all clad in golden uniforms with chainmail. One of them, perhaps their captain, wore a feathered helmet.

  Wazed felt the skin on his neck prickle and tingle once again. In one swift motion, he tore off the skin on the right side of his face vertically. The soldiers recoiled in terror, their eyes bulging.

  "What...what are you?" one of them stammered.

  Wazed paused, briefly contemplating the soldier's question. "What am I?" he murmured to himself, staring down at his reflection in the blood-splattered broadsword. The left side of his face belonged to Rollo, a swiftblade, while the right side belonged to Vougen Da'ath, a cryomancer from the esteemed house Da'ath whom Wazed had killed five years ago.

  [ERROR: Multiple classes detected]

  [Class %2%: Soundweaver]

  [Skill(s) Available:

  {Sort By: Most Recent}

  (Lesser Scream | Grade: D5 | Cost: 435)

  (Death Wave | Grade: A1 | Cost: 3200)

  …see more.]

  He had only around 7,500 MP left. It was still plenty, his total reserve a hundred times more than the average mage. But it wasn't infinite. Sooner or later, he'd run out if he didn't use his skills sparingly.

  "Don't be scared. He can't take all of us on by himself! Charge at him!" the mustachioed man bellowed, goading his guards into action. The guards rushed forward, their spears pointed towards Wazed like a wall of death. But Wazed didn't flinch.

  "Lesser scream," he muttered, his lips barely moving before he opened his mouth wide and unleashed a high-pitched wave of noise. The sound was so intense that the guards were forced to drop their weapons and cover their ears. The hallway echoed with the clang of steel hitting the floor.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  He dashed forward, his legs swirling with red and white energy that crackled in the air. His blade sliced through the air, catching the commander's neck with a clean cut that sent his head spinning away, blood spurting from the severed neck. The remaining guards watched in horror, yelping.

  “You bastard!” one of them shouted as he charged at Wazed, his sword swinging wildly in the air like a crazed animal. With a fluid grace, Wazed calmly dodged with practiced ease. He spun around, his sword arcing through the air in a deadly dance. The blade sliced through the guard's chest, sending blood spraying in all directions. With a gurgling gasp, the guard fell to the ground.

  Another one bites the dust.

  Three more remain. They all charged toward him at a time. Wazed's eyes darted around, and his gaze landed on a pottery urn perched atop a nearby pedestal. Without hesitation, he lunged for it, yanking it from its perch and hurling it at the floor before the oncoming guards. The pottery shattered into a million pieces, creating a makeshift obstacle course that tripped up the guards.

  Seizing the moment, Wazed dashed forward, his blade gleaming in the flickering torchlight. He swung his sword with such force that it cut through bone and sinew, severing the wiry guard's arm from his body with a sickening crunch. Streaks of blood sprayed through the air, as cloth flapped and metal bent under the force of his attack. The guard howled in agony, stumbling backwards and clutching his mangled limb. He would soon die from blood loss.

  Two more remained. But one had already turned on his heel to flee. A wise man. The other stood tall, though his lips quivered. Courage. Commendable but foolish.

  With a roar, the guard charged forward, his sword flashing in the dim light. But Wazed was quicker, his broadsword spinning in his hand before landing with a meaty thwack into the guard's forehead. Blood bubbled from the wound as the guard fell backward, eyes open and staring into the face of death.

  Behind Wazed, two blue robes stood on the stairs, their hands gripping the banister tightly. Bronze-rimmed goggles covered their eyes, with a gemstone at the bridge, the lenses glowing a faint green.

  Identification goggles. A grade C item that allowed the wearer to view another's basic stats and associated house. He wondered what they were seeing as they looked at him.

  The two robed figures trembled as they met Wazed's gaze. One began to climb back up the stairs with a start, while the other stumbled and fell, scrambling to his feet and fleeing as if he had seen a ghost.

  People upstairs would have a hard time digesting what they were about to hear from the identifiers. You can hardly blame them. The last time the world had seen a faceless was before the thousand-year blood war, and that was ages ago.

  The stone stairs stretched out before Wazed, their wide expanse devoid of any movement. He strained his ears, hoping to catch the faintest hint of approaching soldiers, but all that echoed through the empty space was the sound of his own breathing. He went back and hauled a lifeless body up onto his shoulder, then made his way toward the steps.

  A grand probably ambush awaited him at the upper hall. He prayed to the almighty, not for himself, but for the souls of those who had already fallen, and for the many more that he would soon dispatch. Though he wasn’t a believer, not since the day they had burned his village and murdered everyone in cold blood on a stormy winter night. But still, prayers give you the illusion of control in a world where chaos reigns supreme. Sometimes, that’s all a man needed.

  The landing at the top of the stairs was deserted, the large double doors to the upper hall thrown wide open. Rows of soldiers awaited him. Three score of them in gleaming steel plates, their spears and crossbows at the ready.

  “Now!”

  A volley of arrows flew towards him. Wazed shielded himself with the corpse of the fallen soldier. Had the identifiers told them nothing? Wazed didn’t want to kill those who were not on his list. But what choice did he have?

  “Attack at once!” Scores of men howled as they bolted to lunge at him, spears pointed. Far too many for a regular mage to handle.

  But Wazed was no regular mage.

  He drew a deep breath, filling his lungs until they vibrated with power. With a piercing cry, he unleashed a wave of sound that rippled through the air. The soldiers in the room staggered, their hands flying to their ears as their eardrums burst. Weapons clattered to the ground as the guards cried out in pain and confusion.

  He strode through the pile of writhing soldiers. Their moans and cries followed him, with one soldier calling out to her father in agony. But Wazed didn't slow down. He had a mission to complete. He set his jaw and made his way towards a smaller, more richly decorated room

  He stepped into the lavishly furnished room, where the Duke likely feasted with his closest associates and guests. A large dining table lay at the center of the room, polished to a high shine and set with fine silverware and goblets. Above it hung a chandelier, its crystal prisms catching the light and sending it scattering across the room in a glittering display. The carpets beneath his feet were a deep shade of red, made from the finest silk from the distant land of Jajabuor.

  The room, however, was eerily quiet. There was no chatter of guests, no clinking of glasses, no laughter or merriment, and no sight of the Duke or anyone for that matter. Wazed's frown deepened as he scanned the room, searching for any sign of his quarry. The table was laden with half-eaten plates of rich food, their aromas still wafting through the air.

  Clearly, the attendees left the room in a hurry. But had Bartrem joined them? Wazed's heart raced at the thought, his mind racing through the possibilities.

  No.

  The Duke was too proud to flee like that. Or had Wazed misjudged him? Sweat beaded down his forehead, his eyes flickering, desperately scanning the room, trying to figure out the next course of—

  “Looking for me, assassin?”

  A shiver went down Wazed’s spine. He turned on his heel, eyes widening. A searing blast of flames shot towards him. Wazed's instincts kicked in and he darted to the side, but the fire was too wide and caught his right side, scorching him from his shoulder to his face.

  A deafening cry escaped from Wazed's lips as he fell to the ground, writhing in agony as the flames licked his skin. He rolled and hit the wall, desperately trying to put out the flames. In a moment of despair, he ripped off the charred right side of his face, mourning the loss of his face.

  Wazed cursed under his breath, pushing himself up to his knees with one hand, while gritting his teeth to bear the sharp pain on his charred shoulder. The door behind Bartrem had shut with a loud thud.

  "That's all you got?" Bartrem said haughtily, golden armor gleaming. "It's a pity there aren't two of you. I would have let one go back to your employer and tell them they greatly underestimated who they're trying to assassinate."

  This was going to be more difficult than Wazed had thought, and he’d have to end this quickly, for time was not on his side. Nor was his dwindling mana.

  [Skill(s) active: Necrofusion]

  {Time Remaining: 00:31:44}

  [Mana: 4100/10,000]