"Ambushes rely on the element of surprise," Ethan's father, Henry Gray, said gravely. "Master Gale moves like a shadow. If Ethan reacts even a fraction too late, that sword will pierce his throat. That's the lethality of an assassin."
"But wouldn't that mean Ethan gets eliminated first?" Mrs. Gray fretted.
"Not if he detects the threat," Henry countered.
"Auntie, can Ethan sense him?" Sophia Reed asked, her fingers tightening around her seat.
"Both are world-class fighters. It’s anyone’s game." Henry never took his eyes off the screen.
Millions of viewers held their breath as the confrontation unfolded.
Ethan Gray crept through the alley, his light armor clinking faintly. His spear trembled slightly in his grip, senses straining. Unlike assassins trained in the Shadow Leopard or Phantom Cat disciplines—whose padded boots left no trace—his movements betrayed whispers of sound.
Above him, Gale crouched like a stone gargoyle. The old assassin’s breaths dissolved into the damp air, his rusted sword poised. Ethan advanced, oblivious.
Three yards apart.
Gale’s eyelids flickered.
Crack!
The assassin dropped like lightning. Ethan jerked his head upward—a blade’s glint filled his vision.
Instinct overrode thought. Ethan’s spear whipped upward in a blur, the shaft slamming into Gale’s descending sword with a metallic clang! The impact reverberated through the alley as Gale rebounded off the wall, vanishing like smoke.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
"Holy hell." Ethan wiped cold sweat from his brow. "No footsteps, no breath—just a blade materializing from thin air. One heartbeat slower and I’d be a corpse."
This wasn’t a scripted simulation or a staged arena duel. Virtual combat against AI lacked this razor’s-edge terror. Real assassins didn’t announce their strikes.
But I survived. Ethan exhaled. Years of drilling the Shadowless Thrust paid off.
Gale melted into the shadows, his lips quirking. "Impressive pup. Detecting my strike at three yards… Not many live to boast that."
The clash ignited the national live-stream.
"Brilliant!" exclaimed commentator Alex Wong, slamming the desk. "A dance of blades at 0.68 seconds—poetry in motion!"
His co-host, Brian Qin, replayed the slow-motion footage. "Look here: Gale’s sword shifts trajectory mid-lunge to avoid Ethan’s counterthrust. That split-second adjustment… It’s like watching two vipers strike and recoil in the same breath."
The stats screen flashed:
- ?**Gale’s Attack Window:**? 0.06 seconds
- ?**Ethan’s Reaction Time:**? 0.04 seconds
- ?**Total Engagement Duration:**? 0.68 seconds
Viewer comments flooded the feed:
- “How is this humanly possible?!”
- “Ethan’s spear moved faster than my WiFi lag!”
- “Gale’s a literal ghost. Respect.”
- “Mom, I’m switching my major to spearfighting.”
Host Jessica Liu grinned at the skyrocketing viewer count—500 million and climbing. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is why we call it ‘God-tier combat.’"
In the spectator lounge, Sophia Reed’s eyes shone. "He actually countered Gale…" Her parents exchanged approving nods beside her.
Grandpa Harold Gray cackled. "I taught Ethan that close-quarters thrust! Well… the basics, anyway."
Henry Gray’s chest swelled with pride. "My boy’s reaction time… World top five, easy."
Rain-soaked Town, Northwest District
Eliza "The Marksman" Sharpe crouched on a tavern roof, her compound bow scanning the mist. "In position," she murmured into the team comms.
"Back-alley secured," Ethan replied, spear resting against the damp cobblestones.
"Front street’s clear," said Lucas Grant from a window across the square.
A jovial grunt crackled over the channel. "Big man coming through! Don’t shoot the friendly panda." Marcus "Panda" Quinn’s hulking silhouette emerged down an alley, his riot shield speckled with rain.
Dexter Blades, the twin-dagger specialist, ghosted past a bakery. His voice sharpened. "Contact. Luna Dancer, 11 o’clock—moving fast."