The Skirmishes Begin

  The night is thick with tension. The allied guilds—White Flame, Azure Tempest, Obsidian Fang, and Crimson Guild—stand on high alert as scouts report enemy movement near the kingdom’s outskirts. No formal declaration of war has been made, yet the enemy moves with purpose.

  Darius: "They’re testing us. Seeing how we respond."

  Garrick: "Then we give them an answer."

  The first wave of the enemy arrives—a mixture of corrupted mercenaries, rogue knights, and unidentified dark mages. No demons—yet. The battle is swift and precise, skirmishes breaking out at various points across the eastern border. The guilds hold their ground, but something feels… off.

  Cain stands on the front lines, white flames bursting from his hands, incinerating enemies before they can even raise a blade. Despite the casualties, the enemy keeps coming—never overwhelming, never desperate, as if they have a greater goal than just conquest.

  Cain: "They’re stalling."

  Elena cuts down an approaching rogue knight with fluid precision before responding.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Elena: "But for what?"

  As the skirmishes rage on, Hanzo and a squad of knights advance deeper into enemy territory. They push back the corrupted forces, but suddenly, the enemy shifts. The retreat is too orderly, too clean.

  That’s when Hanzo feels it—a presence hidden in the shadows.

  A white-masked, hooded figure emerges from the darkness, their blade aimed directly at Hanzo’s heart.

  Hanzo’s instincts scream. He twists his body at the last second, barely avoiding the strike. But just as he steadies himself, another hooded figure moves faster than the eye can follow.

  A dagger flashes. A clean, precise strike.

  Hanzo gasps as pain erupts through his chest. His heartbeat slows. His vision darkens. The world around him fades into nothing.

  A voice whispers in his ear, cold and sharp.

  ???: "Just as I thought. You are not ready. You cannot wield the power of your ancestors. You are nothing like your father—just a mere E-rank."

  Darkness.

  Before anyone can react, the masked figures vanish into the night. Hanzo’s body collapses onto the battlefield.

  Garrick and Cain sprint toward him, their expressions filled with panic. But before they reach him, the battle takes another unexpected turn.

  As the first light of dawn crests over the horizon, the enemy forces begin retreating. No signs of struggle, no sign of desperation—just a calculated withdrawal, dissolving into the shadows as if they had never been there.

  The guilds, bloodied but standing, watch in confusion.

  Darius: "They had us on the defensive. They could have pressed forward. Why stop now?"

  Cain: (Clenching his fists) "This wasn’t a war. It was a message."

  The battlefield falls silent, except for the faint, ragged breaths of Hanzo, lying on the cold ground, unconscious—perhaps dying.

  And none of them understand why.