The masked figure landed and straightened, then took a position directly in front of Jolthar. They stood at a certain length from each other, perhaps thirty feet, sizing each other up.
Behind Jolthar, Milan had moved to position himself protectively around the still-mumbling Andrion. The carriage driver had long since fled, but he wasn’t able to cross the corner as the assassins killed him, and now he was lying in cold blood. The regular red-clad assassins maintained their circle but made no move to attack, clearly waiting for their leader’s signal.
The masked man spoke, his voice carrying despite being muffled.
It was neutral, emotionless, the voice of soone for whom killing was simply a job.
"Jolthar Kaezhlar. You’ve been marked for elimination."
"I’m going to go with the other option," Jolthar replied.
"The one where I don’t die at all."
"That option doesn’t exist," the assassin replied.
Then the night exploded into violence.
The masked assassin moved first, crossing the distance between them in a blur of speed that would have been invisible to normal human eyes. His attack ca from an absurd angle, a strike that seed to bend space itself.
Jolthar raised his hand, green energy covered his hand, and he parried. The collision sent shockwaves through the street, shattering windows in nearby buildings.
At the sa mont, the circle of red-clad assassins attacked. So charged toward Milan and Andrion. Others threw weapons that whistled through the air with deadly precision.
"Wake up, Andrion!" Milan shouted, his own power flaring as he created a defensive barrier around himself and his unconscious brother.
Jolthar couldn’t spare attention for them. The masked assassin was on him, unleashing a flurry of strikes that forced him entirely on the defensive. Each attack carried lethal intent and supernatural skill.
This was no ordinary fighter.
This was soone who might actually be strong enough to kill him.
*
The masked assassin launched another strike, and Jolthar dodged with minimal movent, his body flowing like water. His hand shot out, not reaching for a weapon but channeling raw power through his palm.
Telekinetic force erupted from his gesture, catching the assassin mid-attack and hurling him backward into a building wall hard enough to crack the stone.
"I should ntion," Jolthar said, his voice carrying an edge of irritation, "I just had a pleasant evening: wine, interesting conversation, beautiful won. I was just thinking, floating in my own dreams with those beautiful woman and you ca and attacked .
You’ve ruined my good mood."
The masked assassin recovered with inhuman agility, pushing off the wall to attack again. But this ti, Jolthar was ready. He raised both hands, and the air around him began to shimr with energy, which was in a green color that was distinctly different from his void or chaos powers.
A green light erupted from his body, not the sickly green of poison or corruption, but a vibrant, primal green that spoke of forests, hunting grounds, and savage strength. The energy coalesced around him like a living aura, and the temperature seed to drop as sothing ancient and powerful awakened.
Beast King Aura.
The masked assassin faltered mid-strike, clearly sensing the power shift. He tried to redirect his attack, but Jolthar’s telekinesis caught him again—this ti not just throwing him, but holding him suspended in mid-air.
"You’re Tier 8," Jolthar observed, studying the struggling assassin with the detachnt of a predator examining prey.
"Impressive. Most assassins top out at Tier 6 or 7. But it’s not enough."
He clenched his fist, and the telekinetic pressure intensified. The assassin’s body began to compress, his mask cracking under the force.
Then, with a gesture like swatting a fly, Jolthar slamd him into the ground with such force that the cobblestones shattered, creating a crater.
The masked assassin didn’t get up. His body lay broken in the center of the impact site.
The display of overwhelming power had montarily frozen the other red-clad assassins. But they were professionals—trained to complete their mission regardless of casualties. As one, they abandoned any pretense of individual combat and attacked as a coordinated unit.
Blades flew through the air from all directions. Assassins charged from multiple angles simultaneously, their movents synchronized with deadly precision. This was what made the Shishusuto legendary—their ability to function as a perfect killing machine.
Jolthar stood in the center of their convergence, surrounded by death approaching from every vector.
And he smiled.
Then he began to change.
The Beast King Aura intensified, blazing so brightly that it illuminated the entire street in eerie green light. Jolthar’s body started to transform, not gradually, but explosively.
His fra expanded, bones lengthening and thickening. Muscle mass increased exponentially, tearing through his clothes as his body grew to ten feet tall. His face elongated, becoming more bestial while retaining enough human characteristics to be recognizable as him. His ears stretched, becoming pointed and wolf-like. And covering his entire transford body was fur—white and black in striking patterns, thick and coarse.
The transformation was completed in seconds. Where Jolthar Kaezhlar had stood, there was now a creature of legend.
Fudrachen.
Behind the protective barrier, Milan’s eyes went wide.
"Impossible," he breathed.
"That’s... that’s a Fudrachen. A beast god form."
He had studied beastology extensively in this world thoroughly, so he knew the legends.
Fudrachen was a revered being, considered divine by many cultures. He was a prominent being of the beasts, creatures of such power that even deities respected them. And they were supposed to be nearly extinct, existing only in the deepest wilderness or in ancient stories.
But here one stood in the middle of Cahns’ar’s streets, radiating power that made the air itself vibrate.
The assassins hesitated for just a mont—the first ti they had shown anything resembling fear.
Then their training reasserted itself, and they attacked anyway.
The first assassin to reach the transford Jolthar swung a blade enhanced with killing energy. The Fudrachen caught the sword with one massive hand and crushed it, steel crumpling like paper.
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