The Briefing Room
A heavy atmosphere filled the war room as Magnus stood at the center, his legendary armor gleaming under the dim candlelight. His grip on Excalibur was firm, and his expression unreadable.
"We have identified the possible location where Isolde might be held." His voice was sharp, filled with authority beyond his years. "It won't be easy. Whoever took her is highly skilled, and they might not be working alone."
Leonhardt listened intently, his arms crossed. He wasn't here to hesitate. He was here to act.
Alistair conjured a small magical projection of a dense, unmarked forest far beyond the capital's reach. "This place isn't on any official record. It could be an abandoned fortress… or a well-hidden lair."
Sylvaine narrowed her eyes. "Sounds like a perfect place for a kidnapper."
Reiner smirked. "Then let's crash their little hideout."
Magnus nodded. "We move now."
---
The Journey & Signs of the Enemy
The team rode swiftly through the darkened forest, the moonlight barely breaking through the thick canopy above. The deeper they went, the quieter it became—an unnatural silence that made even the horses restless.
Then, they found the first sign of trouble.
Bodies of fallen royal guards lay scattered along the path, their wounds precise and fatal. No unnecessary damage, no recklessness—whoever did this was a master of their craft.
Leonhardt crouched beside one of the corpses, observing the clean slash across the throat. His eyes sharpened.
"This wasn't done by a normal soldier," he muttered. "This is the work of an assassin."
Alistair extended his hand over the ground, his eyes glowing faintly as he read the magical traces. "And not just any assassin. The residual mana here is different… I don't recognize this magic at all."
Sylvaine traced her fingers along a nearby tree, spotting footprints leading deeper into the woods. "They didn't try to cover their tracks. Either they're overconfident, or they're baiting us."
Magnus tightened his grip on Excalibur. "Either way, we follow."
---
The Ambush
As the team ventured further, a sudden whistling sound cut through the air.
Arrows.
"MOVE!" Magnus shouted.
Everyone leaped into action just as the arrows struck where they had stood moments ago. Shadows emerged from the trees—silent, masked figures armed with daggers and short blades.
Leonhardt drew both his longswords in an instant—one in each hand.
His left hand held the sword in a firm, defensive grip, embodying the strong, disciplined stance of a knight, while his right hand wielded the second longsword with a more aggressive, free-flowing motion.
One assassin lunged at him with a dagger aimed at his heart.
Leonhardt's left blade met the attack head-on, parrying with sheer force, while his right blade countered with a lightning-fast horizontal slash, cutting through the assassin's ribs.
Two different styles—one seamless execution.
Another opponent came from the side, twin daggers flashing under the moonlight.
Leonhardt ducked low, letting the daggers pass just above his head. Then, with a swift upward slash from his right sword, he severed the enemy's arm before driving his left blade straight into their chest.
A third assassin aimed for his back.
Without turning, Leonhardt flipped his right sword into a reverse grip and thrust backward, impaling the enemy behind him. The body crumpled instantly.
Magnus, fighting nearby, caught the moment out of the corner of his eye. His expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker of interest.
Leonhardt wasn't just skilled. He was unpredictable.
The battle raged on, but Magnus found himself distracted—not by the assassins, but by Leonhardt's fighting style.
Two longswords.
It wasn't a common choice, even among skilled warriors. Knights favored power and defense, duelists preferred precision and speed, but Leonhardt—he was combining both.
Magnus' sharp eyes caught every motion. His left blade moved like a knight's—steady, unshakable, countering with forceful parries. But his right blade? It was different. Sharper, faster, weaving through gaps like a predator waiting to strike.
"What kind of technique is this?"
Before he could even voice his thoughts, his instincts flared—a sudden, overwhelming sense of danger.
His body reacted before his mind could.
WHOOSH!
Magnus twisted his neck just in time, barely avoiding a deadly strike aimed straight for his throat.
If I had been a second slower…
A figure in a black hood landed gracefully just a few feet away, the air around him distorted by sheer speed. The moment he touched the ground, he vanished again—like a ghost in the wind—before launching another attack.
Magnus instantly raised Excalibur, blocking the next strike.
CLANG! Sparks flew as their weapons met, the force pushing Magnus back slightly.
"Who the hell—?"
And then he saw it.
The way this figure moved—the fluidity of his motions, the lethal precision in every strike—this wasn't just an assassin.
This was a monster.
Leonhardt, sensing the shift in the battlefield, turned just in time to see Magnus engaged in a duel against the hooded figure.
His eyes narrowed.
"Is this the one who took Isolde…?"
Magnus' grip on Excalibur tightened as his eyes locked onto the hooded figure.
That aura—he recognized it.
"This presence… It's the same as that night in the palace…!"
A sharp rage ignited within him.
His muscles tensed, his mind focused entirely on the enemy before him. No hesitation. No mercy.
"You—!"
Magnus launched forward with terrifying force, Excalibur carving through the air like a divine judgment.
CLANG! The hooded figure parried with ease, but instead of counterattacking—he laughed.
A wild, exhilarated laugh.
"Oh? So the little prince actually has some skill!"
His voice was taunting, but there was no mockery—only genuine excitement. As if he was savoring every moment of the fight.
Magnus' expression darkened.
"I don't care who you are."
He pressed harder, his swordplay nothing short of perfection—every swing, every strike executed with absolute mastery. Sparks flew as their blades clashed, the sheer impact shaking the ground beneath them.
Yet, no matter how aggressively Magnus attacked, the hooded figure dodged effortlessly, his movements eerily playful.
"Good, good! Give me more!"
Then, as if suddenly losing interest—the figure disengaged, flipping backward with impossible grace before vanishing into the darkness of the forest.
"Get back here!" Magnus roared, fury clouding his judgment as he immediately gave chase.
Without a second thought, he dashed into the trees, his mind filled only with the burning need to hunt down the one who took his sister.
But he wasn't the only one who moved.
Leonhardt, watching the scene unfold, cursed under his breath.
"Damn it, Magnus!"
The prince was undeniably skilled, a prodigy beyond his years—but he was still young. Still reckless.
Leonhardt had no choice.
He tightened his grip on both longswords and sprinted after them into the night.
TO BE CONTINUED.....
End of Chapter 16.