The night air was still.
Arjun moved alone in the training courtyard, his feet tracing silent circles across the stone tiles. His arms flowed in wide arcs — the steps of the Wind Stance guiding him like a current. He was lost in the motion, the silence, the rhythm.
That's when the cold hit him.
A chill, deep and unnatural, slid down his spine.
Before his instincts could catch up, a blade slashed through the moonlight — inches from his face.
Too close.
He didn't even have time to shout. His arms were mid-arc, leaving his body wide open. Every part of him screamed to dodge, to move — but there was no space, no time.
His mind exploded into overdrive.
Think. Move. Survive.
He raised his forearm in front of his face — just enough to shield his eyes — and let himself fall backward, letting gravity take the lead.
The blade missed him by a breath. A few strands of his hair floated to the ground.
Arjun hit the stone, rolled hard, and sprang back to his feet — eyes wide.
Standing in the shadows: a figure in black. Hooded. Silent. Holding a curved dagger.
"What the fa—" Arjun began.
But the assassin lunged again.
Arjun barely sidestepped, shifting instinctively into Wind Stance. His feet danced. His breath synced. His heartbeat was a drum in his ears.
He was in his first real battle — a fight where the loser dies.
The dagger shimmered under moonlight. Arjun didn't need to be told — the edge was poisoned. One scratch, and he was finished.
The assassin moved with mechanical precision — no wasted energy, no flair. Just death.
Arjun used every trick he knew — fluid motions of Water Stance to confuse, abrupt dodges from Wind, anything to stay alive.
He danced for his life.
The assassin feinted left, then thrust center — but Arjun slipped to the side and twisted his wrist. The dagger flew from the man's hand, clattering across the courtyard.
For a moment — just one — Arjun let out a breath.
That was a mistake.
The assassin slammed a boot into his sternum, sending him skidding across the stone. Arjun hit the ground hard, rolled, and forced himself to stand.
He spit blood onto the floor and wiped his mouth.
"Who the hell are you?" he growled. "Why are you trying to kill me? Who sent you?"
No answer.
The assassin simply pulled two more daggers from beneath his cloak.
"Of course," Arjun muttered. "An assassin with backup knives. What else is new?"
They clashed again.
The assassin slashed for Arjun's shoulder — a lethal arc meant to split flesh from bone — but Arjun flowed into Wind Stance and evaded like air itself. Another dagger came for his ribs — he spun and countered with a palm to the chest from Water Stance.
He didn't stop.
He pressed forward, shifting into Fire Stance with all the fury he could muster — a blur of blows meant to break through the assassin's guard.
The assassin staggered back, but not for long.
From the corner of Arjun's eye — a flicker of movement.
The attacker melted into shadow.
Arjun barely turned in time.
The blade came from behind — a silent, killing strike — but he ducked low, shifted into Stone Stance for stability, then blocked cleanly.
Countered with Fire.
Again they danced. Strike, vanish, reappear, clash. It was like fighting a ghost made of daggers.
But Arjun endured.
He moved on instinct now — feeling the patterns, reading the angles. He wasn't just surviving.
He was adapting.
And the assassin noticed.
This wasn't normal. Most targets died within seconds. This one? Bleeding, bruised, gasping — but still fighting.
The black-clad man narrowed his eyes behind the mask. This boy is too skilled. The intel was wrong.
He shook off the doubt. No. The job must be finished. This is the law.
He stepped forward.
And froze.
Footsteps.
From the far archway of the courtyard, a lone figure walked forward — slow, deliberate, unafraid.
Agent Dharan.
The assassin didn't need to be told. Every bone in his body screamed one word:
Run.
He turned, vanished into the shadows.
But Dharan didn't even blink.
He simply raised a hand… and plunged it into the shadow itself.
A moment later, he pulled the assassin out by the throat.
The black-robed man thrashed — but didn't fight. He couldn't. He'd already seen it in Dharan's eyes:
There was no winning this.
Before Dharan could say a word, the shadows surged again.
But not at Dharan.
They came for the assassin — and struck with precision.
In an instant, the man's head was severed, yanked into the darkness by tendrils of living shadow.
His body dropped like a puppet with its strings cut — blood pooling, steam rising in the moonlight.
Dharan stood frozen.
No memories to extract. No identity to trace. Nothing left to question.
The message was clear: he was never meant to talk.
Arjun, bloodied and barely conscious, collapsed to his knees.
His vision blurred. His limbs trembled. But before his eyes closed, he looked up at Dharan — and smiled faintly.
"Thanks for showing up when you did, Agent… or I'd be a head shorter."
Then the world faded to black.