The Enforcer's Verdict

There was no hesitation, no wasted motion. A shadow leaped at him, blade angled for the kill—only for its head to roll across the ground a moment later. The Enforcer didn't even slow. Another came from behind, silent as death, dagger poised for his spine—only to be caught midair, one gloved hand crushing the assassin's throat before tossing him aside like discarded meat.

A third attacker barely had time to blink before a boot slammed into their chest, launching them into a broken column with bone-shattering force.

The Enforcer's blade was no ordinary weapon. It did not merely cut; it cleaved, it obliterated, it consumed the space around it. His strikes were measured, efficient, perfectly placed—not just to kill, but to dismantle.

A butcher's work.

Veylan had seen many killers in his time. Assassins. Executioners. Soldiers. But this—this was something else.

The Enforcer was not a man.

He was an execution given form.