chapter 13.3

The night stretched endlessly above them, a vast canvas of darkness broken only by the pale glow of the moon, its light slipping through gaps in the thick canopy of trees. The aftermath of battle left the air tense, heavier than the weight of drawn steel. Alcard stood motionless, his chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths, his grip firm around the hilt of his sword. The blade gleamed under the faint moonlight, still unsheathed, but he made no move to attack.

Across from him, three assassins clad in black remained poised, weapons still in hand, but their stance had shifted. Where once there had been pure intent to kill, there was now hesitation—something unspoken passing between them, a silent doubt that had begun to take root. They had expected a target, a swift execution. What they had not expected was him.

Alcard's crimson eyes narrowed, scanning them carefully. And then he saw it.

A pair of dimly glowing red irises, barely visible beneath the dark cloth that concealed one of the assassin's faces.

His fingers tightened around his blade, though not out of fear—rather, out of the sheer weight of realization crashing over him. This wasn't just an assassination attempt by hired killers. These weren't mere mercenaries carrying out a job for coin.

These were Outcasts.

Alcard's thoughts raced, piecing together the implications of what he had just uncovered. If they were Outcasts, then they were still bound by The Wall, still tied to the same brutal existence he had lived through. And if that was the case—why were they here? Why had they been sent to kill him and Arwen?

The air between them grew colder, the tension more suffocating than the darkness that surrounded them. The assassins did not move. Neither did Alcard. They were locked in an unspoken standoff, teetering on the edge of something far more dangerous than just a clash of blades.

Then, he spoke.

"Stop."

The word sliced through the silence like a command carved into stone. It wasn't a plea, nor was it a suggestion. It was an order—one that carried the weight of authority, the kind that could not be ignored.

The assassins remained silent, but something in their posture shifted. Their weapons did not lower, but their steps halted.

Slowly, deliberately, Alcard tilted his blade slightly, angling it so that the moonlight caught the steel and illuminated his face—his crimson eyes reflecting the light like embers in the dark. The Outcast's mark.

"I am one of you," he stated, his voice as firm as iron.

Their reaction was immediate. One of them tensed visibly, their stance faltering for just a fraction of a second. Another's grip on their weapon loosened, no longer as rigid as before. A silent exchange passed between them—uncertainty, recognition, and something else. Something deeper.

Alcard seized the moment.

"Have you forgotten our oath?" His voice was sharper now, pressing against them with the weight of undeniable truth.

Outcasts do not kill fellow Outcasts.

It was an unspoken rule, a bond forged not through loyalty to a nation but through the shared burden of exile, of survival against impossible odds. They were cast away by the world, abandoned by their own people. The only thing they had left was each other.

And yet, here they were, with blades drawn against one of their own.

Still, they did not speak. But they hesitated. And that hesitation was enough.

"You know our law," Alcard continued, voice unwavering. "No one commands us but The Wall. So tell me—who sent you?"

One of them shifted uncomfortably. The hesitation was growing, unraveling the certainty of their mission.

Then, finally, one of them spoke.

"We follow orders."

The words were spoken low, almost reluctant, as if they themselves were unsure of their purpose.

Alcard exhaled sharply through his nose. A vague answer—too vague. It meant one thing: they had been given strict instructions not to reveal their employer.

"Orders from whom?" he pressed, voice colder now, sharper. "Who dares command an Outcast to betray his own kin?"

Silence.

They did not respond. They wouldn't.

Alcard's gaze flickered between them, reading the tension in their bodies. They were trained to follow orders without question, but now, faced with the undeniable truth of their shared bloodline, they were trapped in a conflict they had not foreseen.

He had forced them into a corner.

And yet, they did not lower their weapons.

A long pause stretched between them. The assassins exchanged glances, their silent language betraying their thoughts. They were weighing their options, calculating whether the mission was still worth pursuing.

Alcard gave them one final warning.

"Betraying The Wall isn't just treason," he said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper but laced with a lethal finality. "It's a death sentence. You know that."

A flicker of something passed through their eyes—whether it was fear, realization, or reluctant agreement, he couldn't tell. But they didn't move.

They weren't attacking. But they weren't retreating either.

Alcard's grip on his sword remained firm, but his mind was already racing ahead. He needed more information. If someone had gained enough influence to turn Outcasts against one another, then this was far bigger than an assassination attempt. This was a power play.

And Arwen was at the center of it.

He stole a quick glance over his shoulder, making sure she was still unharmed. She stood a few steps behind him, her face pale, but her expression wasn't one of fear—it was one of understanding. She knew. This attack wasn't random. Someone wanted her dead or taken, and they were willing to use even the most unthinkable means to achieve it.

Alcard turned his focus back to the assassins, his patience thinning.

"You're hesitating." His voice was quieter now, but the threat in it was undeniable. "That means you already know you're making a mistake."

A long silence followed.

Then, the leader of the three nodded subtly to his companions. It was not a command to attack, nor a signal to surrender. It was something in between—a silent admission that they had walked into something far more complicated than they had been led to believe.

They did not lower their weapons, but they also did not strike.

Alcard took that as the only victory he could afford at the moment.

He stepped back once, maintaining his stance, ensuring that Arwen was still shielded behind him.

"This fight is over," he declared. "If you value your lives, leave. Now."

The three assassins exchanged one last glance. Then, without a word, they stepped backward, melting into the shadows of the forest as swiftly as they had appeared.

Alcard didn't lower his guard until their presence had completely faded. Even then, he did not relax.

He turned to Arwen, who was still watching him intently, her mind undoubtedly filled with the same questions as his.

"This isn't just about you," he told her quietly. "Someone is manipulating forces far beyond what we can see."

Arwen nodded, her expression solemn. "Then we need to find out who."

Alcard exhaled slowly, glancing back at the empty forest.

Whoever had orchestrated this attack had made a fatal miscalculation. They had underestimated him. They had underestimated Arwen.

And they had underestimated what it truly meant to be an Outcast.

This was only the beginning.

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