A Phantom in the Dark

The battlefield was eerily quiet. The once-thundering clash of steel and bursts of magic had faded, leaving only the stillness of death behind. The scent of scorched stone and blood hung thick in the air. The remains of Dead Master's summoned phantoms lay scattered like broken dolls, their skeletal frames crumbling into dust.

Lucian exhaled, steadying himself. His clothes were torn, and his muscles ached, but he was alive. And Lancer—Black Gold Saw—stood beside him, her massive blade resting against her shoulder.

"It's over," Lucian muttered, though he barely believed the words himself.

Lancer, however, remained tense.

"No," she said, her voice cold. "Something's still here."

Lucian stiffened. He couldn't sense anything, but he had long since learned to trust Lancer's instincts.

Then—

A whisper of movement.

Shadows twisted unnaturally along the edges of the ruined battlefield, swirling like smoke in the moonlight. A presence stirred within them—something unseen, something waiting.

And then, from the depths of the darkness, a voice:

"You truly believe it's over?"

Lucian turned sharply.

A figure emerged from the shadows, stepping lightly atop a crumbling wall. A woman—her black coat flowing like liquid night, green eyes gleaming with something between amusement and malice. Her skeletal crown, cracked and chipped from battle, sat atop her dark hair like a ghostly reminder of her nature.

It was her.

Dead Master.

But that was impossible.

Lucian's breath caught. "She—she should be—"

"Dead?"

Dead Master smiled. It wasn't the same wicked grin she had worn in battle—it was something softer, yet far more unsettling.

Lancer narrowed her eyes. "You're different."

Dead Master let out a soft, eerie chuckle. "Of course I am. The woman you fought? The one who stood defiant and perished at your hands? Yes, she is gone."

She stepped forward, her boots making no sound against the ruined stone.

"But I?" She spread her arms. "I was never bound to a single life to begin with."

Lucian felt ice creep up his spine. "Then what are you?"

Dead Master tilted her head. "A shadow. A ghost. An Assassin."

Lucian's stomach dropped.

Assassin.

Dead Master had not been Caster—she had never been a conventional mage. Her entire existence, her nature, had been something more insidious. She was not a force of destruction to be confronted head-on—she was a specter, a nightmare that lingered beyond death itself.

Lancer gritted her teeth. "So that's how you survived."

Dead Master smirked. "Did you really think I would play fair?"

In an instant, she vanished.

Lucian barely had time to react before a phantom hand gripped his shoulder. His breath hitched—he could feel the cold of death radiating through his very soul. He turned—

Nothing.

Just whispers of shadows fading in the wind.

Lancer lunged, her greatsword slicing through the air, but her blade found only emptiness.

Dead Master reappeared atop another ruined pillar, smirking.

"A little slower, and I might've taken your Master's head."

Lancer growled. "Try it. I'll carve you apart."

Dead Master laughed. "Oh, I have no doubt you would. But why waste the effort?"

Her eyes gleamed, glowing faintly in the dark.

"You won the battle, Lancer. But the war? That is far from over."

And then—she was gone.

Lucian stood frozen, his breath uneven.

Lancer scowled. "Damn it." She drove her blade into the ground, frustration clear in her stance. "She's going to be a problem."

Lucian exhaled, trying to calm the unease gnawing at his chest.

Assassin was still alive. And worse—she was watching. Waiting.

And if her words were anything to go by, she had no intention of playing by the rules.

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To Be Continued…