Chapter 11: The Blood on New Snow
I wasn't ready.
I thought I was.
Months of training, sparring under instructors who barked at me to keep my balance, mind my aura, breathe through pain—
It all felt real enough inside the polished halls of the Academy.
Inside the safety of walls and watching eyes.
But out here?
Where the stones bled through the snow?
Where the cold didn't give a damn about your perfect form?
Out here, real death didn't ask if you were ready.
---
The first knife came from the left.
I didn't see it—I heard it.
The way the snow sighed as something cut through it.
The way my breath caught half a second too late.
Instinct shoved me sideways.
The blade scraped my ribs as it passed, a thin, burning line of pain under my coat.
---
I hit the ground hard, breath exploding from my lungs.
The world tilted.
Snowflakes spun in my blurred vision.
I tasted blood.
A shadow loomed above me.
Boots crunching over fresh snowfall.
A glint of steel.
A flicker of golden aura.
Golden-ranked.
---
My mind caught up with my body a heartbeat later.
*This isn't a training match.*
*This is real.*
I rolled again just as the sword stabbed down, missing my shoulder by a finger's width.
I scrambled back, boots slipping on half-frozen cobbles slick with new snow.
The assassin followed.
---
I gritted my teeth, pushing myself upright.
My sword was in my hand—I didn't remember drawing it.
Breath tore through my throat in ragged gasps.
I locked my knees, forced my balance low, remembered Master Reyn's endless drilling:
*"You survive the first strike by breathing. You win the second by seeing."*
I breathed.
I saw.
And what I saw was death.
Moving fast.
Moving smart.
---
The assassin didn't charge recklessly.
Golden-ranked.
Disciplined.
Measured steps, sword low, aura pressed tight against the blade to minimize openings.
I couldn't overpower him.
Not yet.
Not like this.
---
I needed something bigger.
Something reckless.
Something suicidal.
---
I shifted my footing, left foot forward, right side guarded.
Half the Breath stance I'd practiced a thousand times.
But my core felt wrong.
Too light.
Too fast.
The snow was soaking through my boots.
The cut along my ribs was already stiffening with frozen blood.
I was slower than I'd ever been in a match.
---
The assassin closed the distance.
I didn't wait.
I stepped in first.
And *exhaled.*
Hard.
All the breath I'd hoarded exploded outward, dragging my aura with it.
Not graceful.
Not smooth.
It shredded outward like a jagged crack in a frozen river.
**Fourth Fang — Unformed Cut.**
---
The air between us bent, howled, snapped.
The assassin's sword wavered mid-strike.
He tried to correct.
Too late.
The raw blast of my aura smashed into him—unfocused, messy, ugly.
Not a clean slice.
A hammer blow.
He stumbled.
Aura fracturing around him like brittle glass.
---
I lunged.
More instinct than training.
Drove my blade forward, straight into his stomach.
Felt the resistance of flesh, the shudder of a body fighting to stay upright.
His hand clutched weakly at my arm, blood seeping between his fingers.
Then he sagged forward.
And the weight of him dragged me down with him into the snow.
---
We hit the ground together.
I lay there for a moment, sword still buried in the corpse, chest heaving.
The snow soaked into my clothes.
The pain in my side screamed louder than the ringing in my ears.
The blood in my mouth tasted bitter and sharp.
---
I rolled off the body.
Pulled my sword free with a sick, wet sound.
Wiped the blade once on the dead man's cloak out of habit more than honor.
Shoved myself up to one knee.
---
My hands shook.
Not from the cold.
From the aftermath.
The way the world blurred at the edges when you realized you could have died just now.
Would have died, if instinct hadn't screamed louder than fear.
---
I staggered to my feet.
Looked down at the blood mixing with the snow.
Bright red against pale white.
The wind picked up, howling low between the empty alleyways of the outer district.
I thought it sounded almost like laughter.
---
Three months ago, I thought the worst the world could offer was being cut from a noble's list.
Losing your spot in a duel ladder.
Being overlooked for advanced training sessions.
---
I hadn't realized it could be this.
Knives in the dark.
Blood freezing in the folds of your clothes.
Killing because you had no other choice.
Because someone decided you weren't supposed to breathe the next morning.
---
I walked.
Sword low.
Breath dragging itself in ragged patches through my teeth.
Each step left a trail of smeared blood behind me.
Mine and his.
Didn't matter.
The snow would cover it soon.
---
My fingers itched to unwrap the wound on my side.
To check how deep it really was.
But I didn't stop.
Stopping was dangerous.
Stopping was dying.
I pressed one hand hard against the torn fabric instead.
Warmth leaked between my fingers.
---
In the back of my mind, I heard Arin's voice.
*"You ever feel like we're just play-acting, Atlas?"*
*"Like the moment we step outside the walls, the real world's gonna eat us alive?"*
I'd laughed when he said it.
Not now.
Now it felt prophetic.
---
Serenya would have called me foolish for wandering out alone tonight.
She would have been right.
But she would have said it in that cold, detached way of hers—as if even my death would only be a minor inconvenience.
---
The Academy had taught us footwork.
Swordplay.
Aura channeling.
Breath control.
They hadn't taught us what it felt like to kill a man up close.
How heavy the body was.
How sticky the blood.
How the death lingered in your nose longer than your fear.
---
I kept walking until the lights of the Academy walls came into view again—soft, warm, safe.
The only place left where dying wasn't guaranteed.
Not yet, anyway.
---
I didn't remember crossing the threshold.
I just remembered slamming the training yard gate behind me and leaning against it until my legs gave out.
Sitting there, hunched in the snow, bleeding and breathing and blinking stupidly at the starless sky.
---
Tomorrow, I'd wash the blood out of my coat.
Tomorrow, I'd stand in formation like nothing had happened.
Tomorrow, I'd smile when Arin punched my arm and cracked another terrible joke.
Tomorrow, I'd survive again.
Because that's all survival really was.
---
One more breath.
One more kill.
One more bloody night you get to call your own.