Massacre Beneath the Moon (2)

As I watched Anastasia reap that guard's life with the ease of someone plucking a flower, Grey was already facing another adversary, his bloodied hand piercing the guard's chest like a lightning bolt incarnate in flesh and bone. With a dismissive, almost bored flick of his wrist, as if swatting an annoying insect, the enemy's body crumpled like a rag doll, utterly lifeless and grotesquely broken.

—Jamal! That damned idiot! How can a trained soldier lose to a mere kid?! —shouted one of the guards beside the leader, his voice trembling with fury that revealed how unexpected this development was to their plans.

The leader raised a hand with silent but absolute authority, quelling the rising panic spreading among his subordinates like a plague, and drew a carved pipe from his coat with a slow, deliberately theatrical gesture. As smoke began to dance from his lips in hypnotic spirals dissipating into the night air, his gaze settled on Anastasia with a fascinating blend of genuine curiosity and challenge.

—You're very different from what the reports led me to believe, miss. But that changes nothing, because I plan to deal with you personally —he declared, exhaling a gray cloud that dispersed into the air like an omen of death.

—What's your name? —Anastasia asked suddenly, her voice cutting through the air with a curiosity that seemed out of place amidst the massacre.

At Anastasia's unexpected question, the middle-aged man, whose face was rather attractive and maintained unyielding composure, shook the ashes from his pipe with a deliberate motion before responding with the solemnity of someone pronouncing an epitaph.

—I'll tell you out of respect for the dead. I'm Frank. Curse my name when you face death.

Anastasia observed him for a moment before completely ignoring him and shaking the fresh blood from her long black sword with a graceful motion. Frank, who had been watching this exchange in silence, let out a chuckle, a hoarse, unpleasant sound that reverberated in the tense atmosphere like the distant roar of a hungry beast.

—Let me ask you something. Who commissioned this job? —he questioned, his tone maintaining unshakable confidence, undeterred by her defiant attitude, as if he still wished to prolong this pre-battle conversation for reasons I couldn't fully decipher.

—You don't need to know that —Anastasia replied, her voice sharp as freshly forged steel and equally cold.

—I knew you wouldn't say it so easily. No matter —Frank retorted, shrugging with a disdain that seemed part of a broader strategy—. You'll want to spill it soon enough.

With an almost imperceptible gesture of his hand, the guards blocking all possible escape routes advanced like a pack of starving wolves encircling their wounded, vulnerable prey.

—Should we just chop off her head already?! —asked the guard to Frank's left, his voice laden with bloodthirsty zeal that turned my stomach.

—No, under no circumstances —Frank ordered with a cruel smile that twisted his face into a demonic mask—. Capture her alive and break every limb in her body. So she can't help but go completely mad. She must writhe in the most exquisite pain for the final form to emerge truly beautiful.

—Yes, sir! —the guards responded in unison.

The two Illuminated appeared before Anastasia like apparitions from the underworld itself, while the remaining six guards charged at Grey with clearly lethal intent. Grey observed the unfolding scene with a look of almost palpable boredom, as if this situation were as routine to him as breathing.

Despite the threat looming from multiple angles, Anastasia's lips curved into a fearless smile, and her eyes gleamed with unsettling madness. Swiftly, she drew something from her dimensional ring—an object I couldn't identify from my position—and hurled it directly at the guard approaching with the greatest speed and murderous intensity.

The hooded figure turned his gaze toward the small object nearing him, clearly intrigued by this unexpected tactic. A firecracker? As his attention shifted entirely to this seemingly harmless decoy, Anastasia acted with lightning speed: in an instant, she sliced the firecracker and, with a devastating motion, rose above her adversary, gripping her black sword with both hands like an executioner and stabbing his exposed head.

Blood sprayed through the air like crimson dew as the blade pierced the guard's skull with the ease of someone splitting a ripe watermelon, cutting through bone and brain as if they were butter. His lifeless body collapsed into a heap of flesh and metal that had lost all semblance of humanity.

—A superficial, pathetic trick! —shouted another guard, seizing this apparent distraction to slip stealthily along Anastasia's unprotected right flank.

With his sword raised like a guillotine poised to fall, he aimed at her vulnerable back, still in a sliding stance and not fully stabilized after her previous attack. If this strike connected, Anastasia's body would be cleaved into two bloody halves.

But Anastasia, demonstrating agility that defied my comprehension, executed a mesmerizing maneuver: she brought her left elbow and right hand back over her head in a seemingly impossible motion, lowering her long sword to block the incoming strike and protect her back with skill that transcended mere training. The two swords clashed violently, unleashing a shower of sparks that illuminated the darkness like thousands of shooting stars born and dying in the same instant.

Without losing lethal proximity to her opponent for a second, Anastasia snaked her right hand under the adversary's sword like a venomous serpent waiting for the perfect moment to strike, yanking it upward with a sharp motion to disarm her enemy in a fraction of a second.

Her other hand, held at a sharp angle that demonstrated years of practice, gripped her own sword as steady as a rock, and with a single step combining perfect balance and lethal force, she swung the stolen sword, severing her adversary's head in a fraction of time so brief the man died without even realizing what had happened. Blood spilled into the air as she still held her original weapon.

Suddenly, Anastasia's confident expression changed drastically as a sword fell like divine thunder upon her completely unprotected head. Frank had struck stealthily, exploiting her moment of distraction!

The blow, of tremendous power that shook the earth itself, cleaved the air with a sharp whistle and raised a thick cloud of dust that completely obscured my vision, leaving me suspended in a state of terrible anxiety as I awaited the outcome of this surprise attack.