Chapter 77: Assassination Attempt [2]

Craig’s broken body trembled violently against the scorched earth.

His vision was a blur of crimson and smoke, his internal organs feeling as though they were being torn apart by the ongoing collision between his Sword Runner Ascension and the undigested 2nd-Tier core.

Yet, even as cold sweat and dark blood soaked into the ash beneath his cheek, his mind remained sharply, sovereignly alert.

He could hear every breath, every footstep, and the distinct, terrible whistle of steel being drawn from its sheath.

"Slice off his head," the Sword Sage leader had ordered.

Before the words could even fully fade into the humid air, one of the four ghost-masked Sword Runners broke formation.

He moved like a shadow across the clearing, his boots whispering over the dirt as he closed the distance in a fraction of a second.

High above his bone-white mask, his curved katana gleamed with a deadly, thin layer of concentrated aura.

He swung the blade downward in a ruthless, decapitating arc.

SWOOSH!

In that split second, Craig didn’t think.

His thought process was completely bypassed by pure, unadulterated survival instinct.

Forcing his paralyzed, screaming nerve pathways to respond through sheer, unbending willpower, Craig threw his upper torso backward, rolling across the scorched soil.

The katana sliced through empty air, cutting merely a few strands of Craig’s crimson hair.

"Oh?" The ghost-masked assassin let out a cold, amused hum, instantly adjusting his footwork.

"Still kicking, little Seventh?"

The assassin stepped forward, exploding into a frantic, high-speed sword routine.

His katana turned into a silver hurricane, delivering a relentless storm of diagonal slashes, low sweeps, and lightning-fast thrusts aimed at Craig’s vitals.

What followed was an agonizing, desperate dance of survival.

Craig had no weapon in hand—his refined arming sword lay several meters away in the dirt.

He was forced to dodge purely on foot, his broken ribs popping with every violent twist of his waist.

SWISH! CLANG! SWISH!

Craig ducked beneath a horizontal slash that shaved off a piece of his leather shoulder guard.

He step-pivoted sharply to the left, feeling the wind of a lunging thrust graze his cheek.

He tumbled sideways, his hands digging into the burning earth as he barely evaded a crushing downward strike that shattered the stone floor beneath his head.

His eyes burned with dark golden fire, his mind registering every trajectory even as his body threatened to shut down completely.

He evaded five, ten, fifteen consecutive lethal attacks through sheer spatial awareness and instinct alone, baffling the ghost-masked attacker.

"Stand still, brat!" the assassin hissed, frustrated that a crippled, dying apprentice was dodging his refined Sword Runner blade work.

Increasing his kinetic output, the assassin executed a phantom step, appearing directly in Craig’s blind spot.

He twisted his wrist, delivering a blinding, horizontal reverse slash.

CSHHH!

Craig attempted to leap backward, but his left leg spasmed violently as his internal digestion flared.

The curved katana bit deep into his midsection, cutting a wide, bloody gash across his stomach.

"Kh...!"

The sheer force of the blow threw Craig off balance.

He skidded across the dirt and collapsed heavily onto his knees, clutching his bleeding abdomen with a trembling hand.

He was panting frantically, his chest heaving as dark blood trickled from his lips.

The edges of his vision began to darken into absolute pitch black, his consciousness teetering on the fragile edge of complete blackout.

The ghost-masked assassin walked up slowly, stopping just two paces away from the kneeling Successor.

He rested the flat of his bloody katana lightly against his own shoulder, gazing down at the broken Seventh Successor like a butcher admiring a piece of hanging meat.

"Impressive instinct," the assassin sneered from behind his hollow white mask. "To dodge an elite Sword Runner while your own body is breaking down from within... you truly were a monster in the making. But it ends here."

The assassin stepped forward, gripping his katana with both hands and elevating it high above his head.

Cold aura flared across the edge of the blade.

"Any last words, Seventh Successor?"

Craig remained completely silent. He didn’t offer a plea, nor did he bow his head.

He simply forced his bleeding, golden eyes upward, fixing the assassin with a cold, unholy glare of absolute, sovereign wrath that made the killer’s skin prickle beneath his robes.

The assassin’s eyes narrowed behind his mask.

"Die."

He brought the blade down with catastrophic, execution-style force, aiming straight for the base of Craig’s neck!

BANG!!

Before the steel could travel halfway down, a blur of motion materialized out of nowhere like a falling meteor!

A massive broadsword smashed directly into the flank of the ghost-masked assassin with horrifying kinetic violence.

The shockwave of the impact sounded like a cannon firing in an enclosed space.

The assassin didn’t even have time to scream—his ribs shattered instantly, and his body was launched sideways like a ragdoll, flying over forty meters through the burning trees before crashing violently into a rock face.

BOOM!

The sudden, brutal entrance left the remaining four assassins completely stunned.

They instantly dropped into low combat stances, their eyes widening behind their white masks as they adjusted their focus to the new intruder, their casual mana pressure vanishing into sharp, murderous vigilance.

Dust and embers settled around the center of the clearing.

Standing directly in front of the wounded, struggling Craig was Ser Damian.

The First Dragonknight stood like an immovable iron wall, his heavy sword held low in a broad guard, his broad shoulders completely shielding his Lord from the enemies.

Damian’s knuckles turned white as his grip tightened around his weapon’s hilt.

He was breathing steadily, but his face was completely devoid of its usual youthful excitement.

His dark eyes were locked onto the four remaining assassins, burning with a thick, suffocating wave of pure bloodlust.

"If you want his head," Damian’s voice echoed, cold and dropping into a murderous register, "you will have to cut through mine first."

WHOOSH!

Before the assassins could respond, the surrounding air temperature plunged dramatically.

The dark pitch-black mist swirling across the clearing was suddenly torn apart by a terrifying, heavy pressure that slammed down onto the entire grove.

CRACKLE!

A second figure stepped smoothly out of the burning foliage, taking his place right beside Damian.

Ser Hughway drew his longsword with a crisp, ringing sound of metal that echoed across the forest.

The veteran Sword Master’s mana pressure flared outward like a roaring hurricane, his cold, hardened eyes locking onto the leader of the ghost-masked figures.

"Assassins in the Jeju Forest..." Ser Hughway spoke, his voice vibrating with absolute lethality.

"You picked the wrong target today, rats."