Chapter 153 – Personal
Grim Vulture moved.
No announcement.
No declaration.
No challenge.
They struck.
While Ivaline was mid-exchange with another challenger—
She swept his leg and rolled him clear of the forming kill zone.
Her hand dipped into her pouch.
A pebble flew.
Clang!
An arrow meant for the base of her skull ricocheted and buried itself in the dirt.
Two figures blurred at her flanks.
Long sword.
Short sword.
Paired stance.
The long blade pierced forward.
The short angled to seal retreat.
Her sword left its sheath.
Steel met steel—
But a third presence slid in.
A dart where there should have been none.
It skimmed past her cheek as another dagger stabbed low.
Thwack!
Her boot snapped upward, kicking one dagger from its wielder’s grip.
She leapt back.
Two more arrow darts arced toward her retreat path.
Slash!
Her blade cut through them—
No resistance.
They vanished.
A heartbeat later—
'Duck down!'
Swoosh!
Real darts arrived where the illusion had been.
She bends her body just in time.
They thudded into the earth behind her.
Slowly appeared from nothingness.
‘Illusion,’ Chronicle noted.
‘Four-man coordination. Ranged suppression. Close pressure. Spellcasting rear.’
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Her previous opponent scrambled away.
Then froze.
Recognition struck the crowd like a stone in water.
“Gr—Grim Vulture!?”
The name rippled.
Silver Rank adventurers.
But that wasn’t why the air grew cold.
Rivel turned to Garrick.
“They’re Silver Rank, right?”
Garrick’s face had lost all color.
“On paper.”
“…What does that mean?”
“They’re also gold-tier informants. High-tier thieves.”
A swallow.
“And contracted assassins.”
The word settled heavily.
Assassins.
Not duelists.
Not sparring partners.
Killers.
Ivaline stood her grounds against the Vulture.
As if triggered by the revelation—
Grim Vulture moved again.
The mage opened her grimoire.
Light bent.
The four figures blurred.
Positions staggered unnaturally.
One appeared half a step ahead—
Then lagged behind.
Another flickered sideways.
The images were wrong.
Delayed.
False.
An arrow whistled.
Ivaline dropped and dashed toward the nearest swordsman.
Ignored the illusion of the crossbow user.
Slash!
Empty air.
Her blade passed through illusion.
Her balance shifted—
Clang!
She barely raised her sword in time to block the real strike.
“…You blocked that?” the swordsman muttered.
Thwack!
Her kick lashed sideways—
Striking at nothing—
Yet a dagger wielder stumbled five feet away from where her image had stood.
Ivaline rolled from the blade lock just in time.
Two darts struck where she had knelt.
“How is she countering and dodging while illusion is active?” one of them hissed.
“Counter artifact?”
“No. She reacted to the false image earlier.”
Ivaline straightened slowly.
‘Chronicle.’
‘Yes.’
‘How do I fight what I cannot see?’
Silence for a fraction.
Then—
‘Like the Phantom.’
Her mind stilled.
‘Illusion manipulates sight. Not presence.’
‘So?’
‘Discard your sight.’
She understood his meaning.
And slowly closing her eyes.
The crowd gasped.
“She closed her eyes!”
“Did she give up!?”
“No, if vision lies—”
“—then you stop using it.”
Darkness.
But not emptiness.
Her world sharpened differently.
Leather creaking.
Herb-scented oil on one dagger user.
The faint metallic tick of crossbow tension.
Two synchronized heartbeats.
And—
Soft breath.
Spell murmuring behind.
She found it.
The leader barked on instinct, “Surrounds on her!”
They converged.
To the crowd, the illusionary afterimages struck first.
In reality—
They were inches from her.
She dipped low and slipped through the smallest gap.
A beeline toward the mage.
If illusion falls—
Their formation fractures.
Calculated.
Correct.
And anticipated.
“We got you now!”
A poisoned pouch burst mid-air.
Powder clouded.
She twisted—
Too late.
A breath entered her lungs.
Needles of numbness crawled through her arm.
Her fingers faltered.
Paralytic.
Her sword tip stabbed into earth to keep her upright.
Her body began betraying her.
‘Chronicle…’
‘Breathe. Stabilize. Prioritize survival.’
This was no spar.
Every angle they aimed at—
Neck.
Heart.
Kidney.
They intended to end her.
“Finish it.”
Four shadows lunged.
Then—
BOOM.
Wind exploded.
The mage was hurled backward.
CLANG.
A tower shield intercepted the dart volley.
SCHING.
Sword locked against long blade.
TAK.
Dagger met dagger.
Four figures stood between her and death.
Four Bastion.
Aldric’s voice was no longer warm.
The smiles that always there faded.
“If this were a contract,” he said evenly, “we might negotiate.”
The leader of Grim Vulture remained silent.
“But this—”
Aldric raised his blade.
“—is personal.”
Steel hummed.
“You want her?”
His eyes hardened.
“Break us first.”
Old hostility flickered between both parties.
They had crossed before.
Protected targets.
Hunted targets.
Sometimes Four Bastion won.
Sometimes someone died.
The grudge ran deep.
And then—
A voice tore through the night.
“YOU FCKING DARE TOUCH MY HUSBAND!?”
Mana surged.
Wild.
Unfiltered.
Seraphine rose into the air.
Wind spiraled violently around her.
Hair whipping.
Eyes blazing emerald.
“…Emerald Gale is airborne!?”
“MOVE!”
“BACK TEN METERS!”
Nyssa laughed dryly while Bram shoved the nearest adventurers away.
Rivel stared.
“…She’s terrifying.”
Seraphine’s voice dropped to something cold.
“Drop dead.”
The storm answered.
And the night split open.
