Don got off the cart and joined her, standing by her side, surprised by the change in her gaze, which now seemed like that of a killer. In front of them, the four thieves lined up, waiting for the moment of confrontation. Their eyes locked, but in that instant, words were unnecessary; it was like feeling the cold moment of simply killing your enemy without caring about their desires or convictions.
Then, Don stepped in front of Miriel, interrupting her direct duel with the leader of the thieves, taking on the attention and the burden of finishing off the leader himself. A decision that Miriel only watched attentively, curious once again to see what someone like Don could do, knowing his most precious secret: the only possible survivor of his race.
So, she sheathed her blades and remained attentive to this silent confrontation, which would likely end in moments, knowing the superiority of those who once ruled the world.
Then, Tapia detected something strange emanating from Don's ether and quickly raised his broadsword, saying with irony, "Don won't be my opponent; it'll be Vargus." The assassin, with a calm appearance, blue eyes rimmed with ink, giving a decayed and slow look but exuding a sinister ether, smoked a cigarette without looking away for a second. He stepped forward and began to walk with complete confidence.
And Don, without any weapon in hand, lunged at him. But in the instant he merely blinked, Vargus disappeared from his range of sight. Don looked twice to the sides and, unbelievably, in a thousandth of a second, he noticed Vargus's outstretched leg, shoes ready to break his neck with a single kick at unprecedented speed. With considerable agility, he managed to dodge it, though it passed within centimeters of his throat.
Immediately, it didn't stop there. Vargus, with a feat worthy of an assassin, tried to knock him to the ground and then stab him in the neck with the dagger, but he still couldn't beat him in reflexes. Then, with quickness, he managed a movement that checkmated a blind spot Don hadn't noticed: both his sides at once. The assassin threw his right hand with an impossible-to-stop movement, but Don countered his blow, managing to throw the dagger from his right hand out of reach, "normally." But in the instant he merely grazed his skin, Vargus spun, disappearing and dodging Don's second counterattack. Then, reappearing to his left, he aimed to plant the left blade into his skull. With Don's impressive reflex—though he never expected it—he only managed to trace a long cut starting from the lower right part of his chin up to his eye, nearly blinding him.
With this achievement, he immediately backed away, watching Don bleed. Don ran his hand over his face, looking at the blood soaking his clothes and hand. Quickly, he began to realize he could die if he continued to underestimate this madman. Getting serious, he noticed that since before the battle started, he felt weaker and weaker, as if he was ceasing to feel a unique warmth coursing through his body.
Vargus noticed it in his gaze and, keeping his cigarette and fighting at the same time, put his hands in his pockets, lifting his chin with a downward gaze, indicating who was superior in this fight. Seconds later, he smiled brazenly in his face, something that enraged Don, making it clear he didn't have an ounce of respect for his rival.
So Don lunged at him, still with his vision messed up by the blood falling on his face. And Vargus played his trump card: without moving, without saying anything, he just turned… invisible… invisible to everyone in an instant, as if his body had been erased with a perfect eraser.
Don already had many of his senses strategically impaired: he was slower, more impulsive, without a clear range of vision. It was as if all his hard training was being forgotten little by little. But the truth was, it seemed as if Vargus was toying with him, or that the leader already knew about his possible weakness, as if his strength was fading. Then, Vargus, who had reappeared to his left, coldly charged for the final blow. The sound of the wind warned Don of a possible attack to his left—another impossible-to-stop attack even if he perceived it. Quickly, Don raised his hands to lift a stone wall and think about how to incinerate him later from a distance. But, contrary to what he believed…
As Miriel had predicted, although only a day had passed, it seemed Don had already sunk into his inevitable misfortune of being left without the few skills he had, because of the seal on his back that continued to suck all the ether he had until it left him lifeless. Seeing how his death was slowly approaching, he realized he had screwed up and thought, "I don't want to die now."
But instantly, Vargus thought about retreating in panic when, magically, he saw the path of a thread cutting and flying through the air half of the arm with which he planned to kill Don. At the same time, he felt a gush of blood coming from his own throat. He moved away from Don as quickly as he had approached, frightened, though all that was the flash of his survival instinct as an assassin class.
Don looked back, seeing Miriel in the background, doing nothing. He thought she had done something, although she hadn't lifted a finger to save him, though there were certain intentions on her part.
He began to walk slowly until he stood in front of a supaibi who now seemed like a fraud in his eyes. But on the side of the one who was completely defeated, still in a position to continue fighting, the surprise ended up disturbing him. In shock, he saw and felt how he disappointed the pride of his dear master—his effort, his dedication to turning him into a prepared student worthy of representing the respect everyone has for his name (though he is not known beyond the lands of Dunkaster). To do something, even if it was just that, he realized he might be dying upon understanding that his ether point was extinguishing and that he no longer even emanated a shred of respect with his so mediocre ether. He became someone common and ordinary, but moribund.
Then the leader began, "You shouldn't get involved in other people's fights; it's not your duel, you disgusting assassin."
At that moment, Miriel, once again displeased by his presence, looked at him on the ground and commented something he would understand much later: "I don't understand what he saw in you if you're useless. A supaibi? Don't make me laugh; I understand better why only a handful of people remember you," she mentioned between her lips with contempt toward Don.
She raised her head and looked directly at the leader, without fear, without hesitation, drew her blades again at the same time, and began with her combat stance—a stance that would certainly instill fear in those thieves, even if they weren't sure if her stance matched their mental spines. First, with smooth movements, she raised her arms with the daggers in hand, pointing downward in a straight manner.
And the leader… instantly realized his mistake upon taking a good look at who they were really facing and that they weren't simple peasants selling medicinal herbs, as the tracker who came with them had indicated. They had made a serious mistake that this group didn't usually overlook… or several. The first mistake was not carefully checking who they were attacking before robbing or killing them. The second, never attacking a person who carries a criftocristal, something extremely expensive to create and obtain, due to the tactical and logistical advantage that little terrain offers.
Miriel, upon taking the crouched stance, tilting her blades to her sides, finalizing her assassin stance, revealed a sinister rumor in the mind of the leader of the thieves—that imposing man with a prominent beard, bare-chested like a true barbarian, named Tapia—creating significant concern. Asking his ally to his right, the assassin class, with a worried look: "Vargus, did we screw up this time? She's not the assassin of the white horns, is she? Her stance is the same."
"I don't think so; look at her, she looks like a guide. Maybe she stole that little terrain, who knows, but this bitch is a fraud. The best assassin of the crying snakes, the same white light that killed a hundred men and destroyed an organization in one night like the wind blows a leaf—it's impossible for it to be this plebeian, even if she's a beautiful elf. When I'm done, I'm going to enjoy her," Vargus mentioned, looking at Miriel with a lascivious smile.
"You little brat, how could you fail at this?" Tapia shouted, angry, after slapping the one who was the team's tracker, not to mention the pleasure the sorcerer took in seeing her receive her due.
But still, Tapia saw the small advantage they had against her. They were two—well, one really—against four, each with a good rank. Information spreads, and many know that the assassin of the white horns is rank 5, but no one knows her true identity or the differences in the type of mana that distinguishes them. They trusted themselves and decided to believe that they were just rumors, since they had never encountered any of her victims, hence her strange nickname, The Cleaner.