Midnight. A quiet town on the outskirts of the Great Empire’s capital.

Night fog crept in as dusk deepened.

The sky had long been swallowed by oppressive storm clouds.

Only the moon—a sickle-sharp sliver in the void—bled pale light through the gloom, spilling onto the unlit, isolated streets of Guzhen.

That was the town’s name: Guzhen.

In the Great Empire’s capital, midnight was the coldest hour, when streets emptied completely.

The capital had no nightlife. Its shadow stretched even to tiny Guzhen nearby.

So now, Guzhen lay utterly silent. Utterly empty.

"Agubo failed?"

"Hn. His entire squad was wiped out. Only he crawled back alive."

Inside a shadow-drenched chamber, ten figures in identical black robes sat around a long table, strange masks hiding their faces.

High Council of the Shadowblade Alliance.

Each robe was woven to conceal every inch of skin, adorned with rare moon-silver ingots shaped into gleaming "S" insignias and numbers—marking rank, separating elite from expendable.

"He actually failed?"

The robed figure with "S7" on his chest sounded stunned. He hadn’t believed Agubo’s mission could end like this.

"Indeed. I never expected it. Agubo’s been with Shadowblade since its founding. Always cautious. Yet…"

"Hah! He failed because he’s trash! ‘Veteran’? ‘Cautious’? Coward, more like!"

"Brother Four, watch your tongue. Agubo built this Alliance. His strength may not match ours, but his contributions—"

"Screw his contributions! I despise that waste of flesh. He clings to his rank long after he became useless. Draining our resources to feed a cripple? Pathetic."

S5 and S4 were already snarling at each other. Their argument had veered far from Agubo’s failure.

"Enough. Silence."

A low, iron voice cut from the head of the table.

Magic clung to the command. The bickering ceased instantly. Heads bowed. Only S5’s jaw tightened, stubborn.

"Agubo’s failure cripples us," the voice continued. "This was a Priority Alpha mission. We committed every elite operative. Every resource."

"And he failed. Before even reaching the city gates. A disgrace to Shadowblade."

The speaker—robed figure "M" at the table’s head—slammed a fist down.

*CRACK!*

The obsidian table splintered under his blow. No one flinched. No one breathed.

"We were transporting a *dragon*," he roared, surging to his feet, mask’s horned shadows twisting in fury. "A *dragon*!"

Though his face was hidden, a suffocating pressure radiated from him. Lungs burned. Throats closed.

"The failure stands. But we have no time to mourn. Assemble a new team. Retrieve the Platinum Dragon. Immediately." His voice turned glacial. "As for Agubo? Feed him to the Soulbeasts in the northern wastes."

*Soulbeasts.*

Every robed figure shuddered. Not mere monsters—creatures whose very presence froze blood. Even a nation’s deadliest mercenary would bleed out killing one.

"Wait! I object!"

A slender hand shot up, trembling. The speaker wore a half-mask: one side a grinning white porcelain face. S3.

Even after the leader’s rage faded, his killing intent still choked the air.

"Agubo’s failure had… extenuating circumstances. We cannot execute him for this."

"*Circumstances*?" The leader’s voice dropped, icy needles aimed at S3. His mask’s eyeholes glowed faint blue. "Explain. What circumstance excuses failure?"

!!

*So cold…*

S3’s body locked. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks. Beneath her mask, her face drained of color. Death’s shadow coiled around her ankles.

She forced air into her lungs. Sat straighter.

"After Agubo’s failure, I sent my scouts. He was ambushed. One man. They couldn’t retreat. Couldn’t escape. That’s why his squad died."

*Ambushed?*

*One man?!*

Shock rippled through the chamber. Even the leader went utterly still.

Shadowblade’s elite—warriors who could carve through armies—slaughtered by a *single* opponent?

No one here could achieve that. Not even their leader.

"Who was he?"

The leader’s voice was calm now. The pressure vanished. Every eye fixed on S3.

Assassins lived and died by intelligence. False or missing intel meant graves.

S3 swallowed. "General Baiyi. Of the Great Empire."

!!

A collective gasp. Robed figures recoiled into their chairs, silent, faces hidden but terror radiating off them.

Even the leader steepled his fingers, chin resting on them, deep in thought. No quick solution surfaced.

"Call off the mission, Leader."

"Yes. Against anyone else—we’d send a team. But *General Baiyi*? This isn’t a job for operatives. It’s suicide."

"Think carefully, Leader."

Fear had already hollowed their resolve before the mission began.

"*SILENCE!*"

*CRACK!*

A fist wreathed in black mist shattered the obsidian table further. Rage vibrated in the air.

Mouths snapped shut.

"New orders," the leader commanded, voice like grinding stone. "S3. You will lead your squad to the Great Empire’s capital at dawn. Retrieve the Platinum Dragon. Agubo accompanies you—redemption or death. Fail again, and Shadowblade’s law executes you both on the spot."

"This meeting is concluded. Objections?" His gaze swept the room. "Speak them, and find your grave on Yin Mountain."

"Dismissed."

Robes rustled. Chairs scraped. Figures fled the chamber like shadows scattering from light.

In seconds, the vast room stood empty.

Only S3 remained.

Alone.

Staring blankly at the shattered table, her half-smiling mask hiding a face gone utterly numb.