There was no time to dwell on what had happened. Instinct took over as Lacerta's bloody hand clamped onto the hilt of his katana.
The moment he drew the blade from its scabbard, his eyes began to burn. A sharp, acrid stench filled the air, making each breath a stinging chore.
What is this…?
Through watering eyes, he saw it: a fine powder, countless shimmering particles hanging in the alley's stale air.
Raising his katana into a defensive stance, Lacerta forced a shallow breath through his nose, his eyes narrowing to slits against the haze.
Whatever it is, it's meant to blind me. But it also means he can't get close either—
The thought had barely formed when steel flashed toward his throat.
—Lacerta snapped his head back, the dagger's edge slicing through empty air where his neck had been a heartbeat before. A second dagger followed, aiming for his chest before Lacerta suddenly coiled and sprang backward, clearing three meters in a single bound.
First, get out of this haze... It's not weakening me, but it is hampering my vision.
He spun, intending to bolt from the alley and escape the irritating mist—
—CRACK!
A chain shot from the alley's mouth, its links snapping like a whip as it tore through the air, fast enough to break the sound barrier for a moment.
Lacerta landed hard, his eyes darting around, piecing together the trap. Three men. The first, with the daggers, now stood before him. Two more, one wielding the chain, blocked the exit.
This is no random mugging… it is a planned assault. I'm also not being underestimated for being a child either…
They had herded him into a dead end, clouded the air, and now blocked his only escape. He noted their identical attire: dark, hooded cloaks and grey, featureless masks—protection, no doubt, from their own blinding powder.
The gash on his palm throbbed, slicking the hilt of his katana and compromising his grip. He was at a severe disadvantage.
Lacerta: ["Tch—!"]
A faint scrape of grit from a rooftop above drew his attention. Lacerta's head whipped up just in time to see a fourth man dropping on him, a massive cleaver swinging down. He threw himself backward, the heavy blade crashing into the ground where he'd stood, showering sparks as it cracked the stine beneath.
Now he was completely surrounded. As Lacerta braced for the inevitable onslaught, a voice cut through the tension.
???: ["Wait."]
The first attacker, the one with the daggers, raised a hand to signal to his comrades not to engage.
Lacerta: ["...?"]
???: ["I don't doubt this must be very confusing. Simply put… we have been hired to take your life."]
Lacerta: ["…I gathered that already."]
The masked man chuckled, raising a placating hand.
???: ["But that doesn't need to be the case. The Feast is a place of hierarchy. It will accept a powerful warrior with open arms, regardless of their origins."]
There it is again… 'The Feast'.. Is this some sort of cult that has formed within the Warrens? Vollachia is already the 'land of wolves' where the strong rule the weak, but that philosophy seems to have been taken to an extreme here.
Lacerta: ["Is that an offer? I'm not very strong, you know."]
???: ["Please, you need not jest. Unlike that butcher you spoke with earlier, we are not so foolish as to judge based on appearance."]
A second voice drew Lacerta's attention. He turned his head away from the first speaker to face the new one—an unarmed man standing beside the chain-wielder.
???: ["You survived our coordinated attack with what are, frankly, minimal injuries. No one else we have targeted has possessed the skill to do such a thing."]
Lacerta: ["I see… In that case… can you tell me who you people are?"]
The man fell silent, pondering the request for a moment before nodding.
???: ["I see no reason why not. It's hardly a secret on these streets."]
This one is thorough, more calculative than the others so far.
Spoon: ["We are a group of assassins within The Feast. They call us the 'Cutlery'… and I am Spoon."]
The man beside Spoon finally spoke, his voice thick with arrogance. He flicked the chain over his shoulder with a sharp rattle and tilted his head.
Fork: ["Fork. Remember the name."]
The most muscular of the group grunted, wrenching his cleaver from the cracked stone with a grating screech.
Cleaver: ["I'm Cleaver. I suppose it's a pleasure!"]
…Do people eat food with a cleaver?
And finally, the dagger-wielder—the one who had attacked him first—spoke, his voice a flat, toneless whisper.
Knife: ["Knife."]
Lacerta's expression remained neutral, but his eyes narrowed, assessing each opponent in turn. Four of them, each with a distinct weapon and fighting style.
Lacerta: ["I see… Thank you for the information…"]
His body shifted in an instant, sinking into a low combat stance. His pupils contracted into slits like a cat's, and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the hilt of his katana.
The air grew still with sudden, lethal intent.
The subtle shift did not escape Spoon's keen eye, whose head tilted in silent acknowledgment. The recruitment had failed. His posture straightened, the friendly demeanor vanishing completely.
Spoon: ["Kill him."]
The words had not yet settled when the fight began.
The whisper of footsteps on stone, and a strange tapping sound—Tap… Tap… was the only warning. Knife exploded from the line, his dagger a blur aimed for Lacerta's heart.
Lacerta's katana intercepted it in a scream of steel before he stepped and moved with the parry, dashing through the sparks to swing for a devastating slash theough Knife's open guard.
But his wrist locked mid-swing. A cold, heavy weight constricted around it.
Lacerta: ["Tsk—!"]
—A chain had ensnared his arm like a snake and Fork hauled back on it. The sudden surge in force staggering Lacerta backwards. It was a perfectly timed maneuver, designed not to injure but to position him.
As he pitched upright, the shadow of Cleaver's namesake weapon fell over him, descending in a silent, murderous arc.
Instinct took over his psyche as Lacerta threw his weight backward, turning the stagger into a narrow evasion beneath the swing.
The wind of the cleaver's passage ruffled his hair as he landed, creating precious distance.
A three-man combination… The feint, the snare, the execution. Coordinated. Precise. But are they fast enough?
CLANG—! SHINK—! CLANG—!
Fork's chains became a whirlwind of steel, forcing Lacerta to give ground on the defensive. Every parry sent a jarring shock up his arm while his opponents used the chaos to reposition. Dust choked the air, turning the combatants into blurred silhouettes.
Suddenly, fire erupted along his side. He growled in pain and twisted to see Knife already melting back into the swirling dust. Lacerta spun, kicking at the space the smaller man had just occupied.
But his foot found nothing but air.
Tap… Tap… Tap…
The peculiar sound of tapped chimed once more as they moved—their approach was no longer in front of him, but all around him. A cage of sound and movement. Before he could re-center himself, he felt their presence converge.
—The trap was sprung.
The dust should have settled by now, cleared by my constant rapid movements, but that haze still clings to the air, blurring my vision…
Lacerta's footwork was a blur. He closed the distance on who he believes to be the slowest combatant—Cleaver—weaving beneath a powerful slash and coiling his own blade back to strike.
Tap… Tap…
Fork: ["No, you don't…"]
Just as before, the trap was sprung. A chain whipped out, coiling around Lacerta's wrist like a serpent. Fork yanked hard, trying to break his stance and pull him off-balance.
The way they fight... it's a pattern.
Lacerta's learning curve was known to be monstrous. Every exchange, every feint, every parry was data to him. He didn't just see their attacks; he saw the rhythm, the flow of their teamwork.
And…. he was adapting to it all.
Instead of fighting the pull, Lacerta used it to his advantage. Thus, he pivoted, letting Fork's own strength slingshot him forward. The rocket-like dash transformed into a deadly arc, his katana scything through the air, aimed directly for Fork's neck.
Fork: ["——!!"]
Cleaver: ["HRYAH—!"]
A massive figure surged between them. Cleaver. His namesake weapon, the hefty slab of steel crashed downward to intercept Lacerta's vertical swing. The impact was explosive and despite the cartoonish difference in their builds and blades, Lacerta's technique and raw power was superior.
Cleaver: ["Argh—!?"]
With a twist of his wrist, he deflected the heavy blow, the force of the parry sending Cleaver's blade jarringly upward. The big man was left wide open, his chest exposed.
Tap…
—But Lacerta didn't take the opening.
They can't fight me one-on-one. Last time, the dagger... he came from...
Lacerta: ["—Behind!"]
He spun on the ball of his foot, not in retreat, but into an attack. His katana was already a blur, unwinding in a lethal, horizontal arc. It was a move predicted, a counter-trap sprung. Knife, appearing from the shadows exactly where Lacerta expected, had no time to react.
—His fate was set in stone.
The blade sang through flesh and bone. Knife's head was severed from its neck, his body collapsing in a heap as a fountain of viscous blood painted the dusty air and alley walls.
But the attack hadn't been without cost. In his final moment, Knife had driven his own dagger deep into Lacerta's side before he was decapitated.
Ignoring the searing pain—thrilled by it, even—Lacerta tore the blade free and threw it aside.
He coughed, hacking dust from his lungs, before that strange power finally surged. The gash in his side, and his other injuries simply began to undo themselves, flesh knitting back together at a visible rate. In seconds, the wound was gone, leaving only bloodstained cloth behind. He was whole again.
A slow, unnerving smile spread across Lacerta's face. He flicked the blood from his katana in a single, sharp motion.
Lacerta: ["I understand it now…. I see how you work."]