The first assassin died without realizing the hunt had already failed.
He waited three days.
Three nights.
Buried beneath wet leaves and corpse-molded earth, breath slowed to one every ten heartbeats, cultivation wrapped inward until even insects mistook him for rot. His dagger was poisoned with Sevenfold Sleep—enough to still a Core Realm cultivator in seconds.
He had killed princes like this.
Crimson never slowed.
The assassin struck anyway.
Steel flashed upward, precise, aimed for the femoral artery—clean, efficient—
Crimson twisted mid-step.
Not fast.
Early.
The dagger scraped cloth instead of flesh.
The assassin's pupils dilated.
Wrong.
Crimson's elbow crushed his throat inward. Cartilage collapsed. The man hit the ground without a sound, clawing at a neck that no longer connected breath to lungs.
Crimson knelt.
Watched.
"Too patient," he said quietly.
The assassin died staring at him.
Crimson stood and continued walking.
The forest exhaled.
They attacked in waves.
Not at once.
Not recklessly.
This wasn't a sect purge or a righteous mob.
This was a contract.
The Black Cicada Syndicate never hunted openly. They specialized in inevitability—pressure applied slowly, methodically, until even monsters made mistakes.
Crimson felt them before he saw them.
Threads in the air.
Intent sharpened to razors.
Five kilometers in every direction, movement slowed, sound dampened, shadows layered unnaturally.
A formation.
"Professional," Crimson muttered.
A blade whistled past his ear—decoy.
The real strike came from below.
The ground burst upward as steel laced with talismanic seals pierced toward his spine. Crimson leapt, blood spraying as the tip still tore across his ribs.
Pain flared.
Good.
He twisted midair and slammed his heel downward.
The assassin beneath screamed as his skull cracked into the earth, neck folding at an impossible angle.
Crimson landed hard, breath hissing.
They can still hurt me.
That mattered.
The forest ignited.
Fire talismans detonated in a perfect arc, herding Crimson toward a narrow ravine. Bolts flew from hidden perches. Poison mist seeped through the trees, green and sweet-smelling.
Crimson ran.
Not retreat.
Positioning.
A blade cut his shoulder. Another grazed his thigh. Crimson welcomed the blood—it anchored him, kept his senses sharp, grounded him in flesh.
He reached the ravine.
And stopped.
Three figures stepped out ahead of him.
Black robes.
Cicada masks.
Different.
Their auras were quiet.
Veterans.
One tilted his head. "Crimson," he said calmly. "The bounty is secondary."
Crimson smiled faintly. "Of course it is."
"You destabilize Murim," the assassin continued. "You threaten the ecosystem. Contracts collapse when symbols walk freely."
Crimson tilted his head back slightly. "So you're here to fix the world."
"No," the assassin replied. "We're here to remove friction."
The other two moved.
Crimson exploded forward.
Steel screamed.
Crimson ducked beneath a horizontal slash, caught the attacker's wrist, and shattered it with a twist and downward stomp. He drove a knee into the man's chest, felt ribs collapse, then shoved him backward into the ravine.
The second assassin vanished mid-strike—Shadow Step.
Crimson felt the displacement ripple behind him.
He spun.
Too late.
A blade pierced through his side, emerging slick with blood. Crimson roared and grabbed the assassin's arm, muscles screaming as he wrenched them together, snapping bone and tendon. He headbutted the mask off and crushed the man's face with his palm.
The first assassin—the leader—had not moved.
He watched.
Measured.
"Impressive," the leader said. "But you bleed."
Crimson coughed, blood staining his teeth. "So do you."
The leader drew his blade slowly.
Engravings along its edge pulsed.
"Black Cicada: Third Fang," he said. "You're worth the name."
They clashed.
This one was different.
No wasted motion.
No rage.
Every strike carried intent layered over decades of murder.
Crimson parried, retreated, advanced, adjusted. His Cultivation of Sin flowed smoothly, but something pressed against it—counter-techniques designed specifically to disrupt irregular paths.
"You adapted fast," the assassin said, blade kissing Crimson's throat before sliding away.
"So did you," Crimson replied.
The assassin smiled behind his mask. "We've studied anomalies for generations."
Crimson lunged.
Steel met steel.
Sparks exploded as they exchanged dozens of strikes in seconds—cuts opening, healing partially, reopening. Crimson felt exhaustion creep in, subtle but dangerous.
He needed to end this.
The assassin feinted low.
Crimson bit.
Pain exploded as a hidden blade pierced his abdomen.
The assassin twisted.
Crimson screamed.
Then laughed.
The assassin froze.
"What—"
Crimson grabbed the blade embedded in him and pulled it deeper.
The assassin's eyes widened.
Crimson slammed his forehead into the man's mask, cracking it, then headbutted again and again until bone caved. He twisted sideways, dragging the embedded blade across his own flesh just to get close enough to drive his fingers into the assassin's ribs.
He crushed the heart.
The assassin sagged.
Crimson shoved the corpse aside and collapsed to one knee, gasping.
Blood pooled beneath him.
His vision swam.
Too slow.
Too damaged.
That's when the others revealed themselves.
Dozens.
Cicada masks everywhere.
Encircling.
Silent.
Patient.
Crimson wiped blood from his mouth and laughed hoarsely.
"So that's the real hunt."
No one answered.
They attacked.
Crimson moved like a wounded beast.
Dirty.
Efficient.
He used corpses as shields, blades as distractions, pain as fuel. He ripped throats with teeth when weapons broke. He shattered knees, disemboweled men mid-leap, dragged assassins into their own traps.
The ravine filled with bodies.
Still they came.
Crimson's breathing ragged.
Blood loss mounting.
Then—
Something shifted.
A pressure.
Not Heaven.
Not Seo Rin.
Murim.
Crimson felt eyes on him—far away. Sects watching through mirrors. Elders calculating. Assassins reassessing contracts.
Symbols forming.
Crimson straightened slowly.
Blood poured freely now.
He raised his head.
The Cultivation of Sin stilled.
Then—
He refused.
The mark Seo Rin gave him burned.
Limits loosened.
Not power.
Permission.
Crimson stepped forward.
The assassins hesitated.
Just for a heartbeat.
Crimson slaughtered them.
When it ended, the forest was silent again.
No birds.
No wind.
Only bodies.
Crimson stood alone, barely upright, blood-soaked, trembling.
He laughed once.
Low.
Broken.
"Send better," he whispered.
Far away, in hidden halls and sealed chambers, assassins sharpened blades with shaking hands.
The hunt had begun.
And Crimson was no longer prey.