The stairway reeked of blood.
Crimson trails weaved down the polished steps, fresh and steaming, painting a grotesque path from the upper mansion halls. Two men in black suits lay slumped on either side of the entrance, their throats cleanly opened, their eyes still wide in shock.
The man with messy, neck-length black hair stepped over them without pause.
His tuxedo remained untouched by the violence—his blade, thin and glinting like liquid night, hung loosely at his side. His face was unreadable. No joy. No rage. Just a dull, listless calm. He moved like a shadow that had grown tired of waiting.
From the foot of the stairway, more men charged upward, called by the sound of slaughter. They didn't ask who he was. They already knew: an intruder, an unwanted guest.
One of them yelled, "Stop right there!" as others raised their blades and rushed forward.
The Slayer didn't answer.
He lunged, a blur in the dim light, and his blade answered for him.
The first guard never saw the strike. His sword was still halfway drawn when the Slayer's blade opened his chest like parchment. Blood sprayed the wall. Another swung from the side—an overhead chop with desperate force—but the Slayer ducked and severed the man's leg at the knee with a single upward slice. The scream was short-lived.
Three more came.
He stepped between them, carving through their torsos with a smooth arc that sent one spinning into the stair's railing. Another tried to tackle him from behind—his face was slammed into the wall instead, neck breaking with a soft crack.
They fell like dolls, limbs twisted, mouths frozen mid-shout. The Slayer moved with surgical clarity, his eyes half-lidded, almost annoyed by how much effort it took to kill them.
More guards poured in, drawn by panic and duty. Ten men. Then fifteen.
They were good.
But he was built for this.
Steel rang. Blood hissed on the marble. Men screamed—some cut down before they even raised their weapons, others staggering back with missing limbs, coughing blood into their hands before slumping to the floor.
The Slayer's breath never quickened.
His eyes scanned the hall as the last body hit the ground, twitching.
Silence.
He sighed, shoulders drooping slightly.
Boredom again.
He began walking toward the thick iron door at the bottom of the hallway—the final barrier between him and the hidden hall beneath the estate. His boots left wet prints in his wake, trailing through a sea of red.
Then came a sound—soft, deliberate. A boot against stone. He slowed. Two more guards stepped from the shadows ahead, eyes wide as they drew their blades.
"Halt! You're not authorized—"
His blade answered for him.
One step. One slice. Two bodies fell.
And then he stopped.
There was someone else.
Standing by the sealed doors was a figure cloaked in silver and midnight blue, dark wings folded tightly behind her back. Her armor shimmered under the dim torchlight, runes faintly glowing across her pauldrons. She was not armed—yet—but the posture of her stance said otherwise.
Two more bodies lay beside her, not dead, only unconscious. Neatly handled. Efficient. He studied her.
"You're not with them," he said flatly.
She tilted her head. Her expression unreadable.
"I could say the same to you," she replied. Her voice was regal but edged in iron. "Who are you?"
He gave a smirk that barely moved one corner of his mouth. "None of your concern."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Then I'll just kick your ass."
In an instant, the corridor exploded with motion.
Their blades clashed, metal screaming against metal. Sparks flew, showering the stone with a crackling hiss. The Slayer's eyes widened—not from fear, but awe. She was fast. Faster than anyone he had fought in recent memory. Her blade curved with elegance, with weight and discipline.
He parried, twisted, and ducked under a wide slash that would've torn open his throat. Her footwork was near-perfect, fluid, almost too graceful for the force she carried.
"Ha!" he barked, eyes wild. "Nice!"
Vallah didn't reply. Her focus was absolute.
Another clash, louder this time. His sword caught hers in a brutal bind. They pressed together, faces inches apart. Sweat beaded on both brows.
"You're strong," he said, breathless. "I like that."
"You talk too much."
She pushed forward with a sudden knee to his ribs. He coughed, winded, but twisted into a backward roll, regaining stance. She was on him before his second foot landed.
Her strike was a vertical flash, barely blocked. His heels skidded backward against the floor, grit flying. Her assault didn't slow. Each swing came from a different angle—feints, thrusts, arcing sweeps. The Slayer's blade met hers each time, but his grin faded into a tight snarl.
She was reading him.
Anticipating.
Their swords locked again. Muscles strained, eyes locked.
Then her wings flared. Just a twitch.
He barely caught the shift in momentum before her elbow smashed into his temple.
His vision blinked white. He staggered.
She followed through, blade aimed to end it.
But then she stopped.
Or rather—froze.
A flicker passed through her eyes. Her form shuddered, like a ripple through water. Her strike slowed, not from choice, but resistance.
The Slayer stepped back, panting. Confused.
She trembled, sword halfway raised. Her face—flickering. Lines shifting subtly. Like her edges were fraying.
Illusion.
He narrowed his eyes.
"You're not here, are you?"
Vallah's body surged forward once more in a flurry of desperate attacks. But they lacked the precision from before. Her eyes no longer glowed with that deadly focus. The illusion was losing strength.
Another clash—this time, he disarmed her. Her sword clattered to the floor. He caught her by the collar, slamming her against the wall.
"Where is the real you?"
She didn't answer.
Because she couldn't.
She vanished.
Just like that—the body of the Valkyrie blinked out of reality, a puff of magical residue dissolving in the air.
Far above, in the grand chamber where the auction still raged, the real Princess Vallah sat quietly on her throne-like chair among nobles and warlords. A bead of sweat ran down her temple.
Her hand trembled slightly in her lap.
Her illusion magic had almost failed.
And he was still coming.