King of the Hill

One of the assassins took a step forward, closing the distance.

The gap between them and Epsilon was still wide. Ordinarily, it was a distance she could have handled with ease, even if they’d lunged at her with everything they had.

—However.

"Wh—?!"

Suddenly, a head was playing fetch with the ceiling.

Epsilon’s sword strike carved through the spray of blood and the lifelessly collapsing body.

"This woman... she’s launching her magic power—?!"

The remaining four assassins scrambled into defensive stances with impressive reflexes, but they couldn't mask the "holy crap" looks on their faces.

I mean, sure, any halfway decent spellsword can technically hurl a magic-infused sword strike. But almost nobody actually does it in a real fight.

See, magic power is a fickle thing. Once it leaves your body, it loses its leash and starts to dissipate. To keep it from vanishing into thin air, you have to pump even more magic into it to hold the shape. That takes time—time you don’t have in a life-or-death duel. The further you want to throw it, the more the cost in mana and time hits you like a brick.

To pull it off, you need a superhuman level of precise control. You have to minimize waste, skip the charge-up time, and flick that mana across the room with surgical efficiency. And even if you’ve got the skills, you’d need a ridiculous magic power amount to keep it up for more than a few seconds.

"No charge-up? How is that even possible?"

Because they actually understood just how impossible a flying slash is on the battlefield, their shock was on a whole different level.

"Spread out! Don't let her target you all at once!"

"—It’s useless."

Numerous slashes tore through the air.

They echoed with an eerie, life-reaping hum, systematically dismantling the fleeing assassins.

"Dammit, I can't dodge them all!"

"Pull back! Get out of her range!"

"Don't you dare retreat! If we don't close the gap, we're just target prac—"

"I told you, it’s useless... You can never escape from my range."

Another head went for a spin.

Epsilon’s slashes minced the fountain of blood, turning it into a red mist that hung in the air.

"This is bad..."

"She's actually micro-managing all those slashes?"

"So this is the 'Seven Shadows'..."

Desperation started to cloud the assassins' faces.

Then, another assassin was shredded into confetti by Epsilon’s slashes, joining the others as a cloud of blood mist.

—And then.

"Gah!"

A pained groan cut the offensive short.

Epsilon clutched her chest and hit the deck.

She just... collapsed.

I couldn’t... hold on...

Crimson leaked out through a tear in her slime suit. Her wound had finally given out.

"Lord Mordred said he did a number on her, but..."

"Looks like she finally hit her limit."

Yeah, she was at her breaking point.

Precisely because she knew that, she had gone for a short, decisive blitz. Against your average mooks, the fight would’ve been over in the first exchange.

But these guys were named members of the Cult.

She’d sniped one immediately, but the others had been slippery enough to stall for time. By the time she’d finished off the third, Epsilon’s internal clock had run out.

"Ngh...!"

The sword slipped from Epsilon’s hand.

"...Well, looks like we’re the first ones to bag a member of the 'Seven Shadows.' A promotion is definitely in the bag."

"True. But if there are six more like her out there, the Cult might actually have a problem..."

"Relax. Lord Mordred will kill them all. Including that 'Shadow' guy—he's just another king of the hill acting big in a small pond."

"Hope you're right... Hey, don't move."

They loomed over Epsilon as her face twisted in pain.

"We’re not killing you yet. Not until we’ve squeezed you for info—whoops."

Epsilon reached for her dropped sword. An assassin’s boot slammed down on her hand.

"Ugh...!"

"Give it up."

"Lord... Sha... dow..."

"Hey, what are you doing?"

"I'm... sor... ry..."

Summoning the absolute last of her strength, Epsilon shaped a tiny slime knife and moved to thrust it into her own throat.

"Crap, stop her!!"

The assassin’s foot lashed out, kicking the knife away just in the nick of time.

"Ah...!"

"That was close."

"H-Hey... your leg..."

"Hm? What about my leg?"

"Your leg... it's cut off..."

"Eh...?"

The leg of the man who had just kicked the knife tumbled onto the cobblestones with a dull thud.

"A-Aaaaah! My leg! My leg is gooooooooone!!"

And then, click, clack, click, clack.

Footsteps were approaching.