"Six against three. Fair odds."
The ARES Guild Director's smile widens as his soul-forged weapon pulses with internal light. The blade hums with contained power, its edge sharp enough to cut shadows from moonbeams.
The Echo Warrior skill transforms one man into duplicate moving with the fluid grace of the original. Their eyes hold the same calculating coldness. Their hands grip weapons with identical poise.
Leon studies the formation as all six figures spread across the corridor. The real Director disappears into the group, indistinguishable from his phantoms. Even their breathing patterns match perfectly.
"Clever parlor trick," Leon says quietly. "But tricks won't save you."
His elite mage zombie shifts position, eye sockets blazing blue. The assassin melts into shadows along the corridor's edge, becoming one with darkness that pools between oil paintings.
Leon remains perfectly still, conserving manna for what comes next. His broken ribs throb with each breath, but pain sharpens focus rather than dulling it. Mental commands flow to his undead servants like whispered orders.
The six Directors charge in perfect synchronization.
Their footsteps move against hardwood as soul-forged blades slice the air. The phantoms move with inhuman coordination, each one taking a slightly different angle of attack.
Leon's assassin emerges from shadow behind the duplicate at the farthest left. Her blades seek the gap between helmet and gorget, but steel passes through the phantom like mist. An illusion.
She rolls away as another duplicate swings for her head. This one's blade feels real enough, sparks flying where it scrapes the floor.
The elite mage responds with calculated fury. Frost bolts lance across the corridor, each one seeking a different target. Two phantoms shatter like breaking mirrors when the ice strikes them, revealing their illusory nature.
Four remain.
The Director tries to flank around the mage's position while his duplicates keep the assassin busy. His soul-forged blade trails fire as he moves, leaving burning footprints on Persian rugs.
Leon's Void-reaper appears in his hand. The manna gun barks once, forcing the Director to abort his attack and dive for cover. The shot scorches the wall where his head had been.
"Close," the Director calls from behind an overturned table. "But not close enough."
His remaining phantoms press their assault on the assassin zombie. She flows between their strikes like liquid mercury, but steel finds flesh. A blade opens her shoulder, dark ichor spraying across oil paintings.
The assassin takes the hit without flinching. Pain means nothing to the dead. She drives both knives into her attacker's gut, feeling resistance that speaks of solid flesh.
The phantom flickers and dies.
Three left.
The elite mage capitalizes on the momentary distraction. Mana bolts drain two more phantoms, pulling their essence apart like unraveling thread. The duplicates destabilize and collapse into wisps of silver light.
Only the real Director remains.
He emerges from cover with desperate fury, soul-forged blade screaming through the air toward the mage's skull. But the assassin leaps from shadow, landing on his back with feline grace.
Twin blades bury themselves in flesh between his shoulder blades. The Director tries to shake her off, spinning and stumbling as pain clouds his vision.
The elite mage responds with tactical precision. Frost magic spreads across the corridor's exit, creating a sheet of ice that blocks any escape route. Steam rises where supernatural cold meets heated air.
Leon walks forward with calm purpose. Shadow-edge appears in his grip, dark manna flowing along its edge like captured starlight. Each step echoes in the sudden silence.
The Director falls to his knees, the assassin still clinging to his back. Blood runs freely from wounds that pierce vital organs. His soul-forged weapon clatters to the floor, its inner light fading.
"You don't understand," the Director gasps. "The contracts. The continental agreements. This will start a war."
Leon stops three feet away. "Some things are worth fighting for."
Shadow-edge rises in a perfect arc. "For my mother."
The blade severs the Director's head with surgical precision. Dark blood sprays across Persian rugs as his body topples forward. The assassin rolls clear, her task completed.
The corridor falls silent except for the soft drip of cooling blood.
Leon searches the corpse methodically, finding a glowing Echo Core nestled against the Director's heart. The artifact pulses with residual power, warm to the touch despite its crystalline structure.
He presses the core into his assassin zombie's spectral chest. Her form shudders as new energy integrates with existing matrices. Blue light races along her outline before stabilizing into a brighter, more defined presence.
His system interface blazes with a new message:
[ELITE ASSASSIN ZOMBIE - SKILL GAINED: PHANTOM SPLIT]
[ABILITY UNLOCKED: GENERATE TEMPORARY DUPLICATES DURING BATTLE]
[DURATION: 30 SECONDS]
[COOLDOWN: 5 MINUTES]
Leon nods with satisfaction. Each victory makes his undead stronger, more capable of facing whatever comes next.
He turns toward the corridor's end, where a final door waits. Blood-gold runes etch its surface in patterns that seem to shift when viewed directly. The metal radiates heat that speaks of the power contained beyond.
Leon places his hand on the handle. The metal burns against his palm, but he doesn't flinch. Pain is temporary. Justice is eternal.
The door swings open on silent hinges.
The chamber beyond defies expectation. Where Leon expected opulence, he finds simplicity. A single chair sits in the room's center, facing a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city below.
Tobias Virell occupies the chair with the casual authority of a king on his throne. Older than his brothers, silver threading through dark hair. But the family resemblance burns in his eyes—literal flames that dance in pupils touched by permanent fire.
He doesn't turn when Leon enters. His gaze remains fixed on the city lights that sparkle like earthbound stars.
"Twenty-three years I've been guild leader," Tobias says conversationally. "Built this organization from regional enforcers to continental power. And tonight, one necromancer brings it all crashing down."
The flames in his eyes flicker brighter. "Magnificent."
He finally turns in his chair, revealing a face that could have been carved from living marble. Perfect features marked only by the supernatural fire that burns behind his irises.
Tobias Virell smiles, and the temperature in the room spikes twenty degrees.
"Welcome to the top floor, Leon Graves. I've been waiting for you."