The Whirlpool

Outside Yehuai City, the sounds of fighting gradually died down inside a fortress that looked ordinary from the outside, but seemed quite sturdy.

A black-haired, square-faced man with sharp eyes stood atop the fortress's highest wall, gazing indifferently at the slaughter below. Not a trace of emotion stirred within him.

He was a man who had seen too much death to feel any reverence for life's passing.

Suddenly, a figure sprang up from the far side of the wall, a sharp blade in hand, and plunged straight for the man's back. The attack was fierce, carrying a faintly tragic air.

Like a moth flying into a flame, or an egg smashing against a rock.

"Die! Die!"

The voice rang out like the low growl of a trapped beast, edged with a grim resolve.

The eastern sun shone down, revealing the face of the would-be assassin. He was still young, perhaps twenty, of average height, his face smeared with blood and his gaze filled with savagery.

"Die!"

It seemed to happen without warning. The black-haired man appeared not to have expected anyone to spring up from behind the wall and attack him. He stood there, frozen, as if caught off guard, and had no time to defend himself.

Sssht... The blade pierced his clothes, and a triumphant smile rose on the young man's face.

But.

Before his smile could widen, a powerful resistance suddenly met his palm, making it impossible to press any farther.

His blade could go no deeper.

The man before him had completely blocked the attack with nothing but his armor—or perhaps his body.

The young man's smile froze.

But before he could make another move, the black cloak on the black-haired man's back suddenly billowed out like a giant sack and swallowed the young man whole.

Crack,