The city of Blackmoor had not changed in the few days since Korin's last skirmish, though to him, everything felt different. The narrow streets still curled and twisted like the coils of a snake, their cobblestones slick from the night’s rain. The scent of damp earth and wood smoke mingled with the sharp tang of the salt breeze coming off the nearby docks. The city was alive—pulsing with the quiet hum of its hidden dangers, the kind that most citizens ignored as they went about their mundane lives. But Korin thrived in this hum. It was the rhythm he danced to, the pulse that drove his every decision.

He slipped through the streets with an ease that bordered on arrogance. His boots made no sound against the slick cobbles, each step deliberate, calculated. He moved like a shadow, unseen, blending seamlessly with the dark corners and fog that clung to the streets as the sun dipped lower behind the city’s skyline. The markets had long since closed, leaving only the faint scent of spices and roasted meats lingering in the air, but the undercurrent of danger never slept.

As he passed the tall, narrow buildings with their leaning walls and crooked windows, he couldn’t help but smirk. To most people, Blackmoor was a maze—its labyrinth of alleys and dead-end streets daunting, a trap waiting to ensnare the unwary. But Korin knew every inch of it. The city was his playground, and he could navigate it with his eyes closed.

He paused at the mouth of an alley, glancing upward as the last light of day faded into a bruised twilight. The sky hung low, heavy with clouds that rolled like waves across an endless sea of grey, threatening another downpour. The air was thick with the promise of rain, damp and cool against his skin. Korin took a deep breath, letting the familiar scent of the city fill his lungs, grounding him in the moment.

But something tugged at the edge of his awareness—an itch, subtle and persistent, that wouldn’t leave him alone. He couldn’t quite place it, but he had learned to trust his instincts. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the street ahead, his gaze lingering on the darkened windows and narrow alleyways. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing he hadn’t seen a hundred times before, and yet…

A flicker of movement caught his eye. The slightest shift in the shadows at the far end of the alley, where the dim light from a flickering lantern barely reached. Most people wouldn’t have noticed it. Most wouldn’t have cared. But Korin wasn’t most people.

His heart quickened, though his expression remained calm, almost bored. He was being followed. That much was clear. The guild was nothing if not persistent, and after their last little meeting, it was obvious they weren’t going to let him go that easily. They wanted what he had taken from the auction house—wanted it badly enough to send more of their lackeys to retrieve it.

Korin smirked. Let them try.

With a slight shift of his weight, he turned down a side street, his movements fluid, unhurried. He made no attempt to lose the pursuers just yet. Instead, he led them deeper into the winding streets, away from the main thoroughfares and the prying eyes of the city’s residents. The buildings loomed taller here, their dark stone facades casting long shadows that stretched across the narrow lanes like grasping fingers. The alleyways were tight, claustrophobic, and the sound of his own footsteps seemed to vanish into the oppressive silence.

The itch at the back of his mind grew stronger. They were getting closer, closing the distance between them with practiced stealth. Korin could almost hear the soft rustle of their cloaks, the muted scrape of leather against stone as they moved through the shadows behind him. But he wasn’t worried. He had played this game before. And he always won.

He slowed his pace as he approached a familiar intersection—one that led to a dead-end alley nestled between two crumbling buildings. Perfect. Korin angled his body just so, his posture relaxed, as if he hadn’t noticed his tail at all. He turned into the alley without hesitation, his hand casually brushing the hilt of the dagger strapped to his side. The weight of it was familiar, comforting, though he doubted he’d need it.

The alley was empty, save for a few overturned crates and a pile of rotting garbage that filled the air with a sour stench. The walls on either side were cracked and weathered, the stone slick with moisture from the rain that had fallen earlier. The only sound was the steady drip of water from a nearby gutter, tapping out a slow, rhythmic beat that echoed in the stillness.

Korin came to a stop near the far end of the alley, his back to the wall. He didn’t need to look to know they were there, lurking just out of sight, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He could feel their eyes on him, feel the tension in the air as they prepared to make their move.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, without warning, the shadows shifted.

Four figures emerged from the darkness, their movements swift and precise, like wolves closing in on their prey. Their faces were hidden beneath dark hoods, but Korin could see the glint of steel in their hands, the deadly intent in their posture. They spread out, fanning across the narrow alley, cutting off any chance of escape.

Korin’s smirk widened.

"Really?" he drawled, his voice dripping with amusement. "Four of you? I’m flattered, but this seems a bit excessive, don’t you think?"

The figure closest to him stepped forward, his grip tightening on the hilt of his dagger. "Hand it over, Korin," the man growled, his voice low and threatening. "We don’t want to hurt you. We just want what you stole."

Korin chuckled softly, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "You know, you’re going to have to be a lot more specific. I’ve stolen quite a few things in my time."

The man’s eyes narrowed, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Don’t play games. The artifact. Give it to us, and we’ll let you walk away."

Korin’s gaze flicked to the other three men, sizing them up with a practiced eye. They were well-trained, that much was clear. Their stances were solid, their movements precise. But there was something else—something off about the way they watched him, as if they were expecting him to bolt, to run in fear.

They didn’t know him at all.

"Let me walk away?" Korin repeated, his tone incredulous. "Well, that’s generous of you. But you see, I have a bit of a problem with that."

The man took a step closer, the point of his dagger gleaming in the dim light. "And what’s that?"

Korin’s smirk turned dangerous. "I don’t plan on going anywhere."

Time seemed to slow.

The man lunged, his blade flashing toward Korin’s chest with deadly speed, but Korin was already moving. He sidestepped the attack with effortless grace, his body a blur of motion. The dagger missed him by inches, and before the man could react, Korin spun, driving his elbow into the man’s ribs with bone-crunching force. The breath whooshed from the man’s lungs, and he stumbled back, gasping for air.

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But Korin didn’t stop. The world around him seemed to sharpen, the edges of reality becoming clear in a way that was almost unsettling. He could feel the cool air against his skin, smell the faint metallic tang of the dagger as it sliced through the air, hear the faint rustle of his cloak as he moved. Everything was so clear, so vivid, as if the world had slowed just for him.

The second man rushed forward, his sword arcing toward Korin’s neck in a wide, brutal swing. Korin ducked, the blade whistling harmlessly over his head. He twisted, his movements impossibly fast, and drove his knee into the man’s stomach. The impact sent the man sprawling to the ground, clutching his side in pain.

The third and fourth attackers hesitated, clearly unnerved by how quickly the fight had turned. Korin’s heart raced, but his mind was eerily calm. He could see every opening, every weakness in their stance, every hesitation in their eyes.

They didn’t stand a chance.

The third man rushed him, his dagger aimed low, but Korin was faster. He sidestepped the attack, his hand darting out to grab the man’s wrist. In one fluid motion, he twisted, sending the dagger clattering to the ground. Before the man could recover, Korin slammed his fist into the man’s jaw, knocking him unconscious.

The fourth attacker, realizing the hopelessness of the situation, turned to flee. But Korin was already moving, his body a blur of speed as he closed the distance in an instant. He grabbed the man by the collar, yanking him back with enough force to send him sprawling into the wall.

"Leaving so soon?" Korin asked, his voice cold and mocking.

The man struggled to his feet, fear etched across his face. He glanced between Korin and the unconscious bodies of his comrades, his hands trembling. "Please," he gasped. "I don’t want to die."

Korin’s eyes gleamed in the dim light. "Then you should have stayed home."

With a final, swift motion, Korin’s hand snapped out, striking the man in the throat. The attacker collapsed to the ground, choking and gasping as he clawed at his neck, his body writhing in the dirt. Korin stepped back, letting the man’s futile struggles fade into the background. The alleyway was still now, save for the low moans of the unconscious and the distant drip of water from the gutters above. The smell of damp stone mixed with the sour stench of blood and sweat, thick in the air, making it all the more oppressive.

Korin stood there for a moment, taking it all in, a strange sense of detachment washing over him. His heartbeat slowed, returning to its steady rhythm, the thrum of battle fading from his veins. He glanced down at his hands—steady, unshaken, no tremor or sign of exertion despite the fight that had just unfolded. The bodies at his feet were still, broken by his precise strikes, and the realization settled in, sharp and clear.

He was getting faster. Stronger. Sharper.

But Korin’s ever-present arrogance pushed the thought aside. Of course he was getting better. He had been training for years, perfecting his craft. He didn’t need some mystical explanation for it. He was a master assassin, and this was exactly how a master should fight. His thoughts remained centered around his own abilities, his inflated sense of self-worth dulling the edge of suspicion that might have otherwise taken root.

The artifact—whatever it was—remained an afterthought. Korin didn’t care. He had survived because of his own skills. That was all there was to it.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Pathetic," he muttered under his breath, his tone dripping with disdain as he nudged one of the unconscious men with the tip of his boot.

He turned away from the bodies, pulling his hood back up, and made his way out of the alley. His movements were smooth, unhurried, as if the entire encounter had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Behind him, the shadows swallowed the fallen men, the silence of the city descending once more.

As Korin stepped back onto the main street, the city stretched out before him like a beast at rest, its streets winding like a labyrinth beneath the overcast sky. The dim light from the lanterns cast long, jagged shadows that danced across the cobblestones, and the faint murmur of distant voices drifted on the cool night air. Blackmoor, for all its danger and filth, had its own kind of beauty—a beauty Korin had learned to appreciate in his own way.

He moved through the streets with purpose now, his destination clear in his mind. If the Guild wanted him dead, then they would come again. The relic in his possession was valuable enough that they wouldn’t give up after one failed attempt. He couldn’t stay in Blackmoor much longer—couldn’t risk them finding him before he had a chance to figure out exactly what he was going to do next.

But leaving Blackmoor meant more than just running. Korin wasn’t the type to run. He would need to plan, to anticipate their next move, to ensure that when the Guild came for him again, they would regret it.

As he turned a corner, the wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of salt from the harbor. The sounds of the city grew louder, more vibrant, as he neared the bustling heart of Blackmoor. The glow from the taverns and inns spilled out into the streets, and the murmur of drunken laughter and clinking mugs filled the air. But Korin had no interest in joining the revelry tonight. Not after what had just happened.

He ducked into a narrow side street, his eyes scanning the rooftops and shadowed alcoves as he moved. Old habits, hard to break. Trusting no one, seeing danger in every movement—it was what kept him alive. And now, more than ever, he needed to stay sharp. The Guild was watching. The city itself seemed to watch him.

At the far end of the street, a figure stood, leaning casually against the wall of a dilapidated building. Korin’s eyes narrowed as he approached, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of the dagger at his side. He recognized the man—a contact from the Guild, one of the many faces that flitted in and out of his dealings over the years.

"So," the man said, his voice low and rough, barely audible over the sound of the wind. "They’ve sent the dogs after you."

Korin kept his expression neutral, though his body remained coiled, ready. "Isn’t that what you are? A dog? Or are you just here to watch me fail?"

The man chuckled, though there was no warmth in it. "The Guild doesn’t care much for traitors, Korin. You’ve taken something that doesn’t belong to you."

Korin rolled his eyes. "Is this how it works now? The Guild decides what belongs to whom?"

The man’s gaze sharpened, the faintest glimmer of threat in his eyes. "You know exactly how this works. The artifact you took—hand it over, and maybe they’ll show you mercy."

"Mercy?" Korin laughed, the sound cold and dismissive. "That’s rich. Since when has the Guild ever shown anyone mercy?"

The man pushed himself off the wall, stepping closer. The space between them felt charged, crackling with tension. "They don’t want to kill you, Korin. They want the artifact. They want you to bring it to them. But if you keep running, if you keep fighting…" He let the sentence hang in the air, the threat obvious.

Korin’s smile faded, his expression hardening. "I’m not bringing them anything. If they want it, they can come and take it."

The man’s jaw tightened. "You don’t understand what you’re playing with. That artifact is more dangerous than you realize."

"Then they should have kept a closer eye on it," Korin snapped, his patience wearing thin.

The man’s hand hovered near his waist, where a dagger hung loosely at his side. "You’re not as untouchable as you think, Korin."

Korin’s eyes flashed, his fingers tightening on the hilt of his own dagger. "I’m more untouchable than you seem to think."

The air between them grew heavy, the silence thick with unspoken threats. For a moment, neither of them moved, the tension building with every breath. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, the man stepped back, raising his hands in a gesture of mock surrender.

"Fine," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Have it your way. But remember this, Korin—the Guild doesn’t forget. And they don’t forgive."

Korin didn’t respond, his eyes locked on the man’s as he disappeared into the shadows, his form melting into the darkness as easily as smoke. The threat lingered in the air long after he was gone, a reminder that the Guild’s reach was long, and its patience was thin.

As the night deepened, and the streets of Blackmoor grew quieter, Korin felt the weight of what was to come settle on his shoulders. The Guild wouldn’t stop until they had what they wanted, and now they were watching his every move. Every shadow could hold a dagger. Every quiet street could hide an ambush.

But Korin wasn’t afraid. No, he was more than ready.

The city sprawled out before him, its heart still beating with danger and opportunity. And somewhere in that twisted web of streets and alleys, someone was coming for him.

But they didn’t know him. Not yet.

He was Korin, master of shadows, and the game had only just begun.