The air shifted, sharp and heavy with the promise of violence. Lucius Cipher knew how to play the game. Nyx’s betrayal had failed, but Alastor could feel the ripple of consequences already spreading—a new move, deadlier and more precise.

He stood at the edge of the factory’s ruined entrance, the night pressing in from all sides. The shadows felt thicker than usual, as if the darkness itself was watching, waiting to strike. Lucius wasn’t one to forgive failure. And when subtlety failed, he relied on the deadliest force at his command: the Hands of Anubis.

Aurora’s voice crackled through Alastor’s comm-link, her tone sharp with urgency. "I’m picking up movement, fast. We’ve got company. It’s them."

Alastor’s heart quickened. The Hands of Anubis. He had heard stories—whispers passed through fear-stricken channels, rumors of assassins who didn’t just kill. These were warriors who had lived countless lives, their souls trapped in the same endless loop of death and rebirth that held the Pyramid together. But unlike the rest, the loop didn’t weaken them. It made them stronger. Every death was a lesson, every life another tool in their arsenal.

"They’re already here," Alastor muttered, scanning the shadows around him. The scarab beneath his sleeve buzzed violently, sensing the ancient presence approaching. "Lucius isn’t wasting time."

Selene emerged from the factory behind him, her blade drawn, the cold fury in her eyes matching his own. "So he’s sending his lapdogs," she said quietly. "He’s desperate."

Aurora’s neural interface flickered, her voice tight. "Desperate? No, Selene. This is Lucius at his most dangerous. These aren’t just assassins. They’ve hunted gods—and won."

Alastor stepped into the open, his every sense alert. The shadows rippled with movement, subtle but deliberate. They were out there, waiting. He could feel it.

And then he saw them.

They stepped into the moonlight like specters—six figures draped in black and gold armor, their faces hidden behind smooth, golden masks shaped in the likeness of jackals. The symbols of Anubis, the god of death and judgment, were etched into their armor in intricate patterns that shimmered faintly in the dark.

The Hands of Anubis.

They moved with unsettling calm, their presence ancient and cold—souls forged through lifetimes of bloodshed, bound to the loop by their own mastery of death. They didn’t need to speak to announce their purpose. Their silence was more terrifying than any threat.

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But one of them finally broke the quiet, stepping forward with slow, deliberate grace. His voice was smooth, empty of emotion—a death sentence spoken in words.

"Your end is near, Creed."

Alastor’s muscles tensed, the scarab beneath his sleeve buzzing harder, as if warning him of the magnitude of the threat before him. These were no ordinary assassins. They were soldiers honed by time itself, their every movement a perfect execution of lethal precision.

Selene adjusted her grip on her blade, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the assassins’ formation. "They’ve been hunting people like us for centuries," she muttered. "We’ll have to do more than fight smart."

Aurora’s voice came through the comm-link, laced with urgency. "You can’t fight them head-on. They’ve lived too many lives. They’ll know every move you make before you even make it."

Alastor’s jaw tightened. There was no running, no hiding from this. The Hands of Anubis had come for him, and they wouldn’t stop until he and everyone who stood with him lay dead—and stayed dead.

"You think you’re the first to try?" Alastor said, taking a step forward, his voice steady despite the weight pressing down on him. "I’ve faced gods before."

The lead assassin tilted his golden mask slightly, his posture relaxed, as though he had all the time in the world. "We are not gods," the assassin whispered. "We are death incarnate."

Selene smirked, though there was no warmth in it. "You’ll find we’re pretty familiar with death ourselves."

The Hands of Anubis shifted subtly in unison—six warriors, perfectly synchronized, each movement a silent promise of violence. They were patient, disciplined, and precise, the kind of predators who never rushed the kill. They didn’t need to.

Aurora’s voice came through again, tight and urgent. "Alastor, you can’t outfight them. The only way you win is to outthink them. The Codex—use what it showed you."

Alastor exhaled slowly, the cold air burning his lungs. Aurora was right. Fighting them directly was suicide, but he wasn’t the same man they had hunted before. The Codex of Eternity had changed him. It had given him knowledge—knowledge of every death, every cycle, every loop.

And now, it was time to use it.

He glanced at Selene, her blade gleaming in the dim light. "We can’t beat them by force," he muttered. "But we don’t have to. We just need to survive long enough to turn the loop against them."

Selene gave a sharp nod, her eyes gleaming with grim resolve. "Then let’s give them a fight worth remembering."

The Hands of Anubis stepped forward in unison, their golden masks catching the faint light as they moved with lethal precision. They didn’t rush. They didn’t need to. Death was inevitable—for everyone but them.

Alastor tightened his grip on the scarab beneath his sleeve, the ancient energy thrumming through him like a lifeline. This wasn’t just a battle—it was a game of time, and time was the one thing he knew better than anyone.

The lead assassin raised his hand, the faint hum of ancient magic crackling through the air. "You will not escape us, Creed."

Alastor met the assassin’s gaze through the golden mask, his eyes burning with resolve. "I don’t need to escape," he whispered. "I just need to outlast you."

The Hands of Anubis moved as one, their blades gleaming, their presence like a storm about to break.