The tunnels beneath Skylance City twisted in endless loops, an ancient labyrinth woven through forgotten infrastructure. It was the perfect battlefield for ghosts—the kind of place where shadows moved on their own, and every corner felt like a trap waiting to spring. And here, deep beneath the surface, Alastor and his team faced the deadliest hunters the Pyramid had ever created: the Hands of Anubis.

The fight began like a whisper—silent and sudden, with blades cutting through the dark.

Selene launched herself forward, her sword flashing as she met the nearest assassin head-on. Steel clanged against steel, sparks igniting in the shadows. She fought with ruthless precision, her movements sharp and calculated—but the Hands moved with the fluidity of men who had fought and died a thousand times over. Every death had made them faster, sharper, stronger.

Aurora ducked behind a support pillar, her neural interface glowing as she unleashed a wave of digital interference. Her hacks scrambled the assassins’ implants for precious seconds, forcing them to stagger as they recalibrated. "That’s all I’ve got!" she shouted. "Make it count!"

Alastor moved like a shadow through the chaos, the Codex’s knowledge humming in his mind, guiding his every step. He knew this fight before it began—the moments of triumph, the inevitable deaths, the mistakes and victories. He had seen it all unfold in visions born from countless loops, and now he walked through the battle as if he were reliving a memory.

The Codex had shown him the path—and he would not falter.

Selene fought furiously beside him, her blade dancing as she parried and struck. But the Hands were relentless, their golden masks gleaming as they attacked in perfect synchrony. One assassin lunged low, forcing Selene to pivot; another struck high, a killing blow aimed for her neck. She barely twisted away in time, but even her skill couldn’t keep up with their unnatural speed.

"They’re adapting too fast!" she growled, blocking a series of rapid strikes. "We need a way to break their rhythm!"

Alastor’s mind raced, every possibility unfolding in an instant. The Codex didn’t just show him outcomes—it showed him how to shape them. He could feel the threads of the loop winding through the battle, every death and rebirth a knot waiting to be undone. He didn’t need to overpower the Hands—he needed to outmaneuver them.

"Keep them moving," Alastor called out, his voice calm despite the chaos. "The more they fight, the more predictable they become."

Aurora tapped furiously at her interface, flooding the dark space with bursts of static and phantom signals. Lights flickered, shadows danced in false directions, and the sound of footsteps echoed where no one stood. It was disorienting, even for the assassins.

Selene grinned, catching on to Alastor’s strategy. "Confuse them. Make them think they’ve already lost."

And it worked—for a moment. The Hands faltered, their perfect coordination cracking as they adjusted to the false signals. It was the opening Alastor needed.

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He reached into the Codex—into the power that now thrummed beneath his skin, resonating with the scarab embedded in his arm. The knowledge of the loop wasn’t just a curse—it was a weapon. And he wielded it now, bending time in subtle ways: a heartbeat delayed here, a flicker of slowed perception there. It wasn’t enough to stop time, but it was enough to tilt the odds in his favor.

The first assassin lunged at him, blade sweeping toward his throat—but Alastor moved before the attack could fully form, his own blade slicing across the assassin’s neck. The golden mask shattered, and the warrior crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

One down.

The others reacted instantly, adjusting their formation, but Alastor was already three steps ahead. With every movement, he felt the rhythm of the loop shifting—as if he were rewriting time itself, breaking the sequence the Hands had relied on for centuries.

Selene took advantage of the disruption, her sword flashing through the dark. She drove her blade deep into the chest of another assassin, twisting it with brutal efficiency. "Two," she whispered, her eyes cold with focus.

A third assassin came for Aurora, but she was ready—triggering a pulse of electricity that surged through his armor, frying the circuits embedded in his implants. He staggered, and Selene’s blade found him before he could recover.

Three down.

But the remaining Hands regrouped, their golden masks gleaming in the dim light, moving as if death had no meaning to them. They pressed forward, relentless and silent, their attacks faster, more precise. Every move they made was a reflection of lives lived and lost, of lessons learned through endless trials.

Alastor’s pulse thundered in his ears, but he didn’t fear them. The Codex whispered the outcome before it happened—not just the deaths, but the fractures in their perfect formation. He could see the rhythm of their movements, the way their attacks looped back on themselves like echoes.

And he knew exactly where to strike.

The fourth assassin lunged at him—too fast, too certain—and Alastor sidestepped at the last moment, his blade slashing across the assassin’s spine. The warrior fell without a sound, his mask cracking as he hit the ground.

Four.

Selene caught another assassin’s blade mid-swing, twisting her opponent’s wrist until the bone snapped with a sickening crack. She drove her sword into his chest, the golden mask slipping free as the assassin crumpled to the floor.

Five.

The last assassin hesitated for the first time, sensing the shift—realizing, too late, that the perfect machine they had become was breaking apart. He turned toward Alastor, desperation flickering behind the cold mask.

Alastor moved before the assassin could react. With one final, precise stroke, he drove his blade through the assassin’s heart. The body slumped to the ground, the golden mask clattering against the stone floor.

Six.

Silence fell over the battlefield, broken only by the ragged sound of Alastor’s breathing. The Hands of Anubis—immortal assassins, warriors forged in the fires of countless lifetimes—lay dead at his feet.

Alastor stood over their bodies, his face grim, his hand still gripping the hilt of his sword. The weight of what he had done settled over him, but there was no triumph in it—only cold, grim resolve.

Selene wiped the blood from her blade, her expression unreadable. "They’ll send more," she said quietly.

Alastor nodded, his gaze lingering on the fallen assassins. He knew the truth. This fight wasn’t over—not by a long shot. Lucius would keep coming. The Pyramid wouldn’t stop until they were all dead—or the loop was broken.

He exhaled slowly, his hand brushing over the scarab beneath his sleeve. There was no going back. Not now. Not after everything.

"If the Pyramid won’t end me," Alastor whispered, his voice hard and cold, "I’ll end it."