Forge Of Fate: A Blacksmiths Journey

The battle in the streets of Gron raged on, a swirling mass of blood, steel, and shadows. The assassins moved with inhuman coordination, striking at precise intervals to overwhelm their targets. Though Kalem and Isolde fought back with all their might, the Macab's influence pressed down on them, clouding their minds like a suffocating mist.

Kalem parried a blade aimed at his neck, the impact rattling through his arm. His reactions were slowing—his calculations felt sluggish. Isolde's strikes were strong but less controlled, her ice spreading in erratic patterns rather than her usual surgical precision. The Macab's reach was vast, and every second under its grasp chipped away at their control.

Something had to change.

Kalem gritted his teeth, gripping his swords tighter. "Here goes something," he muttered. He focused inward, drawing from his mana core and forming an intricate sequence of runes within himself. If the Macab was distorting mana, then perhaps an opposing force could disrupt it.

He channeled energy outward, using himself as a catalyst to release a pulse of raw mana. The air around him cracked with force, a faint ripple distorting the space.

For a moment, the world sharpened. The whispers quieted. The fog in his mind thinned.

But it was temporary.

The Macab's reach was too vast, its corruption embedded too deeply into the city's ether. Kalem's interference barely made a dent, reducing only a fraction of the dissonance plaguing them.

"Guess that didn't work," he exhaled, steadying himself.

"This is better than nothing," Isolde said, stepping closer, her breath visible in the freezing air surrounding her.

The assassins paused, reassessing their approach. The death toll among their ranks was rising, and they had underestimated their targets' ability to resist. The longer they dragged this out, the higher the risk of interference from the academy's powerhouses.

The strike leader, a masked figure draped in a dark combat cloak, narrowed his eyes. "Isolate the boy," he ordered coldly. "Leave the girl to me."

In perfect synchronization, a squad of assassins surged forward, wielding enchanted chains that glowed faintly with disruptive runes. They whipped toward Kalem like metallic vipers, coiling around his arms and torso before he could evade.

"Damn it—"

The next moment, they pulled.

Kalem was yanked off his feet, his body slamming into a wooden stall with bone-rattling force. Splinters flew in every direction as the structure crumbled beneath him.

"Hold out a bit!" he shouted to Isolde, even as the assassins closed in.

She barely registered his words, her focus locked onto the approaching figure of the strike leader.

Kalem grunted as he pushed himself up, his ears ringing. He barely had time to react before several assassins lunged at him, their short swords gleaming with poisoned edges.

But before they could strike—

Schk!

Three short spears impaled them mid-air, pinning their lifeless bodies to the cobblestone street.

Kalem exhaled sharply, shaking off the last remnants of the impact. He flexed his fingers, his weapons responding to his will. His crate, lying a few feet away, creaked open as more swords floated into the air around him.

"Alright," he muttered, rolling his shoulders. He stepped forward, twin blades in hand, his floating arsenal shifting with him like a pack of hungry wolves.

"Bring it on."

The assassins hesitated for only a second before launching themselves at him once more.

Meanwhile, Isolde faced the strike leader alone.

"You are strong," the masked man said, twirling two curved blades in his hands. His stance was relaxed, confident. "But it doesn't matter."

Isolde said nothing.

The frost around her intensified, her breath coming out in white puffs. Her grip on her greatsword was firm, but inside, she could feel the Macab clawing at her thoughts, distorting her perception.

She wasn't just fighting the assassin—she was fighting herself.

The masked man tilted his head, observing her closely. "Interesting," he murmured. "You're still holding on. Most would have succumbed by now."

He stepped forward, closing the distance with terrifying speed.

Isolde barely blocked in time. Their blades clashed, sending a burst of frost and sparks into the air.

The strike leader moved with grace, his twin curved swords weaving like ribbons of death. He struck with rapid, unpredictable angles, forcing Isolde to react purely on instinct.

And that was what he wanted.

Every blow he delivered was calculated—not just to wound, but to push her closer to the edge. He could feel the instability in her strikes, the slight hesitation before each swing. The Macab was working, even if slowly.

Make her lose control.

He feinted left, then struck right, nicking her shoulder. Her ice-coated armor absorbed most of the impact, but it wasn't about damage.

It was about planting doubt.

A flicker of rage flashed in Isolde's eyes.

The strike leader smiled beneath his mask.

Yes. That was it.

He pressed harder, his blades carving through the air like whispering ghosts.

Isolde's breath became harsher. Her vision blurred at the edges.

The Macab's influence was deepening.

For the first time in years—she felt something unfamiliar.

Losing control.

Kalem, still locked in his own battle, could sense it.

His mind was hazy, his body battered, but he knew one thing—

If Isolde broke, this fight would take a far deadlier turn.

And they couldn't afford that.

Not now.

Not ever.