2024-10-02 20:58:09
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Shatter the Shield
The sky above the coastline trembled as the roar of rotor blades shattered the quiet.A black helicopter—sleek, armored, and engineered with the finest military-grade enchantments—descended onto the battered cliffs near the sea. The air rippled with distortion magic, shielding its arrival from distant eyes. As the blades slowed, wind whipped dust and broken petals of fallen energy into the air, circling the man who waited below.The masked assassin stood alone at the water’s edge.Before him, embedded in the cragged stone of the pier, was the crystal sphere—the translucent, indestructible bubble conjured by Calvin in his final moment of consciousness. Inside, Calvin’s body remained slumped, still pierced by the silver sword, surrounded by his own drying blood. His chest rose and fell, barely.Still alive.Still untouchable.The assassin didn’t move as the helicopter’s side door opened and a voice barked out, “Status report!”A soldier stepped down and approached, helmet glinting. “We’r
Shadows Over a Blooming Land
Barrion had risen from ashes.Once scarred by war and crumbling under economic decay, the city now gleamed like a gem reborn. Its stone streets had been repaved with intricate brickwork, lanterns lighting every path at dusk with soft golden hues. New marketplaces bustled with color and life—barrels of citrus fruit, woven baskets of rice and millet, exotic silks from western traders fluttering like banners in the wind.The countryside thrived too. Fields once left fallow now shimmered with gold and green—wheat swaying in the breeze, canals brimming with clean water. The farmers who had once despaired were now singing in unison during harvest, carts overflowing. Children ran barefoot through open fields, their laughter carrying across the hills. Barrion’s ports, once empty and rusted, now thrived with trade, ships from distant lands anchoring beside local vessels, exchanging spices, medicine, and knowledge.It was a miracle.And Calvin Hudson had helped spark it.Standing atop the balco
The Master's Chain and the Father's Lie
The stench of mildew and rust saturated the air in the underground warehouse, thick enough to taste. It clung to the tongue like copper and dust. In one forgotten corner, slumped against a wall of crumbling stone, the mysterious man trembled.Blood stained his lips. His left eye was swollen shut. Every breath came jagged and shallow, and he was almost certain several of his ribs had cracked beneath the brutal heel of President Lee’s boot. His hands, usually so precise and deadly, now hung limp at his sides—scraped, bruised, and shackled by shame.He could have killed Lee. Easily. Before the tyrant raised his voice, before the first blow landed—he could’ve ended it. One strike to the jugular. A twist of bone. Silence.But he hadn’t.Because a shadow assassin does not bite the hand that owns his leash.Even now, curled in agony, his master’s voice echoed like a curse inside his skull.“You are a weapon,” the voice of his old mentor had once said, “and weapons do not choose their targets
Echoes of Blood and Cure
The world had barely begun to recover from the seismic shock of Calvin Hudson’s “death” when another revelation shattered headlines like glass—he was alive.In the days following the funeral, speculation raged. Theories spun like autumn leaves: a staged deception, a political maneuver, a resurrection. No one had answers, and Calvin gave none. He didn’t hold press conferences. He didn’t explain. He simply returned—like the calm after a devastating storm.And resumed his life.The clinic in Bacca reopened under gray skies and curious gazes. The white doors creaked, the herbal fragrances wafted through the halls again, and patients, once hesitant, returned in droves. Many came just to see if the man they’d mourned was truly alive. But as soon as Calvin placed his hands on their wounds—those familiar, steady hands—they wept. Not from grief, but from relief. The healer was back. And he was unchanged.Or so it seemed.Behind his calm smile and methodical care, Calvin knew the truth: he was
Masks and Echoes
A moist, sour breath rasped over Calvin’s palm as he throttled the masked assassin. Up close, the latex smelled faintly of glue and rancid greasepaint. The man’s eyes—pale gray, rimmed with burst vessels—bulged with fury rather than fear. And then he uttered a phrase in a rapid series of clicks and consonants—so quick it could have been mistaken for a choking fit.“Serpent … sheds … skin,” the assassin whispered.Three words. It meant abort and flee in an extinct coastal dialect—one that only the inner circle of Han Xin’s court still practiced.Across the aisle, President Lee’s head jerked up. His face—already chalky in the candlelight—lost what little color remained. Recognition flashed in his eyes. Then survival instinct devoured everything else.He bolted.“Guards!” Lee shrieked, pitching his voice with theatrical tremor as he shoved through monks and mourners. “Protect me—he’s gone mad!”The effect was instantaneous. Panic detonated like fireworks beneath a silk canopy. Gasps ripp
Funeral of a Living Man
The moon was still tangled in the horizon when Calvin summoned Arden to the back entrance of the newly rebuilt clinic. A single hurricane lamp cast a weak amber glow, catching motes of turmeric dust that still floated in the air. The place smelled of antiseptic, scorched wood, and fresh plaster—a testament to weeks of nonstop reconstruction.Arden arrived in a swirl of night‑fog, coat half buttoned, hair slick with dew. “You sent for me at—” he checked a battered pocket‑watch—“three twenty‑six a.m. I assume this isn’t a house‑call.”Calvin stood beside an examination table, bandages still peeking beneath his shirt. His eyes, however, were knives—cold, focused, alive. “I need the whole world to believe I’m dead.”Arden’s breath hitched. “You want… a funeral?”“Exactly.” Calvin folded his arms. “A funeral…and a body.”“Where in the Six Realms am I supposed to find a body that passes for you?”“A nameless corpse,” Calvin replied, tone clinical. “There was a chemical blast at the Hathen t
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