Everything shattered in a single moment.
The attack was swift, a blur of steel, poison, and coordinated precision that fractured the illusion of safety. The tranquility of the forest was torn apart, replaced by chaos, pain, and blood. The ambush had been expertly laid, the timing merciless.
"One… two…" one of the masked assailants muttered coldly, his voice as emotionless as a blade drawn in silence. "Three targets remaining. Start with the weakest."
The two killers moved as one, eyes locking onto Tharic.
He stood paralyzed, his expression caught between disbelief and terror. The cocky swagger he wore hours before had vanished like a mirage. His feet were glued to the dirt path, his mouth slightly ajar, unable to utter a word. The gleam of his engraving tool, once a symbol of pride, now looked like a toy in the hands of a frightened boy.
But before the attackers could reach him—Ryn moved.
A blur of motion cut between Tharic and the incoming blades. Ryn landed silently, knees bent, hand gripping a dagger etched with intricate engravings. In the sunlight, the metallic surface shimmered with sigils that pulsed like living veins.
His eyes—usually calm and observing—now blazed with focused clarity far beyond his years.
In that instant, his body remembered. It recreated the trial he had endured in the ancient ruins before entering the academy—the life-or-death gauntlet that had nearly broken him. Now, that same reflex had awakened, stronger, honed by weeks of focused training.
The first strike came from the right, a low sweep meant to cripple.
Ryn twisted his hips, barely shifting weight, and parried with the flat of his dagger. Sparks flared.
The second attack followed instantly—a feint turned lunge toward his ribs.
He dipped, rolling forward with fluid grace, emerging behind one of the attackers. With a sharp snap, he kicked the assailant square in the gut, sending him staggering back a step with a grunt.
"Tharic!" Ryn snapped, voice sharp like a crack of thunder. "Get ready!"
But Tharic didn't move.
He was staring at the blood-slick patch of dirt where Kellan had fallen moments ago, his eyes wide and glassy.
His dreams of grandeur, to become a great engraving master… they all seemed so distant now. Fragile. Hollow.
He hadn't imagined that real combat would smell this strongly of blood. That fear would come this quickly. That heroes didn't always rise, and sometimes, they fell first.
And then—he did.
Kellan appeared.
Like a ghost from the shade of the trees, he stepped into the clearing behind one of the masked attackers. Silent. Inevitable.
In a swift, brutal motion, he seized the enemy by the back of the neck and slammed the butt of his dagger into the base of the skull. There was a sharp crack, and the figure dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.
Ryn blinked in surprise but didn't lose focus.
Kellan's voice came low and cold: "In the world of Engraving Masters… what you see is not always what is real."
The second assassin, realizing his partner had fallen, tried to pivot—his chain already mid-swing.
But Kellan was faster.
A low sidestep, a precise leg sweep. The attacker flew backward. Before he hit the ground, Kellan had produced a thin silver wire, etched with faint blue runes, and looped it around the man's limbs. It cinched with a spark of energy, locking the assassin in place with a soft hum.
"M-Master Kellan!" Mira gasped, her voice thick with awe and relief.
The bloodied, motionless body that had fallen moments ago… had only been a ruse. A decoy constructed from a complex layering of inscription arrays, smoke runes, and sensory misdirection. A trap built hours before the mission began—an insurance policy Kellan had quietly prepared.
He hadn't known what danger they'd face, but instinct had warned him. And instinct had been right.
Silence fell over the road once more, thick and oppressive.
Kellan knelt beside the bound attacker and studied the mask. His eyes narrowed.
"Two assassins. Trained. Rank Three. Using high-grade poison. Coordinated ambush." He tilted his head slightly. "These are not ordinary thieves."
He stood slowly and turned to Gerard—the merchant who had hired them.
His voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet like a knife. "I believe you have something to tell us… don't you?"
Gerard flinched. He took a slow step back, sweat beading across his brow.
"I… I'm sorry," he stammered. "I lied about the classification of the mission."
Kellan didn't move.
Gerard swallowed hard. "I didn't have enough coin to afford protection from the highest-ranking engraving masters. But I was desperate. Someone wants me dead… badly. They hired assassins. Professionals. I suspect a rival trade faction. But I couldn't… I didn't dare say it."
He lowered his head.
Ryn exchanged a glance with Mira, whose hand had never left the edge of her satchel.
Kellan's expression remained unreadable.
They had come expecting a low-risk escort mission. Instead, they had walked into a battlefield.
There was a choice before them now: complete the mission despite the danger, or turn back, abandon the merchant, and inform the academy of the deception. One meant risk—perhaps death. The other meant dishonor. Failure.
But before Kellan could speak, someone else did.
Tharic.
His fist clenched at his side, still trembling, but his voice—though soft—was steady.
"I'll complete the mission," he said. "I won't run."
Kellan turned to him slowly. He could see it—the fear hadn't vanished, but it was no longer in control.
The boy had stepped through his first threshold of fear… and chosen resolve.
A faint smile curled beneath Kellan's mask.
Good, he thought. He's learning. They all are.
Being an Engraving Master wasn't just about carving symbols into stone or shaping energy into light.
It was about seeing through illusions.
And choosing to keep walking anyway.