THE WHISPERING BLADES!

Moonlight filtered through the broken windows of the ruined chapel where Orion sat cross-legged, his breath slow, eyes closed, and shadows silently swirling around him. The events at Outpost Delta were still fresh in his mind. The cheers. The flower from the child. The beast’s roar inside his veins. But this night, the shadows whispered differently.

They brought warnings.

The name Neon Dake echoed faintly in the void.

---

Meanwhile, across the Silvercrest Mountains, within a fortress carved from obsidian and steel, Neon Dake stood before a council of cloaked warlords. His amber eyes glowed like fire behind his jagged mask.

“The Shadowborn has awakened,” spoke the scout, kneeling before him.

Neon chuckled darkly. “So… the prophecy stirs.”

One warlord growled, “Shall we eliminate him now?”

Neon raised a gloved hand. “No. Let him grow. Let him believe in his strength. Only then… will I take it for myself.”

His hand clenched, and shadows around the room trembled.

“Send the Whispering Blades.”

---

Back in the borderlands, Orion opened his eyes suddenly. Something was wrong.

His shadows flared violently.

He ducked just in time.

A blade hissed past his neck, slicing a lock of his hair. Another shimmered through the air, almost silent, aimed at his chest. He rolled sideways, summoning a tendril to deflect the strike.

Five figures surrounded him now—cloaked in grey, faces hidden, weapons drenched in mana. The infamous assassins: Whispering Blades.

Orion’s heart pounded, but his mind stayed cold.

"So, Neon sends his rats already," he said calmly.

The Blades didn’t respond. One rushed forward—silent, deadly. Orion met the attack head-on, summoning a shield of shadow. Steel met void.

The impact echoed.

They were fast. Coordinated. Trained to kill without emotion. But Orion had something else.

Instinct. And dominion.

He let the beast awaken—just enough.

His irises flared violet. Shadows erupted from beneath him, forming claws, blades, and spears. The air thickened with darkness.

One assassin tried to retreat—too slow. A tendril pierced his chest. He crumbled to ash.

The others hesitated.

"You’re not ready," Orion said. “Run back to your master. Tell him the Phantom doesn’t kneel.”

They attacked instead.

The battle lit the chapel ruins in waves of silver and shadow. Orion moved like a ghost—every step calculated, every strike a blur. The assassins fell one by one. And finally, only one remained.

She threw down her blade.

“I yield,” she whispered. “But I must speak.”

Orion narrowed his eyes. “Speak fast.”

The woman pulled back her hood. Her face was marked by twin scars—but her eyes weren’t hostile. They were haunted.

"Neon Dake wants more than power. He’s looking for the Gate of Nihros. The place where all shadows were born."

Orion’s chest tightened.

He had heard that name once—long ago in a nightmare.

Before he could respond, she stabbed herself.

Her body dissolved into black mist.

A message. A warning. A trap.

Orion stood in the silence, his shadows calm now, but his thoughts storming.

“Gate of Nihros… what are you hiding?”