That suffocating danger finally arrived.

Kallen's head whipped backwards, his neck nearly snapping from the force of the impact. Two identical daggers struck the same precise point on his now protected forehead, full of murderous intent.

The pressure suit absorbed the brunt of the assault, but it's 500 points of defense, was still overwhelmed.

Twin weapons were forged and designed for synchronized executions, and the effects of using them together were always special. One dagger pierced through; tearing flesh and breaking skull.

Blood rushed down from the breach, tracing crimson paths along the surface of the pressure suit that clung to him like a second skin.

But Kallen's eyes veiled beneath the pressure suit did not ripple. There was no human fragility dictated by fear nor demanded by pain in his eyes.

His body was covered in metal. And his will; forged of steel.

With the raging of the world outside, smell of blood and dust in the air, the pulse of killing intent from the two assassins; his mind was void and weightless, filled with the silence of clarity—a vast undisturbed abyss.

He felt like even if the heavens collapsed before him right now, he wouldn't so much as blink.

And then he exhaled.

It was so natural and measured, slow and deliberate, that it should have been impossible under such a situation. It was neither born from relief, satisfaction nor terror.

It was clarifying.

He felt like a god. This.... This was a new feeling of power.

---

In a secluded corner of the Crimson Estate, a place untouched by the carnage outside, lay a refuge—a haven amidst the storm.

The air here was different. Softer. As if the chaos beyond it's confines was nothing more than a distant nightmare. Even the sounds of battle were filtered, muted to a dull whisper. One could almost forget war raged just beyond the threshold.

From time to time, a blue barrier would flicker, its protective glow repelling the madness outside. And this time, as it shimmered into existence, two groups stepped through.

The first was a dark-haired man flanked by eight Crimsons, leading a cluster of children to safety. The second was a white-haired man, his grip firm on Alita's wrist. She was trembling—not with fear, but with feverish excitement. Her breath hitched, her crimson, borderline violet eyes glazed over as if still trapped in an adrenaline-fueled frenzy.

The moment they crossed the barrier, it was as if they had entered another world.

Here, the air was calm. The energy was strange—a blend of cheer and sorrow. Little children with bright, eager faces ran through the grass, their laughter cutting through the tension like a blade of light.

But there was no peace for the warriors.

Leaving the children in the hands of the caretakers, both the dark-haired and white-haired men strode toward a small cottage to the west.

Inside, seated in quiet contemplation, was a man with mahogany-red hair. Unlike the signature crimson locks of the family, his shade was darker—richer, like aged blood under a dying sun.

He looked up as they entered, his sharp gaze sweeping over them.

"Are they all secured?"

"Yes," the dark-haired man confirmed.

The redhead exhaled, rising to his feet. There was no hesitation in his movements, only an unshakable certainty.

"Good. Let's go."

But before they could move, the white-haired man hesitated.

"...We still haven't heard anything from those that went after the young master."

A pause.

The redhead's brow creased.

"They haven't found him?"

"No."

The air in the room darkened.

This redhead was the same athletic instructor who had praised Kallen's martial arts when he was six. As a true lover of combat, he had been captivated by the ingenuity of Kallen's fighting style. From that moment on, he became one of Kallen's biggest admirers.

A cold, lethal promise settled into the redhead's stance. His fingers twitched, his knuckles flexing with barely restrained fury.

"These miscreants are about to learn a new meaning of hell."

He turned, his voice a low growl.

"Roll out."

---

Moving his head sideways, Kallen effortlessly dodged another strike to his temple and immediately retaliated, but the assassin had already retreated.

There was no hesitation.

Kallen would have pursued, or stopped for another strike or to defend, but instead, he let his momentum carry him into a pivot. Just in time, as a streaking dart shot past where his head had been.

Smoothly and instinctively, he transitioned into a backward jump, evading another unseen threat. A hot jolt of pain ran up his leg from his sprained ankle but he paid it no mind.

His eyes swept the room, a flicker of cold calculation flashing within his clear, still eyes. The assassin was still whole, standing eerily unchanged from before, while the archer was lying dead; his torso impaled from his stomach out of his back by a bent rod, blood pooling over the floor just like that mirage had suggested.

At this point the whole floor was already covered in red blood, and even the fallen rubbles had soaked up enough blood, that they were almost entirely red from their previous white marble color.

The assassin lunged forward for a follow up attack. His charge was filled with madness—wild, rabid, unpredictable. He was erratic, making him even more dangerous, yet Kallen could still keep up. Not because of his stats. Not entirely because of skill.

It was something else.

A feeling like he could do anything, if he so willed to.

'Will!'

The realization struck like a hammer.

Although Kallen's skill outclassed the assassin's, and his Will granted him an unnatural augmentation by making the world seem slowed in his perspective, and the laws of physics lessening their reins on him; the gap in stats remained vast.

He was keeping up—but barely, and was slowly being overwhelmed.

Yet even as he slipped between attacks, dodging by hair's breadths, twisting away just in time, throwing counters that were meticulously deflected, he remained calm through it all.

The assassin though, was now far stronger than when Kallen had fought them three on one. At that time, he was even the first to fall. Kallen judged that he must have held back by a large margin, but he didn't know why.

"Crimsons! You're all going to die! You're dead already.

And you... You killed the princess! I saw it, you're going to die, oh wait, I'm going to die too."

The assassin spoke. The first human sound Kallen had heard from him.

It was a rasping, unfocused whisper. A sound like sandpaper grinding over jagged metal. His words came unhinged, like a mind on the brink of breaking down.

'Princess? Is he talking of the Dragonborn What race really are they?'