Chapter 944

Icarus hadn't even seen Carissa dodge his strike. His long blade sliced through empty air. When he refocused, she remained where she stood, seemingly unmoved.

The carriage lanterns cast two faint glows, illuminating Carissa's pale face. Her expression, as cold as the biting wind, softened into a smile directed at him.

The smile sent a sharp, painful jolt—more than a shiver—down Icarus's spine.

It took a moment to realize what had happened. Her whip had lashed out, striking his face and tearing away his black face covering. He spun in midair, swiftly replacing the covering.

He leaped atop a wall, turning just in time to see her red whip, coiling like a venomous snake, wrap around the neck of the suicide soldier on her left. With a powerful tug, she yanked him into the air, then propelled herself toward the soldier on her right.

In a smooth, fluid motion, she dragged the first soldier toward the carriage. His weapon clattered to the ground. Before it hit the earth, Carissa's foot sent the sword flying. She then flew alongside the soldier, swinging her leg horizontally. The sword arced gracefully, striking the second soldier and burying itself deep in his stomach.

The entire sequence unfolded in an instant. Icarus, despite his proximity, was helpless. The real threat, he realized, was Carissa, not her two servants.

Grinding his teeth, Icarus charged, swinging his blade to sever the whip. The suicide soldier's life depended on it.

Carissa yanked the whip, throwing the soldier into the air with such speed that it blurred Icarus's vision. He instinctively altered his course to avoid striking his own man. This proved a fatal error. The moment he changed direction, his blade bit into flesh, cleaving the suicide soldier's head clean off.

She had predicted his blade's trajectory.

Impossible! This couldn't be real!

His technique, Phantom Blade, was a series of deceptive moves with over a dozen variations—a martial arts masterpiece. In Westhaven, no one had ever escaped its reach, or predicted its direction.

But now, mocking his confidence, Carissa's whip danced like a net, casting even wider shadows than Icarus's Phantom Blade. In close combat, his massive blade was useless. Her whip, however, could extend, retract, and shift between soft and rigid, each movement aimed directly at his neck.

Barely able to lift his blade, he could only use the hilt to block, unable to land a proper strike. He struggled defensively, unable to spare a glance at the others.

Why hadn't anyone come to help?

Icarus didn't know how many attacks he'd blocked, but with each one, he was pushed further back. He desperately tried to create distance, but Carissa relentlessly maintained pressure, her whip striking repeatedly. He was already severely injured.

In that moment, the pride and confidence of Westhaven's greatest fighter shattered, destroyed by Carissa's relentless, almost insulting skill.

Icarus feared he wouldn't escape. The consequences of his capture for tomorrow's negotiations were unthinkable.

His frantic thoughts clouded his focus. Mistakes multiplied, and soon, he couldn't dodge the whip. It wrapped around him like a serpent, tightening around his neck. With a sharp pull, Carissa yanked him forward, her hand lightning-fast as she ripped away his tattered face covering.

His face was fully exposed in the carriage lantern's dim light.

"Commander Icarus," Carissa said, smiling. "I appreciate the challenge."

She tightened the whip, spun him around, and forced him to see the fallen suicide soldiers. Most were down; only three or four remained, struggling futilely. The coachman and swordswoman stood easily, seemingly waiting.

Fear, suffocating and cold, enveloped Icarus. Before he could fully process this, the sound of hooves shattered the night's silence, breaking through the lingering bloodlust. His face paled; he could barely breathe.

"Commander Sinclair!"

A horse galloped toward them, its rider quickly dismounting. Behind him followed more than twenty horses, each carrying a Capital Guard member.

"What happened?"

It was Michael, the Capital Guard's deputy commander. The soldiers behind him were the night patrol.

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