Felicia's slow, unhurried steps echoed faintly along the deserted road. The farther she walked, the darker the path became, several streetlights long extinguished, leaving the area shrouded in eerie shadows. The silence was deafening, broken only by the soft shuffle of her shoes.

In the darkness, the assassins saw their opportunity. "Now!" the leader hissed.

Seventeen shadowy figures moved like a wave, swift and silent, closing in on Felicia from all directions. Had she turned, she would have seen only a blur of black-clad figures. Within seconds, they were upon her.

One assassin lunged, his blade flashing in the dim light, aimed directly at her throat. The steel glinted menacingly, drawing closer, inch by inch. But just as the knife was about to strike, it froze. The assassin hesitated, glancing at his wrist. A thin silver needle protruded, its shaft vibrating faintly.

The assassin sneered. "Go to hell!"

His body stiffened. Blood trickled from his wrist, dripping down the blade. His sneer faltered, replaced by confusion. He stared at the silver needle; its gleaming surface was rapidly turning black.

"Poison!" he gasped, his voice hoarse.

"Not just poison," Felicia murmured, almost playfully. "It's a deadly poison."

With a single finger, she pushed the blade away. The assassin's eyes widened in shock as blood gushed from his nose, ears, and mouth. In moments, he collapsed, lifeless.

The remaining sixteen assassins froze, stunned. But their shock was brief. They were professionals; death was part of the job.

"Stay sharp! Finish this quickly!" the leader barked.

The team moved in unison, their training and precision unmatched. Blades gleamed as they surged forward. But before they could reach her, four figures dropped from the trees above—Maurice's men.

The guards quickly formed a protective circle around Felicia. As the assassins closed in, the men engaged, throwing themselves into the fray. The clash was chaotic; blades clanged, grunts of effort filled the air. But four men against sixteen trained killers? The odds were stacked against them.

Soon overwhelmed, one guard shouted, "Ms. Fuller, run!"

Felicia rolled her eyes. She knew they couldn't save her; she'd never relied on others for protection.

With the guards occupied, seven or eight assassins broke off, charging toward her. Their blades, swift and unrelenting, aimed to kill.

Felicia's eyes gleamed. Perfect timing. She would see how her new toys worked.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out two small spheres and flung them at the advancing assassins. The assassins barely glanced at them, dismissing them as a desperate last-ditch effort. Unbothered, they pressed forward, even smirking.

But the moment the spheres hit the ground, they cracked open, releasing a fine, almost invisible powder. Carried by the breeze, the powder enveloped the assassins, clinging to their faces, hands, and even wafting into their mouths and noses. Within seconds, the assassins' blades darkened.

The other assassins turned to one another, horrified. In their comrades' glassy, bloodied eyes, they saw their own gruesome reflection.

No one screamed. One by one, their bodies crumpled to the ground, lifeless.