Seven assassins were down; ten remained. The group leader felt a chill run down his spine. His wide, disbelieving eyes fixed on Felicia, who stood serenely under the moonlight. She was young, barely nineteen, yet displayed no fear or panic. Hands clasped behind her back, her sharp gaze scanned the assassins as if surveying a corpse lineup.
The leader's heart pounded. He had spilled enough blood to feel invincible, yet he found himself shaken—by a woman half his age. "Watch out for her poison!" he barked, masking his unease with a gruff shout. "Surround her! Take her down!"
The assassins, seasoned professionals, reacted swiftly. Despite Felicia's deadly toll, they recalibrated their strategy, tightening their encirclement while avoiding the wind's direction to prevent concentrated attacks. Their blades gleamed dully.
Felicia rolled a small sphere in her palm, feigning another throw. Her feint worked; a leading assassin flinched and sidestepped, breaking formation. In that instant, Felicia flicked out a silver needle. It whistled through the air and embedded itself in the assassin's neck. He crumpled, lifeless.
Nine assassins remained. The leader cursed, his patience snapping. He surged forward, knife in hand. Before he could reach her, however, several more assassins fell—Maurice's four bodyguards, bloodied but unrelenting, had broken free. Fighting with ferocious determination, they turned the tide.
Felicia, seizing the opportunity, sent needle after needle flying with surgical precision. The tide turned decisively.
Ten minutes later, the battleground was silent. Seventeen assassins lay motionless; none escaped. Felicia stepped forward, crouching beside the leader's body. She searched his clothing; as expected, there was no identification, no clue to his employer. Her fingers brushed the thick calluses on his palms—telltale signs of a professional assassin. A cold smile touched her lips. These were professionals. But who hired them?
Dusting her hands, she addressed Maurice's bodyguards in a calm, measured voice. "Tell Mr. Glovers this: I'll deal with the twin venomous creatures when I'm ready. Until then, he'd better watch his step. If he keeps pushing me, I won't hesitate to let him go first."
Without waiting for a response, she left. The bodyguards exchanged uneasy glances. They wanted to explain their innocence, but Maurice's erratic behavior fueled their doubt. This wouldn't be the first reckless stunt he'd pulled. Still, seventeen dead assassins and four battered bodyguards were undeniable. Felicia, who had saved their lives multiple times, stood calmly amidst the carnage.
One sighed, "We'd better report this. Maybe we can talk some sense into Mr. Glovers. He needs to stop this nonsense before someone actually dies."
Their report to Maurice yielded an unexpected response. "Kill her? When did I ever send anyone to kill her?" His voice dripped with incredulity.
"Mr. Glovers, we thought—"
"That I'd waste good assassins on someone tied to my own life?" Maurice barked. "Use your brains! Do I look like an idiot?"
The men hesitated. One muttered, "It's not like you've never done something crazy before…"
"What was that?" Maurice's tone promised retribution.
He cursed, his irritation barely contained. But upon hearing Felicia's account—taking down seven assassins single-handedly—his temper shifted. "Damn," he muttered, a sly grin spreading across his face. "She has guts."