The wind howled through the narrow alleys of the slum as Dio leaned against the decrepit wall, his shadow splayed unnaturally long behind him, pooling into cracks and crevices like spilled ink. Through it, he listened. Whispers, footsteps, and the faint metallic click of a blade being tested reached his mind like ripples on still water.
They're coming. Not just the assassins—they brought spies too. Clever, but not clever enough.
Dio smirked, the faint glow of a streetlamp illuminating the glint in his eyes. He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing the smooth surface of the small mirror he'd scavenged earlier. A tool, crude but effective.
After few months of practice, he can now make his shadow fused in the entire shadow of the slum and use it for spying!
Dio had dominated the entire slum. Now, the city had set their dirty eyes upon him. He knew he needed to retaliate for their incoming attacks. They want to see his depth and test the waters but he would counter attack fiercely and make them realize he was no push over.
Through his shadow, Dio mapped the slum. Each twist and turn of the labyrinthine alleys, each unstable rooftop, and every hidden nook where an ambush could lie. The spies moved cautiously, dressed as beggars and traders, but their shoes—too polished—and their movements—too deliberate—betrayed them.
He picked his location carefully—a junction where four paths converged. Broken crates and barrels provided ample cover, and a single flickering streetlamp cast elongated shadows. He let his own shadow stretch, mingling with the darkness around him, unseen and undetectable.
He crouched low, steadying his breath. His shadow whispered to him of shifting feet—three men approaching from the east, two from the west, and a lone figure perched high above, likely the sniper.
"Good," he murmured, his fingers brushing the knife at his side. He had no intention of using it.
The sniper fired first, the sharp crack of the rifle splitting the night. Dio didn't move. He didn't need to. His passive skill kicked in, and the bullet curved mid-air, slamming harmlessly into the rusted metal barrel behind him.
Feigning panic, he threw himself sideways, making sure the movement was visible from multiple angles. The assassins on the ground charged in, confident in his supposed vulnerability. He allowed them to close the distance, then slid back into the shadows, his footsteps light, deliberate.
One of the assassins stumbled—a tripwire. Dio had set it hours ago. The man's fall was loud, his curses louder. Dio's shadow told him of the sniper's hesitation, recalculating the chaos below.
Perfect.
The spies lingered, hanging back to observe. Dio needed to draw them in. He climbed onto a low rooftop, his silhouette briefly visible against the moonlight. A second shot rang out. Again, the bullet curved, this time grazing an approaching assassin, who yelped and collapsed.
"He's got help!" one of the spies hissed, their voice carried to Dio through his shadow.
He grinned. They're starting to doubt.
Moving silently, he circled back, ensuring his shadow kept him aware of every movement. He descended behind the spies, who had finally decided to advance. He didn't attack—he didn't need to. Instead, he whispered from the darkness, low and guttural, like a devil in their ears.
"Wrong side of the slum to wander into."
The spies whipped around, their weapons drawn, firing blindly into the shadows. The assassins, hearing the gunfire, turned their attention to the new noise. Chaos erupted. Dio slipped away again, letting his enemies eliminate each other.
Only two remained now—the sniper and the lead assassin. Dio ascended to the rooftops, his shadow feeding him the sniper's every movement. He approached from below, his steps perfectly timed with the creaking of the wind-blown wooden beams.
The sniper never saw him coming. A swift strike to the back of the head, and the man slumped forward, unconscious. Dio claimed the rifle, its weight unfamiliar but manageable.
He turned his attention to the lead assassin, who prowled the alleys below, wary but determined. Dio didn't aim to kill; instead, he aimed just past the man, the bullet curving mid-air to strike a pile of precarious crates. They collapsed with a deafening crash, pinning the assassin beneath the debris.
Dio descended, crouching just out of reach of the man's flailing arms.
"Tell your employers," Dio said, his voice cold and steady, "the slum is mine. They want it back? They'll need more than amateurs like you."
He left the man alive, but barely. A message, sent loud and clear.