The forest thinned as the chase pushed northwest, the dense canopy gradually giving way to scattered pines. Through the gaps in the trees, moonlight painted silver streaks across the undergrowth. A few kilometers ahead was the main road.

But between the Twin Fangs and their target stood two shadows that refused to yield.

Tross deflected another barrage of gunfire with a sweeping arc of his broadsword, the blade singing as bullets ricocheted into the darkness. Despite the weapon’s considerable weight—easily fifty pounds of tempered steel—he moved with the fluidity of water, his muscular frame pivoting and lunging without a trace of sluggishness. His black suit, tailored slim to his body, bore fresh tears along the shoulder and thigh, though the man himself showed no signs of slowing.

“You’re one of them, pesky rats,” Tross snarled, his lips curling into a sneer. His eyes blazed with barely contained fury. “I’m going to shred you to pieces.”

Ten meters to his right, Ivan moved like a phantom through the trees, his twin slim swords—each blade no thicker than a finger but sharp enough to cleave through bone as if it were wet paper—traced deadly arcs through the air. The swords caught moonlight as they spun, creating brief flashes that looked almost beautiful. Almost. Because wherever those flashes appeared, bark exploded from tree trunks, branches fell, and the very air seemed to split with a whisper-thin shiiing.

Their opponents were equally formidable.

Dev moved with the precision of a trained killer, his double-edged short sword—perhaps two and a half feet of gleaming death—parrying Ivan’s strikes with calculated efficiency. The blade was perfectly balanced for close-quarters combat, designed for both slashing and thrusting. Every movement Dev made was economical, wasting neither energy nor motion. His dark combat attire blended seamlessly with the shadows, making him appear and disappear like smoke.

“Your older brother’s getting impatient,” Dev remarked casually, his voice smooth despite the exertion. He ducked under a horizontal slash from Ivan and countered with an upward thrust that Ivan barely twisted away from. “Maybe you should just give up. Save everyone the trouble.”

“Not happening,” Ivan replied, his tone ice-cold. His blades moved faster, a silver blur that forced Dev to backpedal three steps.

Meanwhile, Vince kept Tross occupied with an endless stream of gunfire from his twin handguns. The weapons barked rapidly—crack-crack-crack-crack—in a rhythm that seemed impossible to maintain. Yet somehow, Vince’s magazines never clicked empty. Whether he reloaded with such speed that it was imperceptible, or he’d modified his weapons for extended capacity, the result was the same: a constant, suppressing hail of lead that would’ve shredded any normal opponent.

But Tross was far from normal.

He charged through the barrage, his broadsword held at an angle that deflected most shots while his body twisted to avoid the rest. A bullet grazed his cheek, drawing a thin line of crimson, but he didn’t even flinch. His boots pounded against the forest floor, closing the distance between himself and Vince with terrifying speed.

“You’re fast,” Vince admitted, leaping backward onto a fallen log, then vaulting over it as Tross’s sword cleaved clean through the thick trunk. Wood chips exploded outward. “But not fast enough.”

He fired again—this time aiming for the legs—but Tross had already predicted the trajectory. The older Twin Fang planted his sword into the ground and used it as a pivot point, swinging his entire body around in a wide arc that avoided the bullets while simultaneously launching a devastating kick toward Vince’s position.

Vince rolled aside, the kick missing his head by inches. The force of it sent dead leaves swirling in a miniature tornado.

“Ivan!” Tross barked. 

“I know!” Ivan snarled back, frustration creeping into his usually composed voice.

Dev smiled beneath the shadows. “Running late for something? Maybe a funeral?”

That struck a nerve.

Ivan’s attacks became more aggressive, his twin blades weaving patterns that defied comprehension. He struck high, low, from the left, from the right—sometimes both swords moving in parallel, sometimes in opposition, creating a cage of steel that threatened to dice Dev into ribbons.

But Dev danced through it all.

His footwork was impeccable—step, pivot, slide, spin—each movement flowing into the next as if choreographed. His short sword became an extension of his body, meeting Ivan’s strikes at the perfect angles to deflect rather than absorb, using the momentum to guide the attacks away while simultaneously positioning himself for counterstrikes.

It was like watching a tango, violent and beautiful, where one misstep meant death.

A blade sliced past Dev’s ear, so close it trimmed a few hairs. He retaliated with a horizontal slash aimed at Ivan’s midsection. Ivan’s right sword dropped to block while his left whipped around for a decapitating strike. Dev ducked under it, rolled forward, and came up behind Ivan.

But Ivan had anticipated this.

He spun on his heel, both swords crossing in an X-formation that would’ve scissored Dev’s throat—if the assassin hadn’t thrown himself backward at the last possible second. The tips of Ivan’s blades kissed the fabric of Dev’s collar, leaving shallow cuts but failing to draw blood.

They separated, both breathing harder now, circling each other warily.

“You’re good,” Ivan admitted grudgingly. “But you’re still in my way.”

“Funny,” Dev replied, his smile audible in his tone. “I was about to say the same thing.”

Across the clearing, Tross and Vince continued their deadly exchange. Vince had taken to the trees now, using his superior mobility and ranged advantage to keep Tross at bay. He fired from one branch, then swung to another before Tross could close the distance. His movements were nimble, acrobatic—a stark contrast to Tross’s grounded, powerful approach.

But Tross was adapting.

He began predicting Vince’s patterns, noting which branches could support the assassin’s weight and which routes offered the best vantage points. When Vince swung to his next position, Tross was already there.

The broadsword came down in a vertical cleave that split the branch in half. Vince leaped away, firing mid-air. Tross batted the bullets aside with his blade, then surged forward, refusing to give Vince any breathing room.

“You’re persistent,” Vince commented, landing in a crouch. “I can respect that.”

“Stop talking,” Tross growled, “and get out of my way.”

“Can’t do that, friend. Orders are orders.”

Tross’s eyes narrowed. “Then I’ll go through you.”

He attacked with renewed ferocity, his broadsword becoming a whirlwind of steel. Each swing carried enough force to pulverize stone, yet his movements remained swift, controlled. The weapon wasn’t slowing him down—it was an extension of his will, an instrument of raw, focused violence.

Vince’s smile faded. This was getting serious.

He holstered one gun and drew a combat knife from his thigh sheath. Now armed with blade and firearm, he engaged Tross in close quarters. The knife parried and redirected the broadsword’s path while the gun fired at point-blank range, forcing Tross to constantly adjust his defenses.

Metal clashed against metal. Sparks flew in the darkness. Both men bore fresh wounds now—shallow cuts, grazes, bruises—but neither yielded an inch.

Behind them, Ivan and Dev’s duel had reached a crescendo. Their weapons moved so fast they became blurs, the sound of clashing steel creating a continuous metallic shriek that echoed through the forest. They were evenly matched, each anticipating the other’s moves, each countering with equal skill.

But time was not on the Twin Fangs’ side.

“Ivan,” Tross called out, his voice strained. “We need to end this. Now.”

Ivan knew his brother was right. Matt and Zed were getting farther away with every passing second. They couldn’t afford to be bogged down here, no matter how skilled their opponents were.

“Together then,” Ivan replied.

It was a signal they’d used countless times before.

The Twin Fangs disengaged from their respective opponents and, in a synchronized movement that spoke of years fighting side by side, switched targets. Tross charged at Dev while Ivan turned his blades toward Vince.

The sudden change caught both assassins off-guard for a fraction of a second—but a fraction was all the Fangs needed.

Tross’s broadsword came down like a hammer toward Dev, who raised his short sword to block. The impact drove Dev to one knee, the sheer force overwhelming his lighter weapon. 

Meanwhile, Vince found himself facing Dev’s previous opponent—Ivan, whose raw power and speed made close-quarters gunplay nearly impossible. Vince backpedaled, firing rapidly, but Ivan pressed forward relentlessly.

“Clever,” Dev grunted, barely managing to roll away from Tross’s follow-up strikes. “But not clever enough.”

Tross’s jaw clenched. 

“Break through!” he commanded. “Now!”

The sudden change in tactics worked—but not in the way the Twin Fangs had hoped.

Dev and Vince were professionals. The switch didn’t catch them unprepared; they’d been expecting something desperate. As Tross charged at Dev with his broadsword raised high, Dev didn’t try to block the overwhelming force. Instead, he dropped low and drove his short sword upward, piercing through the side of Tross’s ribcage. The blade sank deep, finding the gap between ribs with precision.

Tross roared in pain and fury, his broadsword coming down—but Dev had already extracted his blade and rolled away, leaving a gaping wound that gushed crimson.

Simultaneously, Ivan found himself facing Vince’s guns at point-blank range. He deflected the first three shots with his slim swords, but the fourth and fifth caught him—one in the shoulder, another in his thigh. His leg buckled, and Vince closed in with his combat knife, slashing across Ivan’s sword arm. The blade bit deep into muscle and tendon.

Both Fangs staggered, bleeding heavily. Their black suits were now soaked through with dark, wet patches spreading rapidly across the fabric.

Dev and Vince moved in for the kill, weapons raised. This was it—the end of the legendary Twin Fangs.

Then, cutting through the night air, came a sharp, clear whistle.

Dev and Vince froze mid-strike. They glanced at each other for just a fraction of a second—a silent communication passing between them. Then, without a word, without hesitation, they melted back into the shadows as if they’d never been there at all.

The forest fell eerily silent.

Tross and Ivan remained where they’d fallen, both on their knees, panting heavily. Blood pooled beneath them, their breath coming in ragged gasps. Ivan clutched his bleeding shoulder, his face pale but jaw set in grim determination.

Tross, however, was shaking—not from pain, but from pure, incandescent rage.

“Damn them!” he snarled through gritted teeth, his voice raw. “DAMN THEM!”

He slammed his fist into the earth with such force that the ground cracked beneath his knuckles. Once. Twice. Three times. Each impact sent tremors through the soil, his blood spattering across the disturbed dirt.

“Tross—” Ivan tried to speak, wincing.

“Those bastards!” Tross roared, his eyes blazing with an intensity that made them look like they’d caught fire, glowing with unholy fury in the darkness. His entire body trembled with barely restrained violence, every muscle coiled tight as if ready to explode. “I’ll kill them! I’ll hunt them down and rip them apart with my bare hands!”

He tried to stand, but his wounded side sent a fresh wave of agony through him. Still, he refused to stay down, forcing himself up on sheer willpower alone, one hand pressed against his bleeding ribs.

Ivan finally managed to get to his feet as well, using a tree for support. “We need… to move,” he said through labored breaths. “They might come back.”

“Let them come!” Tross spat, his sneer twisted with pain and rage. But even as he said it, he knew his brother was right. They were in no condition to fight. Not now.

Through the thinning trees ahead, the road was visible—so close, yet it might as well have been miles away. And somewhere out there, Matt and Zed were getting farther and farther from their reach

The mission had failed.

The thought only fueled Tross’s fury. His hands clenched into fists, blood dripping from his knuckles—whether from his wounds or from pounding the earth, it was impossible to tell. His eyes continued to burn with that terrible, blazing intensity, like embers that refused to be extinguished.

The night wasn’t over.

But for the Twin Fangs, this hunt had ended in bitter defeat.