After a long half-hour of snaking through rows upon rows of caged prisoners, Raen had found her target locked behind a set of reinforced steel, adorned with an opulent gold gilded nameplate.


    “Quite the VIP, if you need a special nametag.” She ran her fingers along the barred steel, pointing a digit turned gun at the lock. Pulling the trigger, the metal was reduced to powdered fragments. She reached into the cage and extracted her target, inspecting him closely as she compared his appearance to the photograph she had acquired for reference. “I’ve seen livestock handled more humanely,” she spat, resting her target’s skinny, bound and gagged frame against his cage.


    Compared to the half-dead prisoners she had sifted through, her target struggled against his bonds, tumbling sideways on the floor, squirming and wiggling.


    “At least you’re spry.” Raen grabbed him by the collar, delivering a sharp jab to the side of his neck till he dropped like a ragdoll. “It’s easier for both of us if you are less agitated.” She smirked, tipping her head. “Now that that’s dealt with, I’ll dump him with Azrael and–”


    A howl of cheers reverberated through the auction’s backstage, upsetting the atmosphere like an earthquake uprooting a city’s nonchalance. The hairs along her spine stood on end, a foreboding brewed within the pith of her stomach. Thunderous claps and cheers surged forth, urging her to hurriedly sling her unconscious target over the shoulders and rush towards the curtains near the front end.


    Sweeping aside a violet length of velvety partitions, Raen found a spotlight trained on five gorilla masked demons bowing over a shower of flowers and cheers, while a bloodied, armless remnant of a crimson haired male was splayed on the floor.


    “That goddamn turd!” She slammed a palm against her forehead, exhaling a sigh. “So much for the fucking signal!”


    Stroking the scaly length of his chin, the Lizardman watched the intruder with a salient curl of his lips, and a shake of his head. The first few spans had him on the edge of his seat, anticipating a challenging fight amongst the best of his men, and possibly a round two. But all his pent-up excitement was met with an instant knockout.


    At leassst, if I had sssold him off during the auction or kept him around on a leasssh, all of thisss would’ve been worth it!


    Through the rampant cheering, a flicker of movement caught his eye, quickening his pulse. “Ohhh! What’sss thisss?”


    A crimson arc splattered the walls.


    The air was filled with the clamour of metal against stone as bodies collapsed, separating torsos from pelvises. The gorilla masks lay scattered amidst the blood-soaked battleground, forming a grim red tarn. In the middle of the gory scene, a lone figure stood, wielding a katana single-handedly. The blade in his hand reflected the aftermath of a natural calamity.


    His lost arm begun sprouting roots of vessels, sheathed by a fleshy length of muscle. It wasn’t long before skin was draped over arm, and he clenched and unclenched his newly formed fingers. Satisfied with the result, the male shifted the tip of his blade towards the dais hoisting the reptilian demon. He extended a finger and beckoned him over.


    “Ohhh. Maybe you aren’t half bad.” The Lizardman loosened a chuckle, slapping the side of his leg. “I like your mettle, crossdresser.” Raising his hand, he commanded a second batch of warriors to enter.


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    A pair of clay masked women appeared at the entrance to the makeshift arena, wielding a weighted handle in one hand and a crescent blade in the other, connected by a firm tangle of chains.


    “Your next matchup is with the kusssarigama twinss! If you can bring them to their kneesss, you can proudly call yoursself an assssassssin worthy of working under the Ssinss of the Abyzz.”


    The Lizardman stuck out his forked tongue, gripping the edge of his throne.


    Regeneration typesss are rare, but rarely can they sssurvive multiple fatalitiesss in one go. Thiss kid isss a goldmine!


    Spitting out a glob of blood, Azrael clenched the hilt, shifting the edge of his katana and blunting the crescent blades hissing at him.


    Twisting and rolling out the way, he barely got a blink to catch his breath, while nicks and cuts culminated around his torso and limbs. Dammit I should’ve saved playing possum for these two.


    In the middle of his evasive manoeuvres, the redhead’s foot gave way, his rump grating heavily against stone, shooting a jolt of pain up his spine. Gritting his teeth, he had little time to pick himself up when the hounding fangs of the crescent blade closed in around his waist. Pushing off the ground, he rolled over, losing a patch of skin over his left flank, as the wet earth clung to his bloodied dress, thoroughly caking him in mud. Wait, where did all this muck come from?


    A portion of the ground caved in, swallowing him, katana and all. Amid the mud-stained slurry, his head stuck out like a wildflower in a desolate garden. Squirming and rocking about, he realised he was firmly wrapped underneath the dirt, except for his sinking head.


    The kusarigama twins hounded him, unleashing a pair of crescent blades, their tips caressing his cheeks and gouging out fleshy portions till metal cut into bone.


    “What the hell is this!?” Fresh blood wetted Azrael’s lips. One of the kusarigama sisters begun wielding her miasma, while the other mercilessly spun the chained weapon. Why haven’t they taken my head already?


    Peering down, he realised his miasma was being worked overtime. His throat was being reconnected each time it was severed, flooding his gullet and trachea. He was drowning in a pool of his own blood, easing his grip on life.


    Dammit, if only I could break free…


    Gunfire pierced the air, its sharp ricochet echoing through the chaos. Triggered by the bullet barrage, the mud shackling Azrael crumbled, dropping him on solid ground with a heavy thud. The sudden shock jolted him awake. Gasping in a quaking sputter of wet coughs.


    He instinctively channelled his miasma through his battered body, and shook his head and coughed up more gore, wiping off the bloodstained muck off his lips.


    He panned his surroundings till his gaze fell on one of the kusarigama sisters. Buckshot pellets littered her skull. Meanwhile, the audience had their attention drawn towards a mysterious figure with a steel-plated mask, who had a smouldering metallic cylinder extend from the edge of her fingertips.


    The last of the kusarigama sisters broke into a riled sprint. She unleashed a guttural growl, her attention zeroing in on the gunslinger, erasing Azrael from her line of sight.


    He took the opportunity and grabbed his katana like a javelin. He ignored the blasphemy of the violating grip on the weapon’s hilt and hurled his blade, albeit he had not the slightest inkling how he was going to hit her.


    The katana whistled through the air.


    To his surprise, the blade buried itself in the kusarigama wielder’s leg. Her advance came to a skidding halt, right when a bullet was fired. The metal round pierced her throat and sent her head rolling over the remaining distance, coming to a grinding halt beneath the gunslinger’s foot.


    “You had one job.” Narrowing her gaze at Azrael, the gunslinger took off the steel-plated mask. Beneath the cover was an irked Raen, shifting her gaze to the side and over her shoulder before she refocused her attention on the Lizardman atop the dais.


    The redhead’s mind raced as he nodded once, understanding she had left the target behind the curtains. His attention zeroed in on Raen’s steel-plated piece.


    A mask was meant to be an integral part of an assassin’s mark on the world. It symbolised the dark name that came with it, but then again, it mattered little, if the assassin was nothing but a no name.


    But you got to start somewhere, he supposed. Albeit Nakta didn’t use one in his last mission.