A hair’s breadth away from delivering death, his arm came to a screeching halt.


    A tangle of barbed wires cut into Azrael’s brutalized arm, reeling him in the other direction. Resisting the urge to give in to his latest opponent’s whims, he willed a surge of flesh and skin over his ensnared limb, desperately clambering onto the minimal grip the flooring offered.


    “Give it up, chump. You’re mine now.”


    “Oh yeah?” Stealing a glance over his shoulders, Azrael caught sight of a veiled, slender woman, tugging at his arm with both her hands. “Let’s see if you’ll like me now.” Offering the last ounce of struggle against his bonds, he pushed off the ground and used the momentum to propel his body towards his opponent. He slid along the massacred wall, while his towel daintily dangled in the air.


    “They didn’t even give you a chance to dress up? How pitiful.” The slender woman channelled miasma through the wire, extending an offshoot off the barbed end around Azrael’s arm. The wire cut into his throat, abruptly beheading his momentum. “This is the end of the line for ya, boy.”


    “You t-think so?” gurgled Azrael, hurling a length of metal at the slender woman.


    “Huh–” She loosened the barbed wire around him, gagging and reeling backwards, clutching at her throat.


    “I was going for the head, but I guess it’s close enough.” He rubbed his Adam’s apple, walking towards the slender woman, who had the jagged end of the claw hammer lodged deep in her gullet. Gripping the handle, he pried the hammer free from puckered flesh and struck the weapon’s face against her temple, pounding away till veil and hair gave way to a caved in cranium.


    Breath running ragged, blood and sweat matting his torso, he spun around. He recalled he had been interrupted in the midst of a different arrangement. Blinking confusedly, he noticed an empty bloodstained floor, devoid of any leads to his earlier assailant.


    “I guess his weapon’s mine for the taking.” Azrael twirled the hammer around his fingers, realising he had to have a talk with Lilith. But first, he beelined for his room, eager for a solid set of unsoiled clothing.


    Half a dozen assassins later, Azrael finally donned a tunic and a fresh set of trousers. Desperately pulling on his socks, he dug his toes into a snug set of loafers, grabbing his sheathed katana. He held onto the claw hammer he had nicked earlier, tightening his grip around the handle.


    Making his way past the massacre-stained hallways, he gunned for Lilith’s office, ploughing his newfound hammer through a rush of assassins, climbing up the stairs, past the shelves of tomes. When will I get around to exploring all those books? Whenever next time is, I guess?


    He shook his head free of the thought, forging on ahead, wiping the blood and guts off his face.


    A cerise distortion cut through the air, searing a miniscule hole in his tunic, barely missing skin. He instinctively grabbed his arm, running his finger through the charred opening in his garb. “Great! Right when it’s out the wash.” Scanning the surroundings for his latest opponent, a second cerise flash slid past his face. Ducking behind a column, he was on the lookout for his newest enemy. “At least aim for something I can regenerate, DAMMIT!”


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    “Where’s the fun in that?” whispered a feminine voice.


    Azrael jumped back, a set of cerise eyes mirroring the flashes from before. “Lilith, what’re you doing?”


    “Training you.” Winking, she traced his sternal notch with her index finger. “Bang.”


    In an instant, a jet of crimson erupted from a gaping hole in his chest. He coughed up a mouthful of red, struggling to stay upright. While he steadied his sinking frame against a nearby column for support, his mentor’s fingers danced with cerise flashes, carving craters out of his torso.


    “My bad,” she quipped. “I should learn to hold back a bit. Silly ol’ me.”


    The wall behind Azrael was streaked with red as he crumpled to his knees, submerged in a pool of his own blood. Fighting to stay afloat, black spots danced before his eyes, threatening to pull the rug out from beneath.


    “You’ve endured worse, haven’t you?” said Lilith, her fingers grooming through dishevelled crimson hair as she pulled him up to his knees.


    Sputtering blood at her, he used the moment to break free of her grip. In his brief respite, he begun mending the craters in his wounded body. He shifted the hammer to his non-dominant hand and unsheathed his katana in a fluid motion. “You’re quite the trainer, springing all of this on me.”


    “Compared to the hell awaiting you, think of this as no more than child’s play. I put out a hit on your head that’s gonna be up for a month, which means assassins all over the Abyzz are gonna keep coming after you daily, for the first half of your day. Once you’ve had your fill of assassins, you’ll need to survive combat practice, till you win against me in a fight.” Shaking off Azrael’s bloodstains, she clasped her hands together, producing a pair of miasma-infused sabres.


    Bounding off the ground, he swung hammer and katana with all his might. In turn, Lilith swung her sabres, clashing cerise miasma against steel. “Can I put in a request for downtime?”


    “You think?” Lilith arched an eyebrow, weaving a smug smile. “Oh, and from tomorrow onwards, let’s make it a rule to have the fights outside my stronghold.”


    Azrael reflected her raised eyebrow, omitting the smile. “Whose idea was it to put a hit on my head again?”


    “Point taken.” The cerise blade dissipated from view, alongside its wielder. Releasing her knees, she aligned her frame parallel to the ground. Channelling the miasma through her legs, she lashed out with a foot, planting her heel in his abdomen.


    A cerise wave simultaneously shot out of her sole, pummelling Azrael through brick, plaster and window, out the second storey and onto matted grass. Tumbling over the verdure, he struck the earth with his katana and erected his fallen frame.


    “What’s next?” she asked, appearing an inch away from the redhead, driving a miasma infused fist through his jaw, cleaving the lower half of his face off the philtrum. “My bad, cat caught your tongue?”


    Agony ruptured through his face, like a thousand hammered nails pried free from flesh. But he couldn’t stop. Not when he had endured worse.


    Swinging hammer and katana voraciously, he could feel the fatigue set in, as he pushed his body past its limits, and beyond.


    “Now, now, what’re you aiming for?” Lilith swung the back of her hand, brushing aside his attacks, as easily as swatting aside a fly. “If you think the swordsmanship you picked up from Juke is enough against me, think again.” Swinging a miasma encased fist in a wide arc, flesh touched metal.


    His katana was shattered into a thousand shards and the hand wielding the hammer, was cleaved off bone.


    Azrael froze in place, wisps of miasma slinging flesh along his shattered jaw and weaving a bloody mesh over his stump of a left hand. “You’re something else,” he gurgled, a fleeting whisper of a voice clinging to the frayed tapestry of his fading consciousness.


    “You should value that grey line of existence more than you give it credit, otherwise all that awaits you are splashes of colour, more irksome than a spectrum you can handle.”


    Azrael gritted his teeth.


    Desperately, his only fist was clenched. His fingers gripped a sword that only he could see.


    Persist. At least a moment longer.


    But the rug was pulled out from underneath, sinking his consciousness into the depths of an inescapable abyss.