They came without warning—as professionals should. A shadow in the garden simply ceased to be empty, transforming into a fluid mass of black kimonos and hollow masks.
Booker opened fire from the attic. Andy, frozen by the back entrance with her labrys, merely touched the hilt. "Begin."
The first three entered through the kitchen window. But the leader stepped onto an invisible piano wire. A faint click of a released stopper. Crash. A heavy oak beam, suspended by a system of counterweights, tore loose and swung like a pendulum, striking the leader squarely in the temple. The crunch of bone was drowned out by the thud of the falling body. Two others froze, blades raised. At that moment, a mirror at the end of the corridor showed them three figures behind. The forced perspective caused them to turn toward emptiness.
I stepped from the shadows of a niche. The staff took the first in the solar plexus—pivot—the base of the shaft into the back of the second man's head. The body folded like a rag doll. The third attacked with a wakizashi; I caught the steel on a block, slipped under his arm, and drove an elbow into his Adam's apple. The floor met his jaw before his brain could record the defeat.
Something thundered in the cellar. Then—short, stifling screams. The piano had found its audience. The Steinway, plummeting from the ceiling beams, crushed a quintet of operatives in a narrow passage. The strings snapped with a guitar-like chime, turning death rattles into music.
In the main corridor, the "slapstick" was underway. The floorboards, carefully sawed and replaced, gave way under the feet of the attackers. The first fell knee-deep, trapped in a narrow slot. The second tripped over him. As they floundered in this snare, Charlie burst from a side door like a jack-in-the-box. In his hands was the heavy revolver. He fired twice—fast, cowboy-style, without aiming, but with the precision of a man who had spent a lifetime training his motor skills. He lowered the barrel, looking at the smoking shells like a director whose best take had been ruined by poor lighting. "That would have been a good shot."
In the east wing, Nicolo and Joe were at work. No screams came from there—only a rhythmic ringing of steel. It wasn't a battle; it was a harvest. The steel of the crusaders knew no miss in the tight hallways.
Three broke through the side entrance, stumbling directly onto Anna. The first lunged with a short sword. She retreated—as if on stage, making room for a partner. Her Jian traced a "figure eight"—a redirection. The operative's blade clanged into the brickwork. The second swung for a cleaving strike; Anna dropped into a deep plié, letting the blade pass over her head, and a short upward thrust made him recoil.
The third took a bullet from Charlie before his fingers could touch her neck. Andy emerged from a passage like a fury. Her labrys described a horizontal arc, and the remaining two slumped onto the carpet. "Clear," she barked, wiping the blade on the edge of a curtain.
Anna straightened. Her breathing was steady, as if after a morning exercise. She hadn't wounded anyone, but she had provided the five seconds that decided the game. Exactly what was required of her.
Silence descended upon Ivy House. The methodical ticking of the grandfather clock in the drawing room became audible, as did the monotonous drip of water in the wrecked kitchen.
I stood in the corridor. My shoulder burned—someone had grazed me through the coat. My knee throbbed from a sudden lunge. I leaned against the wall, feeling the adrenaline slowly wash out of my blood, leaving only a cold void.
Booker descended from the attic, stepping over debris. He surveyed the corridor: masked bodies, torn-up floorboards, a mirror webbed with cracks. He stopped at the hole in the floor where a black-gloved hand protruded from beneath the wreckage of the piano. "The piano worked," he said, a hint of something like surprise in his voice. "I told you," came a voice from the drawing room.
Charlie stood in the middle of a smoke-veiled room. He was staring at his revolver—the way a man looks who has held lightning in his hands all night and now fears it might strike him. He slowly reloaded.
Anna stopped in front of him. For a second, they just looked at each other. Then, she simply opened her fingers. The ancient steel fell to the carpet with a soft, almost inaudible sigh. Charlie took a step.
It was an embrace.
I turned away, feeling like an extra in this frame. I went to the window. Outside, Hampstead Heath lay in the pre-dawn mist, quiet and indifferent. Andy stood beside me, her shoulder brushing mine. "The traps are exhausted," she said quietly. "I know."
We looked into the garden. Behind us—silence. Only the clock. Only the dripping water. And two people who finally allowed themselves not to let go.
The Head of the Demon
The second wave emerged from the mist like ghosts. I identified the leader before I could even discern his face. It was simply by the way the others moved—not around him, but away from him, like water parting for a stone. Tall. A dark, unadorned cloak made of fabric that seemed to drink the light. A yataghan at his side—ancient, polished by time.
Andy stepped forward. They stopped ten paces apart.
"It has been a long time," he said. His voice was steady, like a stone that has sat in the same spot for centuries. "Not long enough," Andy replied. "Do you still believe you can stop me?" "It has happened before." She tilted her head slightly. "You simply do not remember."
A flicker of interest appeared in his eyes. "Time to die."
He unsheathed the yataghan as if drawing the wind itself. The elite charged all at once—and immediately met Booker, Nicolo, and Joe. It was like a wave hitting a shore only to find the shore does not move. Booker worked with an understanding of where human durability ends. Nicolo moved like water—flowing around, redirecting, and only then would the opponent realize they were already down. Joe simply stood his ground—and those who reached him were sent flying back.
Charlie fired from behind the barrels—methodically, like a man who knows he has no right to miss. Anna simply reloaded the revolvers for him, knowing she couldn't help in this fight. But the fruits of their labor were visible—several archers already lay on the ground.
Andy and the Head of the Demon converged in the center of the garden, like two ancient spirits accidentally unleashed into a foreign century. I watched for a few seconds, figuring out where I was needed most.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
It was beautiful—if you could forget that beauty here meant death. A labrys against a yataghan. Two weapons separated by millennia, yet equally thirsty for blood.
She was faster. He was more precise. Andy moved like a steppe wind: low, predatory, with that animal grace that no European school of fencing could ever instill. Her labrys whistled through the air in short, economical arcs. Every blow carried the full power of her body, the entire fury of a woman who once rode across the Black Sea steppes, hacking down enemies before they could raise a shield.
The Demon, by contrast, stood almost motionless. Only his wrist and forearm worked with terrifying accuracy. His yataghan—curved, gleaming dully in the moonlight—seemed an extension of his arm. He didn't hack. He sliced. He found the smallest gaps in the defense and stung like a serpent. Every lunge was measured to the millimeter. He knew her. Knew her far too well. They circled over the dew-damp grass among old ivy walls and stone vases.
"You still fight like a barbarian," the Demon hissed as Andy's labrys passed a hair's breadth from his neck. His voice was low, with a faint Eastern accent that centuries had not erased. "And you still hide behind pretty iron, demon," she retorted, her voice carrying that steppe mockery that once made men's blood run cold.
The next exchange was especially fierce. Labrys met yataghan with a dull metallic clang; sparks showered the darkness. Andy spun, trying to take his legs, but the Demon had already retreated, stepping aside and delivering a counter-strike from top to bottom. The yataghan's blade grazed her left shoulder, leaving a long but shallow gash. Dark blood instantly soaked the fabric of her simple shirt.
She didn't even flinch. Instead, she smiled—short, predatory, almost joyful. "It's been a long time since I had a worthy opponent," she exhaled. The Demon replied with a cold half-smile: "Pity this will be the last one."
They clashed again. This time without words. Only breathing, the rustle of grass underfoot, the whistle of steel, and the heavy thuds of metal on metal. Andy began to press, using her speed: she forced him back toward the wall. The Demon tried to maintain distance, waiting for the moment she would open up.
Andy made a feint from above and then, almost without a pause, struck the Demon in the chest with the haft of her weapon. He grunted, recoiling a step, but immediately responded with a diagonal slash that nearly disemboweled her. She managed to lean back in the final fraction of a second—the yataghan blade only tore the fabric at her side.
Blood. More blood. The smell of iron and raw earth mingled with the scent of the night garden.
Then, he found the gap. A single thrust—short, almost invisible. Andy evaded, but not enough. The blade entered under her left arm, between the ribs. She didn't fall—she simply stepped back and sank to one knee. The labrys bit into the earth beside her.
The Head of the Demon stopped. He looked down at her. "How many times have you died?" "Fewer than you think," she said through gritted teeth.
He raised the yataghan. And this time, he intended to take her head.
Donald, Where’s Your Troosers?
I realized this was the end. And so, I did the most absurd thing possible in such a situation. In a slow, grim tempo, I began to sing: "I’ve just come down from the Isle of Skye…"
The Demon turned to me. He made a sharp gesture with his finger. Two bodyguards lunged from their spots.
Shurikens whistled through the air. I shielded myself with my cloak. The M1911 spat sparks off the steel of the left attacker, forcing him to open up. A second shot to the knee. As he collapsed, I used his body as a shield against the second fighter. The claps of the gunshots merged into a single, pulsing rhythm.
They were faster. But they didn't know this technique.
No time to reload. I smashed the grip into the temple of the nearest one, simultaneously evading the second's lunge. My hands slipped beneath my cloak, fingers finding the cold metal of the releases. Two operatives froze for a fraction of a second, not understanding how this "old man" was still breathing, but in the next second, two short straight blades finished the job. I stood fifteen paces from the Demon. Cloak unbuttoned. Double-edged sword assembled. Dust settled on my shoulders.
My quiet, lingering, somber song draped over the clearing like a funeral march. "I’m no' very big and I’m awfu' shy…"
The Head of the Demon lowered his yataghan. "Do you understand what you are doing?" "Donald, where’s your troosers?" I finished the verse and took a step forward. "Interesting," he said—and attacked himself.
He attacked like a natural disaster. His yataghan sang. I barely parried the first strike; the second caught my shoulder—not deep, but it ripped through the cloak. I retreated. He worked without pause. My blades kept his yataghan at a distance as I searched for an angle. He found his first.
A two-handed grip. An overhead strike—heavy, with the weight of his entire body. The staff took it—and was sheared in two. I cast it aside. The locks clicked. In my hands were two separate blades. I rolled away, leaving the cloak on the ground.
The yataghan clanged, cutting one blade in half. But it saved my hand. The second strike hit my jacket—a ricochet. The steel plates I’d sewn into the lining before the fight did their job. He cursed—shortly, in Arabic. And kicked me in the chest.
I was thrown back two steps. I held my ground. I don’t know how—but I held it. He looked at me differently now. He plunged the yataghan into the earth. My right blade was already broken. I let the left one go. We closed in.
He hit like a machine. I took the first blow on my forearms, the second went into my ribs, the third into my shoulder—the same one. My vision blurred. I fell to a knee. I stood up. He stopped. Watched. "Why?" I didn't answer. I just waited. My body hummed—but the Terminators hit harder. The main thing was to breathe. To buy time!
He struck again—a series, non-stop. I missed almost everything. Fell. Stood up. Fell again. And at the moment he stepped forward—I found what I was looking for. The rhythm.
He paused—just before shifting his weight. I had seen it before, but I waited until I was certain. I entered that window. I twisted my body around its axis, turning my spine into a coiled spring. An explosive thrust, a rotation of the hips, and finally, a fist flying in an arc that was impossible to predict. Into this blow, I poured all my fury, all the pain, and all the weight of my years.
He missed the parry!
The sound of the impact was like two billiard balls colliding. The air escaped his lungs with a hiss. The Great Master, who had known no defeat for centuries, recoiled, his heels plowing through the manicured lawn of Ivy House. For the first time in the entire fight.
In his eyes was something I hadn't seen there before. Fury. "I have seen all I wished to see!"
He reached for the yataghan in the ground. I realized it had been a ruse. He had learned my technique in a minute. But Andy—at some point, she was already on her feet. The wound under her ribs hadn't fully closed, blood was still flowing—but her eyes were clear. She wrenched the labrys from the earth.
He turned to her—and took a blow to the wrist. The yataghan flew into the bushes. The labrys described an arc and stopped at his throat. Silence.
The Guard froze. Booker, Nicolo, and Joe stood among what remained of the front ranks. The survivors began to retreat. The Head of the Demon stared at the blade at his throat. Then—at me.
Click. One. Quiet. As if someone had snapped their fingers in an empty room. Not a metaphor—literally.
Booker froze with his hand raised. Nicolo was caught mid-stride. Joe stood like a statue. Anna and Charlie—by the wall—motionless as a photograph. The Head of the Demon—with the labrys at his throat, with the expression of a man who had just lost. Andy—frozen at the final point of the strike.
Only I stood—or rather, was falling—and I caught myself still falling, just very slowly. I dropped to one knee. Then the second. My hands found the earth. My body refused to obey.
From the darkness by the gates, a man in an impeccable suit emerged. Wong looked around—methodically, as one looks at the result of labor. He looked at the bodies. At the frozen warriors. At the labrys at the Demon's throat. Then—at me.
"I have stopped time. And everything has frozen," he said. I raised my head. "Then let's talk." Though I knew perfectly well that this was all I had left in me.