The masked merchant

Azrael advanced toward Darvon, his sword poised to deliver a decisive blow, fully intent on ending his opponent's life. However, Darvon proved to be more resilient than anticipated. He rose to his feet, his injured hand still clutching his bleeding nose, a defiant determination flickering in his eyes.

With his free hand, Darvon extended his palm toward Azrael, uttering the words, "Mountain Palm." The energy surged forth from his hand, directed at Azrael with formidable force.

In a split second, Azrael closed the gap between them, redirecting his palm away from his body. The devastating blast struck the carriage in which Darvon had arrived, obliterating it in a cataclysmic explosion.

Maintaining his firm grip on Darvon's arm, Azrael swiftly swung his sword, severing the limb in one fluid motion. Darvon's pained cries filled the air, soon stifled by muffled groans as Azrael's blade found its mark, piercing his throat. The grim act was accompanied by a splatter of crimson, as blood cascaded onto the ground.

Azrael's body tensed, absorbing the dark energy that emanated from the life he had taken, his strength growing stronger with each fallen foe.

Azrael sighed softly to himself, his voice barely audible amidst the hushed night air. "Good thing you were drunk," he whispered, his words carrying a tinge of admiration. "Since you were quite strong."

Turning his gaze toward the driver, who stood frozen in fear at the side, Azrael observed the trembling hands raised in a desperate plea for mercy. The driver's quivering voice trembled with terror as he begged, "Please don't kill me."

Azrael's eyes, hidden behind his mask, showed no signs of malice. "I won't," he assured the driver in a calm tone. "Go home." And with those words, Azrael vanished into thin air, leaving the driver standing there, bewildered and trembling.

Swift as a shadow, Azrael dashed along the path leading to his next target. Time was of the essence, and he hoped that dealing with Darvon hadn't consumed too much of it. In a matter of moments, he arrived at his destination, where his new prey, Izol Black, walked confidently along the darkened streets instead of relying on a carriage.

Azrael's mask veiled his presence, shrouding him in an impenetrable cloak of darkness that concealed his ki and aura from detection. He intended to execute a swift and silent killing blow, bypassing the need for direct combat.

With lightning speed, Azrael lunged toward Izol from behind, his sword poised for a fatal strike. Yet, just before Azrael's blade could find its mark, Izol evaded with an almost imperceptible motion, causing Azrael's attack to miss its intended target entirely.

"An assassination attack? How predictable," Izol remarked, his voice dripping with arrogance. "So, who sent you? The priest or the Bishop?"

Azrael's mind raced, questioning how Izol had managed to evade his thoughtfully planned strike. The darkness veil hid his presence, leaving no trace for Izol to sense, yet somehow, his target had detected Azrael's approach. The puzzling mystery gnawed at Azrael's thoughts.

Azrael composed himself, a figure of unwavering resolve, meticulously assessing the man who stood before him. The air crackled with palpable anticipation as he observed his adversary, a combatant exuding an aura of readiness far surpassing that of Darvon.

Izol, undeterred by Azrael's introspection, closed the distance between them with fluid grace, his movements as swift as a coursing river. His voice pierced the stillness, a challenge hanging in the air like a blade poised to strike.

"You haven't answered my question" Izol said, his dagger becoming a blur of motion as it hurtled toward Azrael's chest, propelled by a torrential gust of speed.

In a display of uncanny reflexes, Azrael's gloved hand intercepted the deadly trajectory, halting the weapon's lethal advance mere inches from its target. A surge of raw power coursed through his veins as he shattered the blade, its fragments cascading like shattered dreams.

"Dead men shouldn't ask questions," Azrael's voice reverberated with icy determination, his words like a chilling reminder of the fate that awaited his foes.

In a testament to his augmented might, a resounding blow found its mark, colliding with Izol's chest with bone-crushing force. The sickening crack of breaking ribs echoed through the air as Izol was propelled backward.

The moonlight gleamed off Azrael's blade, casting an etheral glow as he closed in on Izol.

"Storm of a hundred blades!" Izol exclaimed, invoking a ki technique.

In a sudden flurry, green daggers materialized, mirroring the one Izol held, numbering a hundred in total. Each dagger took aim at Azrael, poised to strike with deadly precision.

Recognizing the impending danger, Azrael attempted to swiftly close the distance, aiming to eliminate Izol before the onslaught of daggers commenced.

However, his efforts were in vain, as the projectiles were unleashed with blinding speed. Azrael swung his sword with calculated ferocity, desperately deflecting and destroying the relentless daggers. Yet, despite his valiant efforts, the daggers persisted, regenerating with each destruction. Some managed to slip through his defenses, cutting through his flesh and overwhelming him.

Azrael knew he had to employ a more potent technique to counter the relentless onslaught. Though the Eternal Flame would have been his first choice, the daggers speed rendered it impractical. However, Azrael's dark ki had matured significantly, granting him access to the Advanced Phantom Blade—an ability typically reserved for his first god form.

With a resolute focus, Azrael unleashed the Advanced Phantom Blade. In a display of unparalleled precision and skill, his sword technique obliterated all of the daggers in an instant. Seizing the moment of Izol's confusion and denying the daggers a chance to regenerate, Azrael's blade sliced through Izol's neck with a swift and decisive strike.

As the life force drained from Izol, Azrael absorbed the surge of dark ki, his grip on the sword tightening, empowered by the grim energy coursing through him.

Azrael, aware that he could no longer pursue his third target, retreated from the scene, leaving no trace of his presence as he made his way back to his room.

Shortly after, the sun began to rise, casting its warm rays upon the capital. Azrael emerged from his room to find Gunzal waiting for him outside.

"Great, you're early. Let's go," Gunzal greeted, his tone brimming with enthusiasm.

Gunzal proceeded to inform Azrael about the talks of canceling the day's matches due to some incidents that had occurred. Azrael knew all too well that the incidents in question referred to the chaos he had caused. It seemed that the empire had chosen not to handle the matter discreetly, contrary to his initial expectations.

As Azrael and Gunzal made their way towards the contestant section of the arena, they entered a much larger space compared to the previous two. The attendance had swelled to thousands, creating an electrifying atmosphere.

"Today is the challenger round. Just give me the name of the person you'd like to challenge, and I'll announce it when it's your turn. I'm certain you'll be challenged as well after your impressive performance yesterday," Gunzal explained, his voice filled with anticipation.

Observing someone entering the arena stage, Gunzal remarked, "Okay, it seems the matches haven't been canceled."

The man's voice echoed throughout the arena as he made his announcement.

"My fighter would like to challenge... The Masked Merchant," the man declared.

"Haha, that's you," Gunzal chuckled, sharing his amusement with Azrael.

Azrael couldn't help but feel a tinge of disappointment at the chosen name. "That's what you came up with? The Masked Merchant? Merchant of what?" he inquired.

Gunzal's response was swift and filled with conviction. "Cold and merciless death."

Azrael's initial disappointment gave way to a sense of contempt as he replied, his voice dripping with disdain, "Oh."