Chapter 13: Ambush
He definitely should have collected that money.
Leon’s muscles tenses. The assassin is small but sinewy, her grip unwavering despite the cramped space. A cloth mask conceals her face, leaving only those predatory eyes visible.
She shifts her weight, preparing to deliver the killing blow.
In a sudden movement, Leon jerks his head to the side. The blade slices through the air where his throat had been, carving a shallow line across his jaw. Blood wells immediately, again!, he should avoid getting knifed every time.
He kicks off the wall behind his cot, and sends both of them crashing into his wooden shelf. Glass shatters as his water pitcher explodes on the floor, and pain lances through his healing wounds from the tournament.
The assassin lands on him, her knee drives into his chest. The knife descends toward his heart with chilling precision.
Leon catches her wrist with his good hand, surprised by her strength—wiry muscles coiled like steel cables beneath her dark clothing. The blade trembles between them, sharp point aimed at his sternum.
"The organizer sends his regards," she hisses.
Leon’s grip slips. Sweat and blood makes his fingers slippery as the knife creeps closer to his chest.
Desperately, he reaches for his manna gun on the floor beside his cot. His fingertips brushes the grip but can not close around it. The assassin slams his head against the warped wooden boards.
Stars explodes behind his eyes, and his vision grayed at the edges.