"Phantom Rebirth: The Last White Raven’s Path to the Ultimate Assassin"

The night was still. Too still.

Seraphis stood at the edge of a sprawling cityscape, her white cloak billowing in the cool wind as her silver eyes traced the skyline. The Von Croft estate had fallen. Alistair was dead. And now, it was Orpheus' turn.

Unlike the others, Orpheus Von had no grand fortress, no sprawling halls filled with decadent vampires.

He was a ghost.

A legend whispered in fear.

If Ambrose was the mind, Zepharion the dark scholar, and Magnus the brute, then Orpheus was the unseen blade. His assassinations were so perfect that his victims often didn’t even realize they had been killed.

Seraphis knew this battle would not be about strength.

It would be a game of deception, precision, and absolute ruthlessness.

She could feel his presence in the city, a cold sensation on the back of her neck, like being watched from every shadow.

The hunt had begun.

She moved through the streets like mist, unseen, unheard. The city's heart pulsed with life—markets still bustled, taverns roared with laughter—but Seraphis walked between them like a phantom.

Her destination was the Grey Hollow Manor, an abandoned estate at the city's edge. The building was said to be cursed, avoided even by the bravest of thieves.

She knew better.

This was Orpheus' lair.

The iron gates loomed ahead, rusted and barely hanging on their hinges. Perfect camouflage. To the untrained eye, the manor looked like a forgotten ruin. But Seraphis could see the signs—subtle disturbances in the dust, faint magical traces, the unmistakable feeling of being watched.

She did not hesitate.

Stepping inside, she felt the shift immediately.

The air thickened. The silence deepened. And then—

A whisper.

Not from the wind.

From behind her.

She moved.

A blade flashed, carving through the space where she had just stood. A breath slower, and it would have taken her throat.

She flipped backward, landing gracefully as she reached for her razor-sharp metal playing cards.

Orpheus had revealed himself.

The assassin stood at the far end of the room, his silhouette barely visible against the darkness. He wore a mask—no emotion, no words. Just death incarnate.

Seraphis didn’t wait.

She flung a card, its silver edge gleaming in the dim light. It spun like a bullet, aimed for his heart.

He vanished.

Not dodged.

Not blocked.

Vanished.

Her eyes flickered, her mind racing. Illusions? Teleportation? No—shadows. He was moving through them.

A blade sang through the air.

Seraphis twisted, barely avoiding the tip of his dagger as he reappeared from behind. She countered instantly, slashing upward with a second card.

Steel met steel.

Sparks flew as they clashed, their movements almost too fast for mortal eyes to follow.

She struck again.

He dodged.

He countered.

She parried.

The fight spiraled into a deadly dance of precision—every step calculated, every strike designed to kill.

Seraphis was fast.

But Orpheus was faster.

He moved like liquid shadow, his body flickering in and out of the darkness, his daggers striking from impossible angles.

Seraphis felt the first sting—a thin cut along her arm.

Then another—a graze on her shoulder.

He was testing her.

She gritted her teeth. Fine. Two could play that game.

She closed her eyes.

When they opened, her illusion magic flared to life.

The room split into multiple versions of herself—seven Seraphises, moving as one.

Orpheus hesitated.

For the first time, she saw his stance shift—just slightly. A small crack in the perfect composure.

She used it.

All seven illusions attacked at once, cards slicing through the air, a storm of blades.

Orpheus dodged, but she was already moving.

She slammed a card into the floor.

A bright flash erupted, momentarily banishing the shadows.

Orpheus faltered.

She closed the distance.

Her knee drove into his ribs. A crack. He staggered. She followed up, a playing card slicing across his mask.

It shattered.

Beneath it, his face was pale—sharp features, dark eyes that held no fear.

He smirked.

Then he vanished again.

The manor itself turned against her.

Illusions of Orpheus appeared from every direction, stepping out from the shadows, each identical, each lethal.

Seraphis exhaled.

She didn’t need to see through them.

She simply needed to kill them all.

The fight raged on.

Minutes stretched into eternity as they exchanged blows, blood staining the wooden floors.

But Seraphis was not just fighting.

She was learning.

Every move. Every habit. Every second he revealed himself—she memorized it.

Then, she set the trap.

She feigned a misstep.

Orpheus lunged.

At the last moment, she spun—a perfect illusion flickering in her place.

Her real form appeared behind him.

She whispered:

"Got you."

And then—

She drove a playing card through his chest.

Orpheus staggered.

For the first time, he made a sound—a short, surprised exhale.

His hands grasped at the card embedded in his ribs. He tried to vanish into the shadows.

But she snapped her fingers.

A magic seal ignited.

The shadows died.

Orpheus fell to his knees.

His dark eyes met hers, filled with silent understanding.

Then, he slumped forward, lifeless.

Seraphis exhaled, her heart pounding.

She looked down at his body, then around the manor.

His home. His lair. His grave.

She raised her hand.

A flick of her fingers.

Flames roared to life.

She stepped out of the burning ruin, never looking back.

One more down.

Four remained.