The illusion had grown bold.
Guards in shining armor marched toward Fenrir as he stepped deeper into the heart of the fake city.
Their faces were calm, composed—eerily so.
"Halt. Outsiders are not permitted beyond this point. Proceed and you will be cut down."
The lead guard said, drawing his blade.
Fenrir didn't stop.
He cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing through the illusion-painted streets.
"Try it."
He said, voice low and brimming with menace.
The guards rushed forward.
Fenrir moved faster.
He vanished from their sight, reappearing behind the nearest soldier with a thunderous punch that sent the man flying into a market stall.
Before the others could react, his sword was already drawn. It cut through armor like paper, dropping three more guards in a single sweeping arc.
Blood sprayed into the air—red against the illusion's golden hues.
They fell like dolls.
Hollow. Fragile. Meaningless.
Fenrir didn't care.
