Baines stood in the blinding white room of the second test, his breath ragged as the realization hit him like a cold wave: the assassins were cloaked in his own blood, their scent indistinguishable from the coppery tang that saturated the air.
In this environment, where he had acclimated to the overwhelming smell of blood, they were effectively odorless, blending seamlessly into the battlefield.
Then an idea came, 'I haven't tried to catch them yet,' he muttered before letting himself die once more, the now-familiar darkness of death enveloping him, only to awaken once more on the staircase.
This time, he was prepared. As he stepped into the white void, he absorbed the blood from his latest corpse with the demon blade, its dark metal humming as it drank in the crimson essence.
The air shifted subtly, and Baines's heightened senses, honed through countless deaths, picked up the faintest whispers of movement.
Whoosh… Whoosh… Whoosh.
