Chapter 162: Assassination

  In the mansion of Count Garcia in the royal city of Erathia. Count Garcia had finished his bath and was walking towards his bedroom, wearing silk pajamas.

  For this bath, he had invited the most famous masseur in Erathia, who had carefully massaged his entire body with a blended essential oil that cost fifty gold coins a bottle. He now felt that every inch of his skin was soft and elastic, so sensitive that he could even feel his body hair pulsing one by one with the flow of his blood, writhing and moaning within the silk undergarments that felt like a young girl's skin. Beneath his clothes, every muscle hidden by the thick fat had regained its strength, filled with explosive power, returning to the state of when he was fighting on the battlefield thirty years ago.

  Not just his body, he could even feel his spirit had completely returned to those years. Every nerve, every drop of blood in his body was itching with activity, all radiating a desire full of vitality and life. He hadn't felt this way in many years. As the kingdom's Minister of Military Affairs, there were far too many things he had enjoyed. And when one enjoys too much, one becomes numb. But the prelude to this immense enjoyment that was about to come was so shocking that it once again roused those long-numbed nerves.

  After so many years immersed in officialdom, after so many years of enjoyment, his body had long grown fat. But now he felt like a young man of eighteen, full of energy and muscle, striding down the corridor. He suddenly remembered the first time he killed someone at the age of fifteen, when he pinned down a girl he had abducted. The feeling surging in his blood now was that same feeling.

  The count pushed open the door and saw the plainly dressed elven maiden on the bed. The surging feeling in his body immediately began to boil, to explode.

  That head of pale blonde hair was scattered on the snow-white nightgown. Her features were as if outlined by the finest ink painting, her nose as if carved from the finest jade, her red lips, a pair of pointed ears. Most importantly was the pure beauty without a trace of worldly air that emanated from the elven maiden. It was as natural as a flawless fruit casually picked from the forest. Not a single trace of deliberate carving could be found. It was something that no woman, no matter how beautiful or charming, who grew up in the mortal world could ever hope to achieve. The expression of terror and helplessness on the elven maiden's face made the count feel his very soul sway and roar.

  The moment Count Garcia first saw this elven maiden the day before yesterday, he felt this way and immediately agreed to the viscount's request who had sent the gift. Although he knew better than anyone that procuring military supplies before the battle with Oufu was an extremely lucrative post, with at least two to three thousand gold coins in profit to be made, and that there were no fewer than seven or eight hundred nobles and dignitaries in the kingdom coveting the position, among them many he could not easily refuse, he still immediately and without hesitation gave the position to the viscount who sent the gift. He could not refuse such a gift. Although he was a devout believer, even believers needed entertainment, needed to relax, otherwise where would they find the spirit to dedicate to the great God?

  He had spent a whole day preparing for this wonderful moment. He had even found an excuse to send his two sons and his wife away. He was determined to use all his energy and time to properly enjoy this gift.

  The count walked to the bed, grabbed the end of the rope that was tied beautifully around the elven maiden's body, and with a light flick, untied it. The look of terror on the elven maiden's face intensified, and with a scream, she raised her hand and pushed towards the count.

  The count casually grabbed the maiden's wrist and effortlessly pushed her down. The elven maiden had been force-fed a drug that caused muscle weakness earlier, and the potency of this drug was perfectly calibrated. It was just enough to allow her to maintain a form of struggle.

  Feeling the weak and powerless struggle coming from her wrist, looking at that exquisitely beautiful face at such a close distance, a face filled with fear and despair because of him, the count heard a low roar come from his own throat. He felt that what he was exhaling was not air, but fire that had been set ablaze by his own boiling blood.

  Even he felt that his reason had been completely burned and kneaded into ashes under the flames of desire, but when he heard the sound of the door opening behind him, he still jumped up violently.

  From that sound, the count could tell that the door had not been pushed open, but kicked open with a single kick. Whoever would dare to kick in the door under these circumstances would, in any case, not be a servant coming to serve tea. He immediately prepared a perfect excuse to deal with the Countess.

  But when he turned around, he even wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him. The one who had kicked open the door with one kick was not his expected plain-faced wife. It was another elven maiden.

  This elven maiden was very tall, even a little taller than an average man. Her face and figure, which were as ethereal and elegant as any elf's, were infused with a heroic vigor, and also a hint of killing intent. Under the glow of the room's lamps, she was as bright and dazzling as a drawn blade. The leather armor, and the black warbow in her hands, immediately made the count's nerves, which had just relaxed, suddenly tense up again.

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  "Kaelin." The elven maiden on the bed saw her kin and immediately cried out, the joy in her voice making the count shudder.

  A man in black also walked in from the corridor, standing beside the elven maiden with his arms crossed in a casual posture. This man's height was about the same as the elven maiden's. On his upright face was a mask that seemed carved from wood, covering the lower half of his face. He had a head of black hair and a pair of black eyes that looked at the count.

  There was not the slightest hint of killing intent in those eyes, there was even a bit of a smile, but the count felt that the skin he had so carefully anointed with essential oil was breaking out in goosebumps.

  "Guards!" the count roared, his voice already twisted and hoarse, sweat rolling down his fat face.

  "Give them to him." the man waved his hand, and immediately three figures flew in.

  The count saw clearly. It was the three guards responsible for his personal protection. He had arranged today's entertainment in this room long ago, and there was no one around the bedroom, only these three guards. All three had once held the position of captain in the kingdom's knight order, they could absolutely be considered first-class experts, and their loyalty was beyond question, which was why the count had made them his personal guards.

  However, their appearance so quickly and swiftly had nothing to do with their loyalty or their skills, because they had been thrown in, and once they landed on the ground, they didn't move again. One of them had his eyes bulging wide, his face full of horror as he looked at his own back and torso, which he absolutely should not have been able to see. Another's head was only half left. Another had a wound on his Adam's apple. It wasn't too big, and not much blood was flowing, but it was a blue color, like oil paint.

  A huge werewolf, a woman in black, and a man with a vicious-looking scar on his face also walked in. All the muscles and fat on the count's body trembled together. He suddenly turned and pounced towards the elven maiden on the bed again. The elven maiden had been struggling, trying to stand up. But her limbs, weakened by the drug, could not even support her own weight.

  A flash of green light shot past the count's face, followed by a dull thud, and a large section of the bedroom wall collapsed.

  "Don't move if you don't want to die." The elven maiden lowered the black longbow in her hand, looking coldly at the frozen count. "Although the elder told me to try not to kill, I myself don't mind killing a filthy and lowly human like you. You should be thankful we arrived early. You haven't done anything to my kin yet, otherwise I would never have let you go."

  The count didn't move. He truly didn't want to die. A small patch of skin was missing from the tip of his nose, left by the flash of green light. Of course, he didn't think it was because he was lucky, or because the elven maiden's aim was poor. The fine bluestone wall of the bedroom could not be broken in a single blow even by the strongest warrior with a mountain-splitting axe. If the target of that green light had been his head, his brains would have definitely splattered onto the ceiling.

  The count still didn't move, and he actually didn't seem panicked, but spoke in a steady tone: "I know, I won't move. You're here to rescue her, right? Then please take her and leave."

  The elven maiden was taken aback for a moment, looking with some surprise at this fat, filthy, and despicable human. In her imagination, such a creature should be about the same as a cockroach or a rat, and should not have such a calm and composed demeanor and grace.

  The count turned around slowly at a very reassuring pace. Although his face was still covered in cold sweat, his expression was already very calm and composed. Not just composed, but also honest and humble, he confessed like an old farmer who had faced the loess and backed to the sky his whole life: "She has been given a drug that weakens the muscles, but it won't cause her any harm. She'll be fine after a while. As you can see, I truly have not touched her. She was bought from some bandits and then sent to me. She has been treated very well here these past few days. You can ask her. I admit I was wrong, I am indeed filthy and shameless."

  "Good, good, good. To still be able to maintain such calm and grace at a time like this, truly worthy of being the Minister of Military Affairs of Erathia, Count Garcia." The man in black walked over, clapped his hands lightly, and then patted the count on the shoulder. The smile in the eyes above the wooden mask grew even stronger. "To be able to see the situation so clearly and make the wisest and most correct choice and attitude so quickly, you are indeed a smart man."

  "Not at all, not at all." The count nodded honestly and respectfully. "Under the third floorboard beneath the bed, there is a small package containing a pile of gems worth two thousand gold coins. If you need it, you can take it."

  "Oh, not simple, not simple. How did you know I was short on money?" the man nodded. He bent down and picked up the elven maiden from the bed. "I just wonder if it's a magical trap or an alarm or something."

  The count nodded, bent down, and said with the politest voice and expression of a waiter in the most high-class inn: "Please rest assured, this is my own bedroom. Who would set a trap under their own bed? And if it were an alarm, wouldn't I be digging my own grave? If you're not at ease, I can get it for you."

  "No need, I trust you." The man handed the elven maiden to the other elven maiden, then said to the man with the vicious-looking scar: "Go get the gift that Lord Count has for us."

  The scar-faced man immediately darted under the bed, and after a bit of rummaging, indeed pulled out a package. He opened it and looked inside, then said to the masked man with a mixture of surprise and joy: "Boss, these are really valuable gems."

  "As long as you don't hurt me, I can give you the same amount in gold coins. You can name a place, and I can have the money delivered to you tomorrow. My oath is absolutely valid. I can swear by my piety to my Lord, by my family's honor, and by my loyalty to the kingdom." Although he was begging for his life, there was no panic or loss of composure in the count's voice, only sincerity. Anyone who heard such a speech would feel that this person was truly honest and reliable, and that his promises would be kept, so it was very much worth letting him live.

  "Good, good, good. Not only are you quick-witted, but you also know when to advance and when to retreat." The masked man laughed a couple of times, nodding incessantly. "Truly a talent of Erathia. How did you know we would kill you?"

  "I don't know if you will kill me, I only know that if you don't kill me, you definitely won't regret it." the count said lightly. But the sweat on his head had not stopped.

  "Now that you say that, I'm starting to not want to kill you..." the man frowned, studying the somewhat obese man in front of him. Now he was covered in sweat, his face dull and honest, even his eyes were lifeless, showing no trace of shrewdness, and not making people feel the slightest threat or hostility. From his own perspective, he really couldn't bring himself to harm such a person. The man sighed, turned his head, and muttered: "It's a pity that whether you live or die isn't up to me."

  Before the count could react, a hand grabbed his chin from behind, and a blue shortsword stabbed into his throat. The count's limbs convulsed violently, then went still. Blue blood gushed from the wound, and he fell limply.

  "To think you would even kill an unarmed, surrendered man like him." The tall elven maiden supported her companion, glaring at the masked man.

  "I said, it's not that I wanted to kill him." the man sighed, taking a piece of parchment and a charcoal stick from his robe. The parchment was densely covered in writing, and one of the lines was a brief introduction of Count Garcia, very short, and very to the point.

  Intelligent, accurate judgment, knows when to advance and retreat. One of Erathia's key ministers. Lewd. Pro-Church. Must be eliminated.

  "Couldn't Lord Bolgan's handwriting be any nicer?" the man used the charcoal stick to draw a black line through Count Garcia's name, muttering to himself again. "I didn't want to kill him... it's just that he deserved to die."