Chapter 58: Assassination

  Even the capital fell silent for a moment in the darkest hour before dawn, putting aside its bustle. The streets, drained of a day’s excitement, twitched like a dying creature—only the occasional shouts of drunkards and faint glimmers of light lingering as last traces of life.

  Two intoxicated young men stumbled along, supporting each other. One was completely sloshed; the other, slightly more sober, still had enough sense to find a place for them to stay. Both were young—old enough to fool around—and handsome—good enough to get away with it. They were a common sight in the capital, and passersby paid them no mind.

  The two drunkards wandered into the quietest, darkest stretch of the street. Up ahead, three more drunks staggered toward them. All stumbled closer, their steps unsteady.

  The three men reeked of alcohol—so strongly that the stench filled the entire street. They seemed especially drunk, their direction so muddled they were practically walking sideways. Before anyone could react, they were about to collide with the two young men. But in the split second before impact, the three drunks’ hands flipped—smoothly, as if they’d practiced the move for decades. Each now held a dagger, their grips tight and steady, professional to the core. Their bodies—moments earlier as twisted as molting snakes—suddenly tensed, then lunged like leopards at the two young men, now just inches away. Their speed had nothing to do with their drunken expressions or the reek of liquor.

  The daggers were short, glinting with a sickly green light in the faint glow of distant lanterns. They had no blood grooves—blood would dilute the poison.

  The blades slid into flesh like knives into bread. The sharp edges made no sound as they cut through muscle, as if even bone couldn’t stop them. Their special design worked: no blood flowed out, ensuring every drop of poison did its work—spreading rapidly through tissue, destroying everything in its path. The once-vital bodies froze instantly. There was no struggle, no breath, no heartbeat—no sign of life left. One moment they were men; the next, they were rotting meat waiting for maggots.

  The poison on the blades was extracted from the tails of scorpion mages in the underground world of Nighon. This vicious toxin paralyzed all nerve tissue the moment it entered a living body. Even if it didn’t kill, it left its victim completely immobile—a favorite of assassins. And the poison on these three daggers was enough to kill ten of the strongest horses.

  The three bodies fell straight down, making a sound like logs hitting the ground. In the blink of an eye, their muscles had gone rigid. The less drunk of the two young men only stumbled back a step, still supporting his companion. With a drunken push, he sent the three agile, seasoned assassins crashing into each other—their own daggers sinking into their friends’ flesh.

  From the surrounding darkness, a dozen figures in black emerged silently. Their movements were precise, no sound escaping them as they moved. Each held the same green-glinting dagger. Looking at their companions lying dead in grotesque, rigid poses, their eyes showed no emotion—only the same cold, fixed stare as they surrounded the two young men.

  Only when these figures had taken their positions did another man stride out of the dark, his footsteps heavy and thunderous. He was enormous, not wearing black—too proud to hide his bulging muscles. In his hand, he carried a greatsword matching his size; each step shook the ground, fitting for a man of his stature. If not for the bandages wrapped around his face, he would have looked like a fearsome giant god.

  Through the gaps in his bandages, the man studied the two surrounded figures. The one who’d gotten him bandaged was completely passed out, held up only by his friend. The friend—even after taking down three assassins—still looked tipsy, not faking it.

  “Who are you?” he slurred, his bandages muffling his voice. He waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter. Kill him. Leave the drunk one—he’s mine.” The black-cloaked figures lunged.

  These were seasoned professional assassins, hired by his uncle at great cost from other countries—secret weapons to be used only as a last resort. Killing a half-drunk man should have been easy. As for the drunkard? He planned to take his time with him: cut his tendons first, then drag him back.

  But even his slow mind soon realized something was wrong. The man was empty-handed, slightly drunk—and yet, under the attacks of a dozen professional assassins, he remained unharmed, even calm. He grabbed one assassin’s wrist and twisted it as easily as wringing wet clothes. A sharp crack echoed as bones broke.

  The assassin let out a half-cry before it was cut short—his body was used as a shield. Several daggers sank into him, and he went rigid, silent, in an instant.

  This human shield then became a weapon. As more blades stabbed into it, the assassin’s still-posed hand—frozen mid-strike—stabbed a fellow attacker. With a sideways swing, the rigid legs of the corpse smashed into another assassin lunging from the side. The sound of breaking bones rang out.

  The assassins were masters of coordinated combat, using well-honed formations to stab at the man nonstop. But he moved through the flurry of daggers like a dancer, as if their attacks were choreographed just for his evasions. He seemed to know every move they would make, dodging like water while using the stiff corpse to block and strike. One by one, assassins fell—some with broken bones, others stabbed by the daggers protruding from the shield, their bodies going rigid the moment they hit the ground.

  When the human weapon was swung with great force, sending two more assassins flying (one impaled by a dagger), the giant finally understood the danger. He lifted his greatsword to join the fight—but then glanced at the drunkard on the ground, his intended target. Leaving the man to deal with the remaining assassins, he charged at the “sitting duck” instead. He raised the sword high, ready to strike. With the blade’s weight and his brute strength, human flesh would be as delicate as flower petals.

  Boom. Flagstones shattered. He felt no crunch of bones, no squelch of flesh—only a strange, cold tingle at his throat.

  Then a warm rush surged up. Every part of his throat felt this eerie heat, mixed with a stabbing pain. The warmth even began to flow out of his body, trickling down his skin.

  The drunkard—who’d been lying on the ground like a dead dog—was now standing. Not just standing, but alert, his eyes sharp as apples rinsed in ice water. In his hand, a sword dripped with blood—his blood.

  The giant dropped his sword and clutched his throat, stepping back as if he could escape the horror before him. But blood still gushed merrily from his veins, forcing its way through his fingers. Some seeped into his windpipe, making him want to cough—but he couldn’t. Only a strange, gurgling sound escaped him.

  His muscular body now trembled like dry grass in the wind, matching the terrible gurgles from his throat. He backed into a wall, his thick legs no longer able to support him. He slid down, the gurgles and trembles fading as blood poured through his fingers—until finally, they stopped. His hands, soaked through with blood, slipped from his throat.

  Ethan tossed aside the human shield. The last assassin was sent flying, crashing into a dead comrade. All dozen assassins lay on the ground. He turned to see his friend, who had just finished off his opponent.

  Rodhart stared at Strunk, who sat slumped against the wall. This arrogant noble—who’d fought him fiercely that day—was now just a corpse.

  In the dim light of scattered torches, Strunk’s fierce face was frozen in extreme terror. His skin, drained of blood, looked loose and waxy, a sickly white. Contrasting with this ghastly color was a patch of bright red below his throat—both the final proof of life in his body and a label of death. The wound gaped open, curving upward slightly—like a smiling mouth, with a glimpse of the pipes inside.

  Rodhart’s face twisted. He dropped his sword, stepped back, and flexed his empty hand twice. He rubbed his palms together, as if trying to wipe away the lingering sensation. But the soft, clear feeling of cutting through flesh still lingered—not just in his hands, but all the way up his arms to his chest. He turned to Ethan, opening his mouth as if to force a casual smile. But his handsome face was contorted with pain and disgust.

  He doubled over and vomited.

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  Killing was never easy. If someone felt nothing, they were just a block of wood. If someone enjoyed it, they were no different from fools who played with their own filth.

  Rodhart vomited hard, violently. His stomach was already empty—at the banquet, he’d snuck out to throw up every time he drank. But he kept retching, his stomach convulsing as if trying to expel his other organs and all the vile feelings inside. This young rising star, the people’s admired hero, now knelt there vomiting like a dog. Finally, he managed to bring up something—bile.

  When even the bile was gone, he convulsed a few more times, gasping for air. Rodhart seemed to relax slightly. He straightened up, wiping his mouth, and turned to Ethan with an embarrassed smile. “First time killing someone—someone like me. It’s really… awful, disgusting.”

  He wiped his face. Even disheveled, his smile regained its warmth and charm. Exhausted as he was, he still looked confident—as if a good student, facing a difficult problem, had resolved to overcome it. “But it’s okay. Like getting the measles. I’ll get used to it eventually.” He glanced at the bodies on the ground, then at a few dying assassins moaning in pain. “That’s why I needed your help. I would’ve died if I’d been alone. You saved me again.”

  Ethan frowned at the corpses and asked, “Why did you need me to help with this assassination? Why not tell the military ministers about the Chancellor bribing you? They’d protect you, or use this leverage to take down the Chancellor. Now he’s trying to silence you—isn’t that even stronger evidence?”

  “It’s not time yet,” Rodhart said. His gentle, compliant face still had a hint of naivety, making him look like a child proud of his little trick. “This leverage isn’t enough to bring him down—not just my word. The key is that I survived this assassination but won’t report him. He’ll realize I don’t want to be his enemy… and that I’m not easy to deal with. He’ll fear me, stop acting recklessly. Gaining the upper hand mentally makes everything easier later. Maybe we can even become ‘friends’—better than making another enemy.”

  “You’ve changed,” Ethan sighed. He remembered Rodhart as a naive boy in Aery. Now, by comparison, he felt like the childish one.

  “I’ve matured,” Rodhart said, smiling at Ethan—his lip still had a cut from the tournament. “I don’t live in fantasies anymore. I know how to face the real world now.”

  Ethan’s heart felt heavy. He shook his head, not knowing what to say, and sighed again. His mood plummeted with that breath.

  Suddenly, a strange, overwhelming coldness pierced his back, spreading through his body. It was as if countless ice needles had stabbed through his skin, muscles, and spine, reaching his very marrow. Ethan leaped forward with all his strength, spinning mid-air—only to see a river of lightning before him.

  Thwack. Rodhart heard the sound a moment too late. A figure in black flashed out of the darkness, stepping on the head of a moaning assassin. The skull crushed with a wet crack. Using the momentum, the figure turned into a black bolt of lightning, merging with the dark. Its snow-white blade tip struck at Ethan.

  Can’t dodge. Dead. That was all Ethan could think in that instant.

  The light—bright enough to split the night in two—was already before him. It was like a great river from the heavens, gathering a century’s power, then surging eastward without return, determined to drown, sweep away, and grind to dust everything in its path.

  Even as Ethan retreated, the strike—built up for so long—still raced toward him, unstoppable.

  This sword had been simmered silently in the dark for who knew how long. It waited until its target’s guard was down, body relaxed, reactions slow—then unleashed its full edge.

  Ethan was mid-air, empty-handed. He could only wait as death crept closer. His senses sharpened to a razor’s edge. He watched the tip of the blade draw nearer, closer… He could even feel his facial skin beginning to break under the sword’s aura, as if it would split open at any moment. The muscles and bones beneath would crumble like rotting wood; his head would burst under the pressure, splattering like a tomato across the ground and walls.

  I don’t want to die.

  Ethan roared. All his strength, his will, his fear of death, his desire to live—he poured it all into his hands.

  He grabbed the bolt of lightning that would have torn him to shreds. He focused every last bit of his life into that grip. It was no longer just a movement—it was a fight against death, using his entire being. A white glow emanated from his hands.

  The blade inched forward between his fingers. The power in his palms surged, roaring silently, squeezing and pulling at the deadly edge.

  Finally, the tip of the sword stopped—just inches from his eyebrows.

  Both landed at the same time. Ethan kept retreating; the man in black kept advancing. They raced down the dark street, step after heavy step. Flagstones and dirt flew up beneath their feet.

  At last, the sword couldn’t withstand the pressure of their clashing strength. With a final, strained creak, it shattered into countless tiny shards.

  The moment the sword broke, the man in black jumped back, stepping on another wounded assassin. Bones cracked. He leaped again, crushing the last assassin’s life beneath his foot. In a few bounds, he vanished into the pre-dawn darkness—appearing as suddenly as he’d come, leaving no trace, no sound. He was like a phantom emerging from the underworld, revealing a glimpse of death’s terror before fading back into nothingness.

  Ethan stood frozen. He could hear his own heartbeat. Blood oozed from his forehead, trickling down his cheek. His skin was unbroken, but the muscles and blood vessels beneath had torn.

  Sword aura. Pure sword aura—no magic, no need for magic. This wasn’t an assassin. Assassins didn’t use swords like this. This was a true swordsman.

  A true master. He’d hidden his presence and sound among the others. Ethan might have noticed him, but he’d paid no attention. The man had lurked without impatience, waiting for the perfect moment to strike—unleashing his killing intent only in that split second. When he missed, he didn’t hesitate—he retreated immediately, clean and decisive.

  “Who was that?” Rodhart finally walked over, staring at the direction the figure had vanished. He was stunned by that sword strike. As a swordsman, he recognized the skill behind it. “That was the real assassin, wasn’t it?”

  “No,” Ethan said, staring at his palms. They weren’t broken, no bones harmed—just a few scrapes and blood. He shook his head, muttering, “Not an assassin.”

  “Why not?” Rodhart asked, confused.

  “If that sword had been aimed at you… could you have dodged?” Ethan said.

  Rodhart’s face turned pale. He swallowed hard and answered firmly, “I’d be dead.”

  Ethan’s voice was cold. “Exactly. You’d be dead. And I couldn’t have stopped that sword either. Don’t forget—you were their real target. Kill you, and their mission is done. My life means nothing to them. Would an assassin with that skill lack the judgment to know that? So he wasn’t here for you. He was here for me.” The capital’s night had suddenly grown dangerous and mysterious, making every nerve in Ethan’s body tingle, every thought sharp. The feeling even excited him—as if a wolf, far from the wild, had caught a whiff of blood again.

  Ethan walked over and picked up the hilt the man had dropped. It was just an ordinary longsword—easy to buy anywhere in the capital. What if it had been a good sword? One worthy of that skill? He’d used all his strength to block that strike.

  Why hadn’t the man used a sword that matched his ability?

  If he wasn’t with the assassins, how had he known about the attack—and used it to his advantage? And why kill Ethan now? If he died, what would happen? The assassination of a cleric would be a huge scandal. An investigation would immediately reveal the assassins’ origins. Rodhart would tell everything, and Ethan had indeed taken the Chancellor’s son’s position. No one would make a better suspect than the Chancellor—but Ethan knew it wasn’t him. Who else? Who could it be?

  Ethan sighed and muttered a curse. But he also felt a faint spark of relief—his confidence in his own wits was returning.

  The next day, when the Chancellor learned his nephew had gathered men to take revenge on the newly promoted knight for losing the tournament, he flew into a rage, denouncing the “disgrace to the family.” Fortunately, the knight was skilled—and a Church cleric had been present. The vile ambush had failed.

  The Chancellor immediately begged the emperor to punish him for “failing to discipline his family.” But the emperor, ever reasonable, knew the attack had been the loser’s own doing and didn’t blame the Chancellor. The Chancellor then publicly apologized to the knight in front of everyone. And so, the matter seemed to end peacefully. It even appeared that the Chancellor and the talented knight had forged a “friendship.”

  The Magic Academy held an official inauguration ceremony for the new cleric. He was young, talented, and personally recommended by the bishop—a first in history. Politicians, with their sharp instincts, sensed this was an extraordinary sign. He was also friends with the commoner hero knight, reigniting the excitement around “young heroes rising to fame.” If he went on to win military merit on the battlefield, he would soar to even greater heights.

  The cleric was set to depart for the western front soon—and surprisingly, many nobles and ministers came to see him off.

  Naturally, Duke Mrak was among them. He still had his slightly portly build, dressed in magnificent robes, a hat that suited him well perched on his head, and a sword encrusted with so many jewels it bordered on gaudy tucked at his waist. His smile was the brightest, warmest, and most sincere of all—his already kind features radiating nothing but friendliness, friendliness, and more friendliness.

  Yet beneath that friendly face lay something unseeable. And unseen danger was the deadliest kind. If that portly body were clad in night clothes, could it move as swiftly as a bolt of lightning in the dark?

  The duke stepped forward to shake Ethan’s hand, wishing him a safe journey. The calluses on his palms and the base of his fingers were thick. If this hand gripped the sword at his waist—one that seemed merely decorative—what would happen? Could it unleash a strike as powerful as a surging river or a bolt of lightning? The thought made Ethan’s heart race; he even wanted to test what would happen if he faced such a strike head-on.

  But that was impossible—at least until he finished the troublesome favor the bishop had asked of him, and regained the freedom to do as he pleased. For now, he could only smile and say, “Thank you for your care, Your Grace.”

  “Not at all,” the duke replied warmly. “It is my honor to be friends with someone as outstanding as you, Cleric. When you return, we shall surely have more chances to spend time together.”

  “Pity there won’t be many more chances like last night,” Ethan whispered in his ear. A strange look flashed in the duke’s eyes. Then Ethan sighed and added, “Don’t worry—I have no intention of getting in your way. I couldn’t care less about these games.”

  Ten days later, after riding at top speed, Ethan returned to Bracada.