Chapter 29: Assassination

Even in the royal capital, during the darkest moments before dawn, one must restrain the noise and quiet down for a moment. The bustling streets, drained of energy from the day's revelry, seemed to twitch like a dying creature, occasionally disrupted by the shouts of a few drunks and the fading remnants of light.

Two young men, thoroughly drunk, leaned on each other as they walked. One was utterly wasted, while the other retained a bit of lucidity, managing to find their next destination. Both were young, handsome, and at an age for mischief. They were typical figures in the royal capital, and passersby paid them no mind.

The two drunkards gradually approached the quietest, darkest section of the street. Ahead, three more drunken men staggered toward them, their unsteady steps bringing them closer.

The three appeared particularly inebriated, a stench of alcohol permeating the entire street. They stumbled about, unclear of their direction, nearly colliding with the two young men. Just as they were about to crash into each other, the three drunks suddenly flipped their hands, skillfully drawing daggers as if they had practiced the move for decades. Their grips on the knives were steady and professional. The bodies that had been swaying like snakes suddenly stiffened, and like leopards, they lunged at the two young men standing just a step away. Their swift movements seemed completely unrelated to their intoxicated expressions and the overpowering smell of alcohol.

The short blades glimmered a sickly green under the dim light. They lacked blood grooves because the toxins would be weakened if blood flowed out.

These three knives slid effortlessly into flesh, as silent as if slicing through bread. The sharp edges made no sound as they cut through muscle, seemingly unstoppable even by bone. The unique design of the blades served its purpose; no blood leaked out, and every bit of poison swiftly penetrated the body, spreading and destroying it. The vibrant life that had just been there abruptly ceased. There was no struggle, not even a breath or heartbeat—every trace of life vanished in an instant. One moment they were human, and the next, they were lifeless meat ready to decay.

The poison on the blades was a deadly toxin extracted from the tail of a scorpion from the far-off underground world of Nigen. This strange and potent poison immediately paralyzed all nerve tissues upon entering any living body. Even if it didn't kill, it would render the victim completely immobile, making it a favorite among assassins. Moreover, the toxin on these three knives was enough to kill ten of the strongest horses.

The three corpses fell to the ground, making a sound like wood colliding, their bodies already stiffened in that blink of an eye. The less intoxicated young man, who was supporting his friend, staggered back a step, drunkenly shoving his companion. The three skilled assassins, suddenly colliding with one another, plunged their knives into each other's bodies.

From the surrounding darkness, more than a dozen figures clad in black emerged silently. Their professional movements and steps made no sound as they advanced, each brandishing similar knives that glowed with the same sickly hue. As they observed their fallen comrades lying in bizarre postures, their eyes displayed no sign of emotion, coldly fixed on the two young men trapped in the center.

Only after all these figures had settled did a tall, imposing figure emerge from the darkness. Unlike the others, he wore no black attire, as if unwilling to conceal his robust muscles. In his hand, he wielded a giant sword proportionate to his size, each step resonating with a sound befitting his stature. If not for the bandages wrapped around his face, he would have appeared like a powerful giant.

With eyes peering through the bandage gaps, he carefully examined the two men. The source of his injuries, clearly inebriated, could only stand with the help of his companion. Meanwhile, the companion, despite having taken down the three assassins, still appeared slightly drunk, and it was evident that it was not an act.

"Who are you?" he demanded, staring intently at the less intoxicated young man, his speech slightly muffled by the bandages. He waved his hand dismissively. "Ah, it doesn't matter who it is; just kill him. The drunkard is to be left alive. I will deal with him personally." The figures in black surged forward.

These were seasoned assassins, highly trained professionals hired by his uncle at great expense from other countries, only to be deployed as a last resort. Killing a half-drunk man would be no challenge. As for the drunkard, he intended to keep him alive for a more elaborate plan, to first cripple him before bringing him back...

However, even his somewhat muddled brain quickly realized something was off. Despite being unarmed and slightly tipsy, this man was somehow effortlessly evading the attacks of more than a dozen skilled assassins. With one hand, he seized an assassin's wrist and, with the grace of wringing out a wet cloth, twisted it until a distinct cracking sound echoed from the joint.

The assassin, who had just begun to emit a soft cry, was silenced as his body became a shield, the blades embedded in him rendering him stiff and lifeless in an instant.

Then, this human shield served its wielder remarkably well. Despite receiving a few stabs, he continued to maintain his position and struck down a fellow assassin, swinging the lifeless body like a club and sending another comrade crashing to the ground with a sound of breaking bones.

The assassins, masters of coordinated attacks, continued their relentless assault using finely honed formations to target this central figure. Yet, he weaved through the flying daggers as if he had choreographed their movements. It was as if every strike aimed at him was perfectly timed, allowing him to evade effortlessly while using the stiff body in his hands to block and stab, causing other assassins to fall with their bones breaking or getting impaled by the knives attached to the shield.

As this human weapon swung forcefully, sending two assassins flying and striking another dead on, the large man standing aside finally grasped the situation. He lifted his giant sword, preparing to join the fray, but then glanced at the target on the ground he had intended to deal with slowly. He charged toward the lifeless form instead, reminding himself that this was the real threat to eliminate while the other man was still busy handling the remaining assassins. He raised his sword high, ready to bring it down, confident that this massive weapon combined with his brute strength would crush the delicate flesh beneath.

"Boom!" The cobblestones flew as he struck. Oddly, he felt no sensation of crushing bones or grinding flesh, nor did he hear the sound of ruptured flesh. Instead, a chilling sensation washed over his throat.

Then a wave of warmth surged upward, an eerie heat that prickled every part of his throat. This warmth even began to ooze out, spreading down the surface of his skin.

The opponent, who had been sprawled on the ground like a dead dog, now stood up. Not only did he stand, but he did so with sharp clarity, his eyes shining bright like a clean apple, and his sword dripped with blood. That blood came from his throat.

He dropped his sword, clutching his throat as if he could escape this terrifying reality. But the blood within his veins continued to gush forth, spilling over his fingers, some even flowing into his windpipe, causing him to want to cough, but all he could produce were strange, bubbling sounds.

That once strong body now trembled violently in the chilling wind, reduced to withered straw, as the terrible sounds from his throat mixed with the warm blood flowing from his fingers began to fade, eventually coming to a halt. His blood-soaked hands slid away from his throat.

Asa hurled away the makeshift weapon, sending the last assassin flying alongside the rigid corpse of his comrade. The over a dozen assassins now lay sprawled across the ground. He turned to see Rodhart, who had just succeeded in killing his opponent.

Rodhart stared blankly at the crumpled figure in the corner, Scottie. This once arrogant nobleman, who had fought fiercely with him during the day, was now a corpse.

In the dim light cast by the scattered torches on the ground, that once imposing face was frozen in extreme terror, the skin lacking blood had turned pale and deformed, revealing a sickly white. In stark contrast, a bright red stain below his throat marked the last trace of life in that body, a stark label of death. The gash in his throat was wide open, slightly curling upward like a grinning mouth, barely revealing the tubes inside.

Rodhart's face twisted in horror. He suddenly dropped his sword and took a step back, his hands empty as he clenched them, then rubbed them together as if trying to erase the lingering sensations. But the soft, vivid feel of slicing through the throat still lingered in his hands, coursing up his arm into his heart. He turned to Asa, opening his mouth as if to force a relieved smile, but his handsome face contorted with pain and disgust instead.

He bent over and began to vomit.

Murder was not an easy or pleasant task. If someone felt nothing at all, it could only mean they were as wooden as a log. And if someone found it thrilling, it suggested that they were as disturbed as someone who enjoyed playing with their own excrement.

Rodhart seemed to finally let out a sigh of relief after he had vomited everything in his stomach, convulsed a few times, and gasped for breath. He straightened up, wiped his mouth, and turned to Asa with a slightly embarrassed smile, saying, "It's my first time killing someone with my own hands, a real person just like me. It's really hard to bear, very disgusting."

He rubbed his face; although he still looked quite disheveled, his smile returned to its familiar warmth and charm. Even after such extreme fatigue, he still appeared confident, like a good student facing a tough academic challenge and determined to overcome it. "But it's okay; it's like getting measles—eventually, I'll get used to it." He looked at the corpses scattered around, along with a few half-dead assassins groaning in pain. "That's why I said I definitely need your help. If I were alone, I would have probably died. You saved me again."

Asa frowned at the bodies on the ground and asked, "Why did you have to have me help you deal with this assassination? You could have simply told the military officials about the Prime Minister bribing you. They would naturally find a way to protect you or even use that leverage against the Prime Minister. Now he's trying to kill you to silence you—wouldn't that be strong evidence?"

"It's not the right time yet. That leverage isn't enough to take him down; it's just my word against his." Even while contemplating these strategies, his amiable and gentle face still bore a hint of naivety, making him look like a child confident in his own tricks. "The key is that I've managed to deal with this assassination without exposing him. This way, he knows I don't want to be his enemy and realizes I'm not someone easy to deal with. Naturally, he'll have some reservations and won't dare act recklessly. With the psychological advantage, future matters will be much easier… Who knows, I might even gain more friends, which is far better than having more enemies."

"You've changed," Asa sighed. He remembered Rodhart as a naive young boy back in Airi, but now he felt almost childish in comparison.

"Because I've matured. I'm no longer lost in my own fantasies; I know how to face this real world." Rodhart smiled at Asa, the wound on his lip still visible. "You taught me how to confront this cruel world."

Asa felt a mix of emotions and shook his head, unsure of what to say, letting out another sigh. His mood plummeted with that sigh.

Suddenly, an odd and intense chill coursed through his back, penetrating his entire body. It felt as if countless ice needles had pierced through his skin and muscles, driving into his spine and stabbing his marrow. Asa leaped forward with all his strength, turning in mid-air, only to see a river of lightning converging in front of him.

"Pfft." Only then did Rodhart hear a sound. A shadow clad in black suddenly emerged from the darkness, stepping on the head of a still-groaning assassin, which instantly exploded with a forceful crack. Using that momentum, the figure transformed into a black lightning that melded with the darkness, striking toward Asa with its sharp, white tip.

If I can't dodge it, I die. That was the thought that flashed through Asa's mind in an instant.

This light could have split the entire night in two, like a raging river flowing from the heavens, gathering all its grandeur after a century, ready to sweep away everything in front of it without a trace.

Even though Asa was already retreating in flight, that long-accumulated strike was still approaching him at an irreversible speed.

How long had this sword been silently brewing in the darkness? It waited for its target to relax both mentally and physically, exposing its lethal edge only at the perfect moment.

Asa's body was already suspended in mid-air, without any weapons in hand, waiting for the call of death that was inching closer. All his senses sharpened. He watched the sword's tip draw nearer and nearer… He could even feel the skin on his face starting to crumble under the sword's aura, as if it would break apart at any moment, and beneath it, the muscles and bones would collapse like rotten wood, his head bursting under the pressure of this sword energy, splattering like a tomato across the ground and walls...

I don't want to die.

Asa roared. All his strength, spirit, fear of death, and desire to live converged in his hands.

He grasped the lightning that was about to crush him to pieces. All his life condensed into that single action; it was no longer a mere movement but a struggle against death with every ounce of his being. His hand radiated a layer of white light.

The blade pressed against the skin between his fingers, inching closer and closer. The strength between his fingers surged, silently roaring, desperately squeezing, and tugging at the deadly sharpness.

Finally, just as the blade was about to reach his brow, it stopped.

Both fell to the ground simultaneously; Asa continued to retreat while the black-clad figure advanced. The two moved, one forward and one backward, racing along the dark street, each step heavy as stone, with dust and gravel flying beneath their feet.

Eventually, the sword could no longer withstand the immense pressure from both sides. With a final, extreme groan, it shattered into countless tiny fragments.

At that very moment of the sword's shattering, the black figure began to leap back, stepping on another wounded assassin, the sound of bones cracking echoing, before jumping again to cleanly end the last assassin's life beneath his feet. After a few more leaps, he completely vanished into the pre-dawn darkness. Just as abruptly as he appeared, he left without a trace of sound, as if he were merely a specter emerging from the nether, briefly displaying the terrifying power of death before returning to the void.

Asa stood frozen in place. He could hear his own heartbeat, blood trickling down from his brow, seeping slowly down beside his nose. His skin was undamaged, but beneath it, the muscles and blood vessels had already ruptured.

That was pure sword energy, entirely devoid of any magical influence or need for magic. Not a mere assassin; assassins wouldn't wield a sword like that—this was a true swordsman.

This was a real master. This person blended his presence and movements completely with those of others. He might have noticed it, but he remained entirely undisturbed, waiting for the best opportunity to strike, revealing his killing intent only at that fleeting moment. If his strike missed, he immediately withdrew without a hint of hesitation, decisive and swift.

"Who on earth is that?" Rodhart approached, staring blankly in the direction the figure had disappeared. He was utterly shocked by that sword strike. As a swordsman himself, he could see the profound skill contained within it, murmuring, "That is the true assassin…"

"He's not an assassin." Asa looked at his palm. It was neither broken nor injured, just a bit scraped with some blood. He shook his head, murmuring, "Not an assassin…"

"Why not…?" Rodhart asked, puzzled.

"If that sword were aimed at you, could you have dodged it?" Asa replied.

Rodhart's face turned pale as he swallowed hard, responding with certainty, "I would've died."

Asa coldly stated, "Exactly, you would've died. I wouldn't have been able to stop that sword either. Don't forget, you are their true target for assassination. As long as you die, their mission is accomplished. My life is of no concern to them. Would a swordsman of such skill lack that basic judgment? So he's not an assassin after you. He's here for me." A hint of danger and mystery suddenly filled the night of the royal capital, invigorating Asa's every nerve and thought. This sensation even excited him, like a wolf far from the wilderness catching a whiff of blood.

Asa walked over and picked up the hilt of the sword that had fallen to the ground. It was just an ordinary long sword, easily found for sale throughout the royal capital. If it had been a good sword, one that matched that figure's skills, what would the outcome have been? That previous block had already taken everything he had.

Why didn't that person use a sword that belonged to him?

If he wasn't with those assassins, how could he have known about and utilized this assassination attempt? And why did he want to kill me at this moment? If I died now, what would happen? The assassination of a high priest would be a huge event. A careful investigation would immediately uncover the origins of these assassins, especially since Rodhart would naturally reveal everything under such circumstances; after all, I had indeed squeezed out the Prime Minister's son from his position… There really couldn't be a more suitable suspect for the murder than the Prime Minister, but Asa knew he wasn't. Who else? Who could it be?

Asa sighed, muttering a curse under his breath. But he felt a bit pleased to have regained some confidence in his intellect.

The next day, when the Prime Minister learned that his nephew had gathered people to take revenge on the newly promoted knight after losing a competition, he immediately flew into a rage, denouncing the family for producing such a disgrace. Fortunately, that knight was skilled, and a high priest happened to be present; thus, the despicable assassination attempt did not succeed.

The Prime Minister immediately reported to the King, seeking to punish the wrongdoing of his nephew. However, the King was quite reasonable and understood that the incident was caused by the actions of that morally corrupt failure, so he did not blame the Prime Minister. The Prime Minister also personally apologized to the knight in front of everyone. Thus, the matter seemed to be resolved peacefully, and it appeared that a friendship was established between the Prime Minister and the excellent knight.

The Magic Academy held a formal inauguration ceremony for the new high priest. This priest was also young and outstanding, personally recommended by the bishop, marking an unprecedented precedent. The keen political instincts sensed this extraordinary omen. He was also a good friend of the commoner hero knight, and the heroic emotions that had already been stirred were pushed to new heights. If he achieved success on the battlefield this time, his prospects would soar even higher.

This high priest was about to head to the western front, and many lords and ministers came to see him off.

In such situations, the Duke could not be absent. He had a slightly portly figure, wearing luxurious clothing, a hat that suited him well, and a sword embedded with jewels that seemed a bit too ostentatious. His smile was the brightest, most pleasant, and warmest among everyone, and his friendly features radiated nothing but kindness.

Beneath that friendly facade, other things were completely invisible; unseen dangers are the most perilous. If that slightly portly body were to don night attire, would he not be as agile as a flash of lightning in the dark?

The Duke approached and shook hands with Asa, wishing him a safe journey. The calluses at the Duke's hands near the webbing and finger bases were quite thick. If such a hand gripped the sword at his waist, which seemed merely ornamental, what kind of scene would that be? Could it unleash a strike as fierce as a mighty river or a bolt of lightning in a clear sky? The thought made Asa's heart race; he even wanted to test right away how he would fare against such a blow.

However, this was clearly not feasible. He needed to help the Bishop with this troublesome task before he could regain the freedom to act as he pleased. For now, he could only smile at the Duke and say, "Thank you for your care."

"Not at all. It is my honor to befriend someone as exceptional as the high priest. We will surely have the chance to interact further when you return," the Duke said warmly.

"Unfortunately, there aren't many good opportunities like last night," Asa whispered in his ear. The Duke's expression turned strange. Then Asa sighed and added, "You don't need to be overly concerned; I would never interfere with you. I really can't be bothered with this."

More than ten days later, Asa returned to Bracada.