Chapter 20
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 20
Chapter Title: The Bloodkin Move
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The discovery of the assassin's corpse was a major incident in several ways.
Who had killed the assassin wasn't actually that big of a problem.
There were suspects, and everyone believed I'd grabbed a dagger in my sleep.
The real issue was, "Who sent the assassin?"
Even in a medieval world where killing was commonplace, there were lines you didn't cross.
Assassination was the ultimate taboo that every lord despised. If you got caught attempting one, you became an enemy of all, attacked by neighboring lords, and wiped out.
Assassination was that dangerous. Even the Blackrose Family, the most specialized in it, only pulled off a handful in the original story—and never got caught.
In that context, the castle was thrown into chaos. Hart, furious to his core, bellowed,
"It has to be those lion bastards! Those crazy lion scum have finally crossed the line!!!"
"Calm down, Hart."
Hart, suspecting the Lion Family after all the recent bad blood, shouted at the top of his lungs.
I understood his feelings, but it wasn't them, so I tried to soothe him.
Hadem of the Lion Family was a "scum," but a "warrior."
He loved killing enemies with his own hands, so he wouldn't bother sending an assassin for something as dull as taking me out.
As I calmed Hart, Noah chimed in.
I figured the usually composed Noah was speaking up to settle Hart down.
But...
"I don't know which bastard targeted the Lord's life, but I'll hunt them to the ends of hell and deal with them. So don't worry, my Lord."
"Th...thanks, Noah."
Noah flashed a chilling smile that looked ready to kill, and for the first time, I found her scary enough to look away.
Before I knew it, the situation had flipped—I was the one calming my retainers. I just wanted to get out of there.
Then, like a savior, the door opened.
"My Lord."
"Sharen! So, the autopsy's done?"
I'd called Sharen to examine the assassin's body.
With her knowledge, she might uncover more details from the corpse.
Sharen wasn't in her usual robe but a black autopsy gown with a mask, her face deadly serious as she spoke to me.
"I think you need to see this yourself, my Lord."
"Me?"
I headed to the morgue with my retainers.
There lay the dead assassins.
They looked like sturdy men in their 30s or 40s.
Up close, their rough features did scream Lion Family.
"At first, they seemed like ordinary corpses. But the residual mana was so unnatural that I traced it back..."
Sharen placed her hands on the bodies and chanted a spell.
A red glow emerged, and static noise rippled across the corpses.
And then...
"This is!?"
Their human forms melted away, revealing something else.
Black skin, long ears—like dark elves. I knew the race in World Archive with that look.
"Bloodkin..."
Bloodkin
The race that worships the demon god Dantalion, sealed at the northern edge. They filled the same role as demons in this world.
I hadn't seen their full motives revealed in an ending, but I knew their goal: weaken the Empire.
To do that, they stirred up assassinations, conspiracies, terrorism—endless chaos.
But why target me?
With princes, princesses, and countless other lords, why me?
As my head spun, Rana cut in.
"I felt something off about their texture... no, their appearance. Guess it was because they're Bloodkin."
"Whoa!"
"Ra...Rana! When did you get here?"
"I've been behind you the whole time, Lady Noah."
We all jumped at Rana appearing silently from the shadows.
The whole time? I hadn't sensed a thing!
"More importantly, Lady Sharen, I learned Bloodkin are fanatic cultists sealed by barriers in the northern wastelands. Why would they come all the way to our territory?"
"No idea. The Mage Tower never mentioned any Bloodkin intrusions."
Bloodkin were sealed by barriers in the northern wastelands.
That's why the mid-to-late game event of a barrier breach hadn't pinged on my radar yet.
Amid the questions, Noah spoke up.
"Come to think of it, there was news recently of a partial barrier breach in the north, followed by clashes."
"A partial breach!?"
What the hell! Already!?
Noah looked genuinely apologetic as she told me,
"Yes. It wasn't a full opening, and they quashed it fast without public announcement. I never imagined Bloodkin slipped through to assassinate you... My negligence."
"This isn't your fault, Noah."
No, it really wasn't.
Who'd think a sinkhole in the next town over means you'd get assassinated tomorrow? That's how minor it seemed.
After the autopsy wrapped, things shook out like this:
Hart would report the Bloodkin assassins to the capital.
Even though I'd survived by luck, other lords, nobles, or royals might be next.
We'd bolster castle guards, Noah would procure magic tool materials, and Sharen would set up an imperial palace-grade detection barrier.
It was a spell for constant monitoring of key figures' crises—even happy times might get flagged. I opposed it, but Noah and Hart pushed so hard I caved.
"Hoo... What a mess..."
Finally alone in my office, I sighed.
The Bloodkin weren't supposed to show for years, yet here they were, gunning for my neck. Just thinking about it made my legs shake.
Worse, this was probably just the start.
Bloodkin sowed chaos to weaken the Empire.
Not just simple hits—they used assassinations to spark political clashes.
Like borrowing a knife to kill: make one faction gain from the hit, sow discord, pit them against each other for mutual destruction.
The first time I hit that strategy, I cursed up a storm.
God, please no repeats. With that, I turned in.
The territory of Dreihart, located in the southeast of the Empire.
It was the most anomalous city in the realm.
Typical territories had slaves at maybe 20% max.
Not Dreihart.
80% of its population were slaves.
This stemmed from the Colosseum—the slave fighting pit.
Dreihart had no specialties.
Crushing poverty led the founding lord to one idea.
Leverage the one thing they had plenty of: war slaves.
He knew people loved flaunting their slaves.
So he built an arena for owners to prove their slaves' strength in duels: the Slave Fighting Tournament.
Owners jumped in eagerly, crowds flocked for the gore.
Overnight, Dreihart became the Empire's top slave fight spot, raking in cash from spectators.
That's when problems started.
Hooked on slave profits, the lord nurtured the industry.
To dodge imperial law—kids of free parent = free—he forced slave marriages and breeding quotas.
They bred slaves like dogs or cattle for superior stock, built armies, and rented them out as mercs.
300 years later, 80% slaves became the norm.
The 20% freefolk controlled them via magic tools.
The founder knew too many slaves meant rebellion risk.
He commissioned the Mage Tower, birthing the Purple Iron Chains—owner-activated, reducing wearer strength to a child's.
Now the Empire's slave symbol.
Dreihart nobles oppressed slaves with them—and planned to forever.
Until that day.
"Huh? Who goes there!"
Whoosh-!
"Wha?"
Assassins slipped into the city at night, targeting the mages maintaining the Purple Iron Chains.
The chains needed mana, managed by dozens of mages scattered across Dreihart.
All slaughtered overnight.
No mages, no mana—the chains failed. Slaves regained power.
"Wh...what?"
"The chains are on, but my strength's back!!"
Slaves realized it: instant catastrophe.
Empowered, they smashed cells, slaughtered their freefolk jailers.
Leading them: him.
"Stop them! Hold the slaves back!!"
"Stop me? Hilarious!!"
1.5 times a man's bulk, exploding muscles, blue horns—he charged the freefolk soldiers.
Spears couldn't pierce his hide; they bounced off his rush.
His name: Zarha Legion.
Dragonkin descendant, born of dragon and human long ago. Undefeated monster of the slave pits.
He massacred blocking soldiers barehanded with fellow slaves, pushing forward until he reached it.
Bam-!
"Eek!!"
Bursting in: the lord.
Soran Dreihart, caught flat-footed by the revolt, hid in his room.
No door stopped Zarha.
He entered the lord's chamber.
Gilded opulence in gold and silver. Fellow slaves gawked, overwhelmed.
"In...insolent! Do you know... wh...where this is!!"
Soran blustered at point-blank.
Zarha approached unflinchingly.
"Hey, Lord. Before that nonsense, don't you owe us words?"
"W...words!?"
Zarha's life flashed: separated from parents pre-speech, hellish training and abuse.
Forced into unwanted slave fights.
Killed comrade-friends to survive.
He endured for this moment.
"Apologize. To me, everyone here, and my dead friends!"
"Apolo...!? Ha! Don't be ridiculous! Apologies are for human to human."
Soran was raised on this.
Slaves aren't human.
Ruling Dreihart made you their god.
His father's lesson, lived to this day.
Zarha's demand sounded absurd enough to banish death's terror.
"I'm your god! Gods don't apologize!"
Those words shattered Zarha's reason.
Zarha closed in.
"If you're a god, block this."
Zarha swung.
30 years of rage like a exploding meteor on frail flesh.
Meteor meets naked human: predictable.
Bam-!
Crunch!!
One punch pulped Soran into bloody paste on the wall.
Zarha spat his pent-up grudge.
"Hmph. Weak god."
That day, revolt engulfed the slave city of Dreihart.