Karnat Desert Fortress (2)

"Since you don't seem to know, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠let me explain... Banshees are immune to physical attacks."

"Yes, I know."

You know? Then why are you acting like this? I thought you'd finally start getting scared. Just in case, I repeat myself.

"I'm an assassin too."

"Yes, I know."

Samar looked up at me with a perfectly innocent expression. Not a shred of doubt in those clear eyes. She was serious? For real...?

The cold, ruthless desert assassins I'd imagined inside me came crashing down in ruins.

The stoic assassin swinging a curved sword coldly amid the sunset and sandstorm—he was dead. All that remained were pseudo-Vikings wearing turbans instead of horned helmets and daggers instead of axes.

Maybe beneath those emotionless faces, their heads were filled with nothing but Assassination! Supreme! Kuhahaha!

Supreme assassination... Did they really believe ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that reaching the pinnacle of assassination would turn you into a monster that could fly through the sky, shatter the earth, and slice ghosts apart?

Well... it's not impossible...

Anyway. How the hell had these idiots survived 38 Waves?

Ah. Through assassination. Whether by luck or not, their cherished cowardly ways had somehow kept the front line intact. If they'd charged head-on like berserkers, they'd have been wiped out ages ago.

Was this intense conviction born purely from survival?

What was I supposed to do with these guys?

"Samar. I have a question."

"Yes? What is it?"

I polished my words as politely as possible, trimming away the stupidity that wanted to blurt out something like, "Is this brainless leaking a part of Karnat culture?"

"In Karnat... is there anyone in charge of wisdom?"

"Ah... you mean tactics? We do have elders we consult, but mostly everyone puzzles it out together. Hehe. Most of us are orphans, so our learning is limited."

Ah. So that's how it is.

...I think I messed up.

Someone in the community post back then had said it: 「You grow up in back alleys or what lol? Want me to shove it up there?」

It was a rough mindset, but thinking about it, quietly killing people wasn't exactly natural. The image of the cool, smart assassin might be the prejudice, and these guys could be closer to common sense.

"Phew..."

"Is something wrong?"

"...Nothing."

In an instant, my view of Karnat's assassins shifted from needy baby birds chirping Feed me! Feed me! to something like juniors who were a bit dim but good-hearted and needed looking after.

Wave... right, start with the Wave. Then I'd drill in ways for them to survive as long as possible.

...And fix their idea that magic was superstition.

"Guide me to the main gate. The Wave will start soon."

"Yes! Understood."

Outside the squat cream-colored walls of Karnat Desert Fortress. Crowds in similar-colored garb followed me and Samar.

Even with this many people moving, not a sound. Probably thanks to their feather-light steps. The enemies on the other side were ghosts, after all.

My gaze caught the Banshee horde approaching from far off.

Semitransparent women, each slightly different, but all sharing faces twisted in agony.

Still far away, but clear as day to my eyes.

"Samar."

"Yes?"

"Tell the soldiers."

"What?"

"Don't follow me."

"Yes, but why...?"

I answered by charging out alone—into the Wave, with the sandstorm blowing at my back.

I wasn't some show-off hero gathering followers to yell, "Behold, the pinnacle of assassination!" while putting on a ghost-slicing concert.

This wasn't just one Banshee—it was a horde. I couldn't silence every single mouth.

If even one scream got through, Karnat's regular soldiers would be mentally corrupted nine times out of ten. They might turn on their comrades chanting Assassinate! Assassinate!

Besides, we had no way to deal damage in the first place.

The mournful wails grew closer, soon crystal clear.

A flash of my professor shattering something crossed my mind. So this is how it works.

The eerie sound, like a broken string instrument, dredged up negative pasts, sickened the heart, and drove you mad...

Irrelevant. I had trusty cold-blooded skills.

The Banshees' barrage of random visions passed like short-form videos.

Bursting through the cloud of shrieks, I faced the Banshee swarm.

By game sense... one horizontal slash.

The straight-line motion swept them away like waves.

As expected. My guess was right.

Another continuous strike followed. Countless Banshees scattered like mist.

These ghost types were immune to physical damage, so they'd never taken any. No defense stat to speak of.

Just look at them—clumps of fog. If a blade could affect them, they'd scatter on contact.

My dagger sliced toward the oncoming horde. The blade glided smoothly through the spirit bodies.

Beyond the parted air... the Banshee swarm tore apart, far from smoothly.

Just three attacks, and the Banshee Wave took massive damage. The rest were next.

"Ooooooh!"

From the opposite side of the Wave, cheers opposite to the screams echoed.

The soldiers, probably. As the Wave cleared, wailing Banshees dwindled, soldiers' cheers swelled.

Not a bad feeling.

Before the walls. The familiar scene from my arrival.

"One who has reached the pinnacle of assassination... It is our honor to witness your valor with our own eyes."

Karnat's assassins were all bowing again, turbans grinding into the sand.

"...Rise."

By the way. How was slaughtering wildly on the battlefield the "pinnacle of assassination"?

Ah. That must be it.

"Samar. By any chance, does 'assassination' mean..."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Yes! Without anyone noticing. Not even the target."

No mention of stealth? Yep, checks out.

If there were no witnesses, it was assassination. Fitting for sandstorm poisoners.

Truly Viking-with-daggers thinking.

"Thank you so much, Berga. That figure dominating the battlefield was truly amazing!"

"Save the admiration. No time. Samar. Advice for future Waves."

"Yes! Anything!"

"Train wind mages."

"Yes...?"

If that's what you think assassination is, magic's not off-limits, right?

"But magic is superstition..."

"Is there an assassin who picks and chooses weapons? Do you limit methods to eliminate targets? Duels are for knights."

My words flowed like clear water. Samar's troubled look vanished, eyes gleaming with realization.

"R-right! As you command!"

"Yes. That's how you survive. Killing is good, but don't forget."

"Yes? But... assassination..."

"...The longer you live—even a day—the more you kill. More missions, more results. See?"

"Ah... right!"

I had their conversation style down now.

Using my newly grasped 'dialogue method,' I taught a few key desert-utilization techniques.

"You're leaving now!"

"Yes. Remember what I said... right?"

"Yes! I do!"

"Good. Survive. You all too."

"Yes. Good luck."

"Berga-nim's good luck!"

Soldiers had gathered silently, all bowing as light enveloped me.

Yeah. Good luck. To you too. And me.

A weird feeling, but it was like coming home from a lively holiday gathering. More precisely, like visiting my old college club as an OB.

The Wave wasn't hard, and maybe because I hung out with folks walking a similar path to Berga-me.

Assassins in name only, but still. Extremely so.

Next time I see them, they'd better have trained those wind mages. Even better if they clear Waves smoothly without calling me.

I'd been summoned non-stop lately. No time to feel fatigue.

This body wasn't too tied to fatigue anyway, no major issues.

But just yesterday, my whole body had been scorched. Day before, vampire mass suicide show.

So dynamic it was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠almost routine now. Absurd, yet those Waves felt distant already.

Suddenly, the white walls felt cramped. I lay on the bed, eyes closed.

Projecting recent Waves' colors on my eyelids' screen.

Gratia's aurora, Knox's dusk, Eldwin's greenery, Karnat's sand.

Gold, purple, green, yellow. The colors mingled, then slowly faded.