Chapter 273: Not Everything Goes According to Plan (4)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 273: Not Everything Goes According to Plan (4)
The moment the blade aimed at his flank tore through his clothes and grazed his skin, Sachsen twisted his body.
Rrrrip!
The blade had only managed to shred his tunic. It left nothing but a shallow scratch on his side, yet he felt a dull, tingling sensation spreading from the wound.
Paralysis poison.
It was futile. He had been conditioned against all manner of toxins since childhood; a concoction of this level had no effect on him.
Simultaneously, Sachsen reached out with fluid grace and snatched his opponent’s wrist. From the assailant's perspective, his arm had been caught in a vice-like grip before he could even think of pulling back. Every movement occurred within a single breath, as if preordained.
The man strained against the hold, but Sachsen did not resist. He allowed himself to be pulled along. Flustered by the lack of resistance, the man reflexively swung his other hand.
It was a short dagger with a single, razor-sharp edge, weighted on one side to facilitate heavy slashes. Naturally, it was coated in the same poison. As the blade whistled toward Sachsen’s cheekbone, he tilted his head back. The edge sliced cleanly through the air, barely missing the bridge of his nose.
It was a gap so brief it could only be described as an instant.
Normally, this was a moment where a fighter’s mind would have to process the variables to comprehend the situation, but Sachsen’s Sixth Sense dismissed all such calculations. This was the realm of instinct, intuition, and pure sensation.
Usually, one had to see, react, identify the opponent's weapon, and then decide on a counter—but he bypassed the entire process. It was a cognitive shortcut fueled by pure intuition, a feat Encrid had performed countless times. It would be absurd if Sachsen, the very man who had taught him the technique, could not do the same.
And so, he did what needed to be done.
"Urgh!"
The voice of the invisible opponent grunted in the air.
It was only natural. While parrying and evading the two strikes, Sachsen had already made his move. His foot stomped down hard on the opponent’s toes, and the blade in his hand pierced the seemingly empty air.
Following the sword in his left hand, which thrust diagonally upward from below, crimson blood erupted and sprayed into the night. Only after completing the sequence did Sachsen realize what his opponent possessed.
A stealth-enhancing artifact.
Unless it was high-tier magic, nothing could completely escape his senses. Then again, perhaps there existed an assassin skilled enough to deceive him—but if so, this one’s blade-work was pathetic.
Of course, it was all relative. The opponent was clearly accustomed to backstabbing; he had simply picked the wrong target.
Patter.
Blood sprayed into the air and splattered across Sachsen’s hair and face, but he didn't even blink. His hair seemed to drink the blood. In the moonlight, his reddish-brown locks took on a dull, dark crimson hue.
With blood gushing into the air and the wrist still firmly in his grip, Sachsen reached out, snatched the weapon from his opponent’s hand, and tossed it carelessly onto the roof. He felt around the assailant’s face before whipping off the hood.
Thick blood coated his hand, but Sachsen’s demeanor remained entirely unbothered. His touch was like that of someone handling an inanimate object. It was a chilling sight. Even the onlookers, cold-blooded as they were, felt a shiver run down their spines.
Ignoring them, Sachsen inspected the item his opponent had been wearing.
A full-body Hooded Robe.
It was a priceless item, worth whatever price one dared to name. He methodically stripped it off. There was a string to tie it in the front and another strap inside to wrap around the waist.
The hood is worn normally.
When wearing such a garment, there had to be specific points to secure it so it wouldn't slip during movement. He knew this because he possessed a similar item himself. Silently untying and pocketing the straps, he let the corpse, having served its purpose, slump to the ground like a discarded stone.
"...You bastard."
One by one, dark shadows rose onto the surrounding roofs, centering on Sachsen. They formed a tight encirclement. Below the roofline, several men held throwing daggers, and among them were three or four others who were clearly high-ranking assassins.
The man standing at the forefront, who appeared to be their leader, finally found his voice. He had watched the display in sheer disbelief. He had experienced many things in his life, but this felt bizarre—as if he were looking at a different species entirely.
It was a killing executed as if disposing of an emotionless, worthless object.
Sachsen silently stared back. Since Zakrais was not here, his gaze shone with a bleak, desolate light. The moonlight could evoke many feelings, but right now, it was like a blade symbolizing a cold, ruthless winter. His dark crimson hair showed no trace of the blood it had absorbed, making him look even more demonic—something non-human.
But if the bandits cowered now, it would make a mockery of the reputation they had built.
Shhh.
A sharp hiss of air escaped through the leader's front teeth. The man, who had been disguised as a street vendor, glared with bloodshot eyes. He wore no mask, and neither did his men. There was no reason to hide their faces from a dead man.
Sachsen processed this information and deduced a few facts, though none of it showed on his face. He remained still, holding his sword like a statue.
"Kill him," the leader commanded.
No long explanations were needed. This man was a trainer of assassins and a first-rate killer himself. He had sent one of the 'dolls' he had raised, equipped with a powerful artifact. The doll had followed the command to kill faithfully. But this man had blocked it? No, he hadn't just blocked it—he had slaughtered the doll with a counterattack and looted the artifact.
What the hell was this guy? How could he move so calmly in a situation like this?
He had seemed suspicious from the start, which was why they had struck first. It was a sound strategy. It was an unexpected strike. Neither Encrid, Sachsen, Sinar, nor Finn had anticipated it.
However, these fools had simply failed to gauge the caliber of a man like Sachsen. They had judged him to be, at best, a nimble swordsman.
Without a trace of a smile, Sachsen stood straight. In his left hand, he held the rolled-up artifact. He held it as if it had been his from the very beginning.
They were bandits because they stole from others. Yet they were the ones being robbed? Watching this play out made the leader’s stomach churn.
"Don't you dare pocket that so casually!" the trainer spat.
His voice rang out with a strange resonance—a vocal technique designed to mask the sound of an incoming rush. A sudden shout to draw the opponent’s attention.
Sachsen read the tactic instantly. How could he not? It was a method he used frequently.
Three men targeted Sachsen’s back, while a fourth, suppressing his presence, moved behind them to seize an opening. The gap-toothed trainer sneered. Think you're hot stuff just because you've run across a few rooftops? Dumbass.
Even assassins had tiers. Evading the thrust earlier was impressive, but it looked like pure luck. The second time wouldn't be so easy.
Sachsen did not move. From behind, three needle-sharp blades thrust toward him. Only when they were practically touching his skin did Sachsen move.
Whoosh.
He vanished.
The trainer’s eyes widened. In his youth, he had consumed elf blood, granting him a fraction of the acute sensitivity unique to that race. Yet the opponent’s presence and movement completely eluded his senses. He had lost him.
Thud, thud, thud!
The sound of tearing flesh echoed, and before he knew it, a blade touched his own back. The trainer tried to evade and counterattack. In his mind, he was already spinning, kicking at the shin, and drawing his hidden trump card—a thin, needle-like skewer designed to slash upward. It was a unique weapon modified from an elven Needle.
His mind reacted, but his body did not. Everything was already over.
Why?
The thought was cut short. The world simply spun. His severed head remained conscious for a fraction of a second longer, his optic nerves capturing one last image.
He saw his second 'doll'—the one wearing the belt artifact that silenced all sound. The real trump card. The doll had thrust perfectly at the target, but the expected result did not occur.
The opponent, who had suddenly vanished and slaughtered three assassins, brought his sword down with a sharp clang. A simple movement blocked the trump card’s strike. The needle-sword snapped, and the assassin who had charged in, relying on the artifact, immediately retreated. It was the textbook posture of an excellent assassin—never engaging in anything but a surprise attack.
Then, a dull thud echoed as a body collapsed. That was the end. His vision faded to black. He had once been the most notorious assassin in this region for the Black Sword Bandits, but death was fair to all.
*
Direction, position, vibrations in the air.
He couldn't feel them. This enemy was as troublesome as the one with the Hooded Robe. A decent assassin.
That was why Sachsen used this method: deflect the incoming attack, use the impact to determine the direction, and pinpoint the opponent’s location through the vibration. The rest was easy. Before the opponent could evade—specifically, at the exact moment their blades clashed—he threw a Silent Knife.
The Silent Knife lacked the power of a Whistling Dagger. Its blade was barely the length of an index finger. However, because it flew soundlessly at close range, it was far harder to block. It was a close-range throwing technique known as the Silent Throwing Dagger.
When the blade was painted matte black and coated with specific chemicals, it became an invisible, silent projectile that didn't even reflect light—one of Sachsen’s signature weapons.
The thrown dagger lodged so deeply into the center of the opponent’s forehead that it was barely visible.
There were six attackers in total. The battle had begun and ended in the blink of an eye. Such was the nature of a battle between assassins.
Sachsen turned over the dead man to inspect him and spotted a belt.
This one silences sound.
Recognizing it instantly, he took it. At the same time, Sachsen thought to himself: If it were me, I would have given both of these to a single person.
Ah, maybe not.
If he did, the one holding both might just slit his superior’s throat. It was a measure to keep them in check. Sachsen opened up his senses on the roof. He felt a damp, sinister bloodlust radiating from all directions.
There are a lot of them.
The entire village was a den of bandits. But that wouldn't be a problem. The Black Sword Bandits did not know that while their combat-ready forces numbered over a hundred, they were no match for an Associate Knight. Had they known the identities of Encrid and his companions, they would never have dared to attack. But ignorance demanded a steep price.
*
The moment Finn kicked the sword away, she rolled to the side and raised her wrist. The shortsword she threw flew clumsily, but since a blade was coming at him, the opponent dodged.
He shifted his body sideways, keeping his eyes locked onto Finn. Seizing the opening, Finn triggered the wrist-mounted device she had received from Encrid.
Ping!
A short bolt flew, but the opponent swung his club and deflected it.
Clack!
With a sharp sound, the bolt was knocked aside. The eyes of the club-wielding man burned with murderous intent.
Holy shit.
It was incredibly dim, even with the moonlight, yet he had deflected a bolt in the dark. This meant he fought at least on par with the Border Guard. They only seemed weak because they were compared to Encrid and the independent platoon, but to Finn, they were formidable.
Finn knew her own strengths and weaknesses. She had the advantage in hand-to-hand combat, but she was at a disadvantage in a weapon clash. She had many talents, but in individual tactics, she had to create an opening to close in.
Rolling across the ground, Finn honestly thought she was in a tight spot.
"Look at you squirming," the man sneered, tapping his crotch. "You'd better brace yourself."
If she got caught, her end would be horrific. Fuck, I need to get out of here.
She was prepared to bolt, but she immediately felt a wave of relief.
Took you long enough.
Sinar, who had vanished without a trace, was already opening the throat of the crossbowman targeting Finn. The touch of the elf, who had approached soundlessly, was incomparably cold and fierce.
Splat!
Blood erupted like a fountain. The light faded from the eyes of the crossbowman. Behind the collapsing archer, only a pair of dark green eyes and a short dagger seemed to float in the darkness.
"You bitch!" the remaining man spat.
Leaving him to Sinar, Finn lunged at the third man, who was dazed by the sudden turn of events. Since one had already bid farewell to this world courtesy of Sinar’s dagger, only two remained.
The last man held his dagger clumsily, leaving himself wide open. Finn lowered her stance and charged. The opponent swung his blade downward, but she twisted her body to the side. Maintaining her momentum, she kicked off the ground and lunged upward. It was an Eilkaraz-style Tackle.
She seized the man's wrist and snapped his forearm instantly, twisting the bone at a bizarre angle.
Crack, crunch!
"Aaaargh!"
"Shut up," Finn said, systematically snapping his finger bones next.
Tears and snot poured down his face as his eyes rolled back from the agony. Finn grabbed his neck and twisted.
Snap.
The man with the broken neck collapsed. It was a rapid succession of movements that took place in a mere instant.
Meanwhile, curses echoed from the side. While Finn was shattering joints, Sinar gifted the foul-mouthed leader two holes—one in his heart and one in his throat. The man was on the ground, twitching.
Gurgle.
Instead of words, blood spilled from his mouth. Sinar turned her gaze away indifferently. Specks of blood splattered her pale face, her otherworldly beauty highlighted by the white glow of the moon. She looked like a masterpiece of dark art.
Turning her gaze to Finn, she spoke.
"Things have gone awry."