Chapter 386: Slacking Off Even in Battle
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 386: Slacking Off Even in Battle
"So, the Dagger of Geor was nothing more than a fool running wild, relying on the power of an artifact."
The long-armed assassin twirled his dagger, one eye gleaming with a strange light—a magic prosthetic eye imbued with mystery.
Since that eye had looked suspicious from the start, it was no surprise that the artifact’s power had failed to take hold. Sachsen remained calm. He glanced at the hole torn in his cloak, a mark left by a grazing blade. The assassin’s arm had stretched unnaturally, tearing through the fabric before snapping back into place.
Even so, Sachsen was unfazed. He remained stoic, both inside and out.
His opponent, however, interpreted his silence differently.
"You seem flustered. That’s why you should have stabbed when I told you to."
It was the white-haired man with the monocle, speaking in a lecturing tone.
"Is there any reason to stay under that guy? Change your mind, even now."
This time, it was a woman’s voice. She spoke from somewhere within the crowd of assassins, her voice disguised and thrown from hiding. She was the cautious type—and a practiced liar.
Even if Sachsen changed his mind now, there was nothing to gain. It was a transparent ploy to make him show an opening.
"What? Stabbed? Aren't you embarrassed to even say that word?"
The white-haired man with the monocle brought it up again, clearly still rattled by the Captain’s earlier provocation.
"Now that you've lost your artifact, what will you do?"
The voice came from behind. Sachsen turned his head. Despite the broad daylight, the alleyway where the voice originated seemed stained with a dull, dreary hue. A man stood half-submerged in the shadows, a specialist in concealment.
It was obvious which technique he was using.
Shadow Walking.
It was a method of movement that involved navigating through varying shades of shadow, a basic skill taught within the Dagger of Geor. Sachsen hadn't used it once since learning it. It was a technique that left the user vulnerable to counterattacks if the opponent possessed sharp intuition or intense focus.
‘It wouldn't even work on the Captain.’
Even Encrid wouldn't fall for such a trick.
Sachsen silently shed his torn cloak, tossed it aside, and unbuckled his belt.
"Giving up?" the hidden woman asked.
"Haha. Well, will you reconsider? It’s not too late. The privilege of the young is the opportunity to make a different choice," the white-haired man added.
"Hmph."
The monkey-like man with the drooping arms snorted in derision. The one hiding in the shadows backed away stealthily, further concealing his presence.
Contrary to their mocking words, a gloomy, sinister aura pricked at Sachsen’s skin. They were all in combat stances.
Sachsen spoke, his eyes lowered.
"I wondered what madman ordered this. It turns out it was Viscount Mernes?"
To force multiple assassin guilds to unite into an alliance, the client had to be a noble of significant standing. Since the request forced these guilds to gamble their very survival, it had to be a noble with real power. Applying that logic to the current situation, it was likely someone prominent in a royal palace faction or someone with unified authority.
Otherwise, these guilds would have acted independently.
Looking at his opponents' choices, Sachsen felt he finally understood the situation. The intention of the client was clear.
‘Someone to whom my very existence is uncomfortable and troublesome.’
That was why they were targeting him with such intensity.
They hadn't stopped Encrid on his way to the royal palace, nor had they lunged to kill Marcus. They had even ignored those heading to block the castle gates. The so-called Assassin Union had chased only him.
They had prioritized his elimination above all else.
Why? Because he was an eyesore.
There were two types of people who sold information on the Black Lily. One was those who found out by chance. The other was those directly involved.
This time, it was the latter. Otherwise, they wouldn't be so desperate to get rid of him.
It might have been different before the situation escalated, but now, the deduction was easy. And having realized the truth, Sachsen felt a strange sense of satisfaction.
Perhaps it was Encrid’s influence, but Sachsen allowed his emotions to surface. He laughed. He let a smile spread across his face.
Seeing this, the white-haired assassin’s brow furrowed.
"Are you going to insist you stabbed me again? Or are you going to make some other absurd claim?"
It seemed he was deeply resentful of being verbally dismantled by Encrid.
Indeed, looking back at the moment before they parted, the Captain had been wagging his tongue as if possessed today, strangely excited about something.
"You said you'd tell me if I stabbed you, and then you go back on your word?"
"That was a stab—"
"Where did you sell your trust! To think you made a name for yourself as an assassin guild in the capital, how absurd!"
"No, that was a stab—"
"Shut up! How dare you wag a tongue that doesn't even keep promises! Even though the scar on my arm proves everything!"
"It's not that—"
"Ha, how lamentable."
"You crazy bastard. Listen to me."
"You cried out in pain, so what are you going to do about it?"
No matter what the opponent said, Encrid had kept talking. In the end, while pretending to offer his forearm, he had thrown a Whistle Dagger, planting a blade ornament directly into the head of a blankly staring assassin.
The fight had started just like that, and the opponent hadn't been able to regain his footing since.
Was it infuriating? Probably. No matter how hard they tried to keep their composure, the Captain always had a way of getting under an opponent's skin. Even Sachsen himself occasionally got heated, so there was no hope for these men.
"You did stab him, though," Sachsen said.
"Fuck, kill him!"
At the white-haired assassin’s roar, they rushed in from all directions. Sachsen already knew there were twenty-eight of them. He had counted them out of habit.
Then, he vanished.
"Huh?!"
The man with the drooping arms, who had been tracking him with his magic prosthetic eye, cried out in shock.
Thuck!
The sound of tearing flesh echoed. Sachsen reappeared deep within the dark shadows of the alley. One of the alliance executives who had been hiding there coughed up blood and collapsed to his knees.
"How?"
How is he not being caught by the magic eye? He doesn't have the artifact anymore.
Sachsen, suddenly reminded of Encrid, spoke.
"Through hard work and training."
It was the perfect answer to the question of "how."
After that, Sachsen’s figure repeatedly vanished and reappeared. The second to die was the female assassin with the disguised voice. She had tried to hide among her subordinates, but Sachsen had disguised himself as one of them before anyone noticed. He drove a stiletto into her stomach.
Stab, stab, stab.
With three fork-like thrusts, her intestines were riddled with holes. Since her lungs and heart were also pierced, she was beyond saving, even if a high priest were to arrive on the spot.
"Gurgle..."
The sound she let out was neither a scream nor a groan—it was her final cry and her last words.
Sachsen kept moving. An artifact? He had only used it because he had it. He had never relied on such things in the first place. It didn't matter if he was without it.
His body felt exceptionally light today. He knew what he had to do, and his destination was clearly in sight.
‘Mernes.’
He had suspected from the beginning that a member of the Lily was a noble. Even if Viscount Mernes wasn't the mastermind, he was involved to some degree. Thus, Sachsen’s path after killing these men was already decided.
The royal palace, where Viscount Mernes was.
And so he moved. He killed them one by one until no one dared to attack him anymore, and then he headed toward the palace.
Before he knew it, the sun had passed its zenith, casting long shadows. Turning his gaze toward the setting sun, Sachsen saw something strange. He saw a figure running across the rooftops, smashing the tiles as they went.
It was someone he knew, though he didn't bother to acknowledge them.
*
The fight began with Dunchabel. Since she was far more motivated than Ragna, it was only fitting. She moved to the rear and exited through the open castle gate.
Ropode was already deploying some of his troops outside the walls.
‘If they take control of the gate's front, it’s over.’
The difference in numbers was stark. They had to hold the line at the front. With insufficient archers, arrows, and siege preparations, they had to make up for the lack of troops with their own strength and bodies. Of course, all of this depended on the ten enemies who had stepped forward being blocked first.
‘If only they can hold out.’
Ropode didn't even expect them to slaughter everyone. In his eyes, Dunchabel came into view as she stepped forward. She scanned the ten blocking her path and smiled.
It was an innocent-looking smile, like a young woman who had just arrived from the countryside. Of course, she was no country girl, and her smile held no innocence. She was simply putting into practice what she had learned from Encrid.
Valen-style Mercenary Sword: The Smiling Face.
She had adapted the technique Encrid had used on her multiple times, making it her own. This was the marvel of her talent. There was no hesitation in her digestion or execution of a technique. While Rem had beaten her to improve her physical foundation, the actual mastery of the techniques was Dunchabel’s own work.
That work was now bearing fruit.
"What is this?"
While one of the mercenaries spoke casually, the beastman kicked off the ground and leapt. Her feet, swift as a leopard’s, dug into the enemy ranks. Closing the distance in an instant, she reached a soldier in the front who froze, unable to even lift a finger.
A scimitar fell toward his head.
Thud, crack!
As she crushed his skull with a snap strike, the soldier next to him thrust his spear. Since it was a purely reflexive movement devoid of real power, she dodged it with a simple tilt of her neck. Then, pressing her shoulder to her cheek, she snatched the spear shaft between her neck and shoulder, spun around, and wrested the weapon away.
"...Ah."
The disarmed soldier let out a dumbfounded sound. He didn't die, because Dunchabel dropped the stolen spear and immediately dashed forward.
"Block her!" the enemy commander shouted, finally snapping out of his daze.
Two of the warriors in the front moved. They were two who wouldn't lose to anyone when it came to speed, yet they could barely keep up with Dunchabel’s rear.
"Out of the way!"
As she dashed forward, partially transforming into her beastman form, the soldiers parted to make way. They weren't a disorganized rabble, but they weren't elite soldiers either. Viscount Mernes’s army was essentially a collection of various disparate forces—a force that barely possessed a chain of command.
Tearing through them, Dunchabel leapt, stepping on the soldiers' shoulders and heads while swinging her scimitar. Charging forward, she reached her target and swung her blade mercilessly. She didn't slash; she spun the hilt and struck with the back of the blade.
Bam! Crack.
The enemy had prepared three mangonels. The main frame of one of them cracked with a loud snap.
Dunchabel knew that their side’s advantage lay in the castle walls. She had spent years wandering the continent as a mercenary, seasoned in all kinds of warfare. She knew she had to eliminate the greatest threat first.
Lulling them into a false sense of security with a smiling face, and then charging—it was a simple but highly efficient strategy.
"Are you crazy?"
An opponent closed in right beside her. It was one of the ten from the front. He thrust a short spear, his hands and feet moving with impressive speed. Dunchabel struck the spearhead with her scimitar, slammed her left foot onto the ground with a heavy thud, and spun her body. She acted as if she was going to lunge straight at him.
The opponent backed away to create distance. Another warrior chasing behind her took a similar position, catching Dunchabel’s rear.
"Let's settle this," Dunchabel said, then threw her body in the opposite direction. It was an abrupt, erratic move.
Naturally, it was something she had learned from Encrid.
Valen-style Mercenary Sword: Acting in Reverse.
It was a trick of throwing out words with momentum and then moving in a way that completely shattered expectations. The goal? To achieve her objective more easily.
Destroying the mangonels came before fighting these two.
The two pursuing mercenaries momentarily tripped over their own feet. What the hell is that? The beastman, who seemed quite skilled, was using all sorts of petty tricks.
Compared to Encrid or Rem, fooling these two was child's play. Dunchabel was thoroughly enjoying herself. She was even somewhat excited; it had been a very long time since she had fought opponents weaker than herself.
As Dunchabel caused havoc, the enemy main force lunged forward.
"Kill them all!" the man in the one-horned helmet shouted.
His name was Yon, a first-class warrior from the East.
Before him, a blonde man approached. He walked with leisurely, plodding steps. Even as the Viscount’s army pushed forward in response to the shout, he was overflowing with composure. Even as arrows began to fly overhead, he remained calm, as if the battle had nothing to do with him.
Ragna, resting a thick, long sword over his shoulder, spoke.
"Come at me all at once. It’s a pain."
"You..."
Yon of the one-horned helmet did not get agitated. Instead, he raised his favored weapon—a glaive. The blade at its tip cast a blue gleam. Valerian steel.
Ragna looked at it, idly wondering what it would be like to take it and melt it down.
"We go together," Yon said.
Some of his men frowned at the order, but no one protested. By all appearances, the opponent looked formidable.
"Time is on our side. Take him down slowly," Yon commanded.
They did as they were told. One mercenary whirled a rattling chain over his head before thrusting it forward. Driven by centrifugal force, the sharp weight flew straight toward Ragna’s head.
Clang.
Ragna, who had lowered his sword diagonally at some point, deflected the weight. The heavy iron mass looked more than capable of crushing a human skull to pieces.
"Get him!"
Struggle, battle, blood, combat—Yon loved it all. He dashed forward to witness the carnage firsthand. Charging, he drove his glaive down vertically with speed and power that made the air whistle.
Boom!
The opponent deflected it. Simultaneously, a warrior from the Viscount’s army beside Yon thrust his spear. The flexible, whipping shaft of the spear moved unpredictably.
Ragna’s sword deflected the glaive and struck away the whipping spearhead in a single motion.
Clang!
The spear bounced aside. Even though he had blocked three attacks starting from the chain weight, the next one followed immediately. It was another spear, this one thrusting forward with sheer, linear power. It was a different man, one confident in his own strength.
Ragna deflected it with his swift, heavy sword.
Clang!
The sound of clashing metal rang out.
After finishing one exchange, Yon grasped his opponent’s skill level. The man was a monster.
And Ragna? He was defending because he had been told to, but in truth, he had no motivation. He fought half-heartedly.
The reason for his lack of motivation? He didn't even bother to think about it. It was just his daily routine. If he set his mind to it, he could kill them all, but he would have to take risks. He might even sustain minor injuries.
Was there any need for that? No. The genius who had lost his purpose slacked off even while fighting.
Perhaps it was also because he had exerted too much effort lately. Because he had been moving so actively recently, he felt all the more unmotivated now.