This Is Why She's Obsessed #6
The morning after Zion received treatment.
Helena had kept vigil at his side through the long night while he slept the deep, unbroken sleep of the exhausted. The instant the sun cleared the horizon she set out for the knights’ encampment. Every trace of her usual gentle expression had vanished; only dark, rain-soaked eyes remained.
“Everyone out. Now.”
The moment she stepped into the camp she summoned every last soul without exception. The measured, considerate person they knew was dead—and no one dared remark on it. Fear held them silent. A single careless objection, they felt certain, would send heads rolling. So the gathered men sealed their lips as if by prior agreement.
“I don’t know who fed Zion poison yesterday. Anyone who saw anything suspicious reports it at once.”
Whether some reckless fool had truly slipped into a knights’ training camp was doubtful, yet suspicion was necessary. Someone had mixed the poison into the dough; that much was certain. The culprit might have been an outsider—or one of the people who had been inside the camp the day before. Helena had therefore mustered every man in the hope of snatching even the thinnest lead.
“Lady Helena. In the confusion I failed to report it sooner… but a body was discovered at dawn.”
“…A body?”
The lead came from an unexpected quarter: the testimony of Randal, vice-commander of the Royal Knights. The instant she heard him Helena dismissed the entire formation and, taking only Randal with her, walked to the place where the corpse waited.
Death had been recent, and the air was cold enough that fires still burned for warmth; the body carried no stench. Even if maggots had been crawling over it, Helena would have laid hands on it without hesitation. She needed every scrap of evidence left by the man who had tried to kill Zion—or, more precisely, the man who had tried to kill her.
“Though it was barely light we summoned people at once for preservation, then called an undertaker to prepare the body.”
A low-circle mage had been fetched so the corpse would not begin to rot; a professional undertaker had cleaned and arranged it. The undertaker’s presence was deliberate—to keep damage to a minimum while the body was made presentable.
“You’ve done well. It must have been hard.”
She answered Randal without so much as a glance, her voice ice-cold. Every sense was fixed on the corpse; the rudeness was unintentional. Randal accepted it without offense. In truth, Helena’s previous humility had been almost excessive for the daughter of a ducal house and a swordswoman on the threshold of Mastery. Her present coldness, he thought, finally matched the image of her rank and skill.
“Heh.”
An ordinary adult man, the sort one might pass on any street. That he had been murdered so cleanly proved someone had ordered the killing—someone of high enough station that the killer’s mouth had to be shut at once.
The wound in the belly was unmistakably a dagger thrust. A longsword would have left a matching exit wound in the back. Its absence meant either a short blade or a half-thrust that never fully entered. The second possibility was empty speculation: in a camp crawling with knights, trying to assassinate someone with a longsword you only half-buried and then withdrew was absurd, and even a normal-length sword would have drawn every eye. More decisively, the thickness of the wound matched a standard dagger exactly. Given the circumstances of an assassination, a blade that could be hidden against the body was the only sensible choice.
Yet Helena smiled at the dagger wound for another reason entirely. The fool had all but handed her proof that a mastermind existed. The mastermind had meant to use this man and discard him; instead he had opened a trail that could lead straight back to himself.
Thank you, you incompetent bastard.
“Randal. I’m sorry, but the training ends here. Apologize to the knights for me and send them home.”
“Yes, my lady.”
He had expected the order. Randal saluted without further comment and left the empty tent. The Krauser household would handle dismantling the camp; he need only march the knights out immediately.
“Hoo—”
Alone, Helena steadied her breathing and traced the wound in the man’s belly with careful fingers. She forced down the heat rising in her skull so she could examine the facts with cold precision.
“Assassination… assassination, is it…”
It could have been the work of one of the Assassin Guild’s hidden branches, or the private soldiers of some high-ranking “culprit.” Knowing both possibilities, Helena weighed which thread to pull first and how hard to pull it. She muttered to herself while studying the wound again.
The weapon was a dagger; the cut was clean. An ordinary person killing another ordinary person never left a wound so neat—trembling hands produced jagged, scratch-like edges. Whoever had left this mark was a professional assassin. Helena, who had seen countless blade wounds and who carried a sword’s blessing in her blood, could read the minute difference at a glance.
“Useful.”
Few people possessed a motive strong enough to want her dead. One face rose immediately. Without evidence, however, she only clenched her fists until the bones creaked; she would not confront him yet. She meant to gather irrefutable proof, seal every escape, and crush him with absolute ruthlessness. For that, silence and patience were required now.
“Time to go back.”
Her prime suspect was her younger brother, Cain Krauser. Others came to mind, yet none matched the strength of his motive. Even now he looked at her with open resentment. So Helena returned to the Krauser manor and sighed as though she had learned nothing at all—softening any wariness the true culprit might feel, and concealing every sign that she was investigating behind the scenes. Outwardly she suggested the case was closed now that the perpetrator was dead; inwardly she quietly collected information and prepared to strike. The first prize she sought was the location of the Assassin Guild itself.
“Zion… I’ll be back soon.”
With the matter outwardly settled, however unsatisfyingly, she returned to nursing Zion with devoted care, waiting for him to wake.
Yet several days later, late on a night when the whole house slept—
“Right behind the market alley, you say? Good work. You may go.”
“Yes, my lady. Excuse me.”
The moment a household agent delivered the information she had wanted, the eyes of the woman plotting revenge glittered with murderous light. Her gaze was so sharp she looked ready to cut someone down on the spot. In fact she did exactly that: sword in hand, she slipped out of the ducal manor unseen. To leave the impression she was sleeping peacefully in her room, she avoided the corridors entirely and leapt from the window—an extravagant little performance. There was no heavy thud when she landed. She touched the ground as lightly as a feather; only the faintest scrape of soles on stone followed. Just before impact she had kicked off the wall, spun lightly in the air, and killed every last scrap of falling speed. It was an exquisite marriage of force and motion, yet Helena had no time to admire her own skill. She vaulted the estate wall and raced toward her destination with the speed of a wild beast.
Here.
The moment she reached the silent market alley she slipped into a recessed corner and examined a particular door. The building, roughly the size of a square tower, was known throughout the territory as an ordinary fruit warehouse. She tried the door. Naturally it was locked. Every member of the Assassin Guild carried a key; locking it was only sensible. The warehouse’s security provided the perfect cover for the guild’s true headquarters—the place Helena had come to find.
“Tch.”
She drew the sword at her hip and flooded it with mana. Any Sword Expert could form an Aura Blade, yet Helena’s was different. Ordinary aura coated the edge like a sheath; hers appeared as a thin blue line drawn straight down the center of the blade—an aura wick, so to speak. At a glance the slender line of compressed energy looked fragile, almost decorative. Those who had faced it knew better. Her Aura Blade was not weak; it was the result of aura compressed beyond anything ordinary.
“Hah!”
A single sharp breath gathered her power and she struck. The cut was so fine it made no sound as it parted the air, so sharp that the thick wooden door fell cleanly into pieces. Helena caught the collapsing panels with her body and set them gently against the wall. Letting them crash to the floor would have wasted every careful effort she had made to stay silent.
The scent of fruit rose faintly inside.
She savored it for a moment, then carefully shifted the stacked crates in the right-hand corner. A trapdoor with a handle came into view—a wooden hatch set into the floor. Fortunately it was unlocked; she was spared the need to swing her sword again. Helena seized the ring, flung the hatch wide, and descended the stone stairs that had been hidden beneath it. Her grip on the sword hilt was so fierce that blood ran down her fingers in steady drops, yet the cold light in her eyes never warmed.
“Wait for me.”
She left her racing heart free and took each step forward. The passage was pitch-black, but with every sense stretched taut she saw as clearly as in daylight. The stairs were longer than expected, yet they ended. In the darkness a door’s outline slowly resolved itself.
The closer she came, the more carefully she placed her feet. She would not fall, of course; the extra caution had a simpler reason. At the bottom of these stairs waited the news she had been craving.