Chapter 76
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 76
Chapter Title: One Stroke (Gore Warning)
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'Even though she can be frustrating at times... she gets the job done with real boldness.'
The time we had been given was far too short.
Eclair's decision to exclude any collaborators had been the right call.
The very next day.
Despite the physical distance, our search through likely hotspots led us right to Cutler Duer.
Thanks to the timely intervention of imperial intelligence agents that day, we even confirmed the survival of the knight order under his command.
And on top of that, we got prime intel: after finishing dinner outside, Cutler Duer almost never leaves his mansion.
Just looking at the knights under the traitor—broadly, their face shapes, hairstyles, and builds. More finely, their preferred smokes, tastes in food, and behaviors—everything had changed. The agents had been struggling for ages to pin down identities using dusty old records.
The quality of the intel we finally received was top-notch. So much so that the ticking clock faded from our minds.
According to the reports.
Shockingly, for over a decade, not a single deserter or casualty in Limno. They'd set up roots there and stayed put.
Their outward appearance and daily lives had drifted light-years from their past as the 'Empire's Honorable Knights.'
They seemed born and bred in back alleys—experts at extortion, sporting laughable old-school tattoos, or stripping to the waist drunk and harassing passing women.
In Limno's underbelly, they'd abandoned even the knight's sword and been reborn.
Now they wielded knuckles or daggers more deftly than swords, and they weren't half bad at it. They'd carved out a spot as a force with real pull in Limno.
And all these dead-end losers belonged to a gang called 'Cutlerus,' headed by none other than Cutler Duer.
With the agents laying the groundwork, it was our turn to move.
"As expected, the only places letting armed customers in are run by Cutlerus."
Eclair finished marking the two maps with ink.
These guys never seemed to tire of their routine: at dawn, they'd gather in their shops and drink till morning.
Not everyone showed every time, but more than half always did.
"What's your honest take on Cutler Duer?"
Even from a distance, the moment we locked eyes on him, sensations rippled through.
Eclair tapped the paper with her pen, eyes closing then opening as she recalled it.
"A scabbard that doesn't sway while walking. A body line held perfectly straight. Seasoned. Mature. Whatever happened to his knights rotting in Limno, he hasn't slacked on his training."
"Hmm... A venomous-looking old codger with plenty of hidden cards up his sleeve."
I knew from the setting docs.
But Eclair didn't. She'd win against him like in canon, but not without big and small injuries along the way.
The old man was no pushover even without variables.
No need to take hits following the frustrating Dreitna storyline now that Chloe and I had patched things up, just to worry my little sister.
"I'll handle that old man myself."
Eclair pushed back at my declaration, but there were no other options.
I hadn't even memorized the faces of his knights besides Cutler Duer.
We agreed: Eclair would finish mopping up the rest and join me, or I'd slip out of Limno first.
One of us sweeps the traitor's underlings without letting any escape.
The other takes on Cutler Duer.
"You know not to rush in the second we link up, right?"
"Once I'm sure we can coordinate after assessing... I'll press the attack."
Even linking up didn't mean we'd both jump him at once—not yet.
Multi-person fights favored numbers, sure, but as individual skill rose, teamwork demanded all sorts of conditions.
And we were the furthest from meeting them.
Me especially. I'd never synced attacks with anyone.
Large monsters? Just hack away wherever. But humans had tight hitboxes.
I was used to crowds, but ganging up on one was different.
No guarantees, but fighters with strong personal styles needed trial-and-error to mesh with others.
Two might work efficiently... or not.
Eclair and I had never drilled together. Our styles were too set in stone for a quick merge.
'If our instinctive sword paths overlap unconsciously... disaster.'
That mistake could give the enemy an out or an opening for a counter.
Better one blocks retreat in those cases.
Me, swinging on pure instinct. Her, peak systematic swordplay grounded in fundamentals.
Had I ever learned structured martial arts? Only CQC from my past life.
Clean teamwork without practice? Doubtful.
I was sick of gambles.
...
...
We plotted routes, assigned sectors and angles. Time limit breathing down our necks.
Moving nonstop, decision day arrived fast.
We took seats on the second floor of the tavern where Cutlerus gathered at dawn for drinks.
The upper level was cramped but open in the center, with a clear view of the first floor.
-Hey, hey!! Clear out!!
-We're closing! Everyone out!!
We'd confirmed it yesterday.
Today, right on cue, Cutlerus's booze-up kicked off.
No set time, so we'd waited blindly—but sooner than expected.
Peering over the railing, a pack of all-humans, no demi-races, swarmed in and claimed tables.
First-floor patrons cleared out like pros. They didn't glance upstairs as they cracked bottles.
The few customers left, and now it was just us two on the second floor.
"How's it look?"
Judging levels, she wouldn't be in real danger.
"No problem."
She picked up a butter knife from the table.
They'd checked weapons at the door, so it made sense.
"Don't want you nicking yourself with junk."
I pulled a sword from inventory stash and handed it over.
"Where'd you...?"
"Adventurers are like this. Gotta have a secret ace."
She chuckled at the familiar line.
....
Tok-
A figure dropped from the tavern's second floor.
She landed feather-light on the one empty table and threw back her hood.
All eyes from the self-proclaimed Cutlerus crew locked on her.
The rowdy drinking noise cut dead in an instant.
No open windows, but a midwinter chill seeped in, goosebumps rising.
"Brunner, Hans, George, Dorunez, Bahoten, Nerai, Islands, Kenwood..."
Her beautiful voice carried a chill like balancing on a honed blade.
Names from the Empire she'd long erased.
Calling out their pasts, they lurched to their feet awkwardly.
Clang!
One smashed a bottle into a weapon. Another gripped a cigar and drew his belt axe.
Someone clutched a dagger; another hefted his own chair.
By experience, each a vet with over a decade under their belts.
Living in Limno, they'd figured this day might come—no lie.
If anything, it felt overdue.
"Red eyes, silver hair...!"
Rumors reached here too. They knew who the Empire sent as executioner.
His spit words tensed every body.
"—By imperial decree, all named here are sentenced for treason."
Finishing the roll call, she slowly slipped a hand into her cape.
In sync, the men bent knees and lunged forward.
"Kill her-!!!"
"Just stab once!"
"Uriya!!!"
"Split directions—charge together!"
Brute force tactic, but ex-knights all: mana-boosted sprints put street thugs to shame.
Weapons at her nose, yet Eclair didn't budge.
Some say it.
Eclair is the kindest grim reaper to her foes.
Most folks mull it in dark, gloomy moments.
'Ah, I wish I could just slip away painless, like falling asleep.'
She makes that dream real like no other.
On battlefields, corpses facing Eclair Dreitna share one trait: their 'expressions.'
Faces unaware they'd died.
Just before her appointment as one of the Empire's Five Knights.
Story from the frozen northern front, clashing with barbarians.
Survivors from that skirmish testified: bodies were eerily plentiful then.
Not agonized death-masks sensing doom, nor eyes closed accepting the end.
Corpses frozen mid-rage at the Empire, eyes squinted in tension as they were sliced, preserving living expressions—strewn everywhere.
Eclair eyed the rushers first checking the tavern door.
'...No one's fleeing.'
Eclair Dreitna's specialty, her true worth.
Iaido that scoffs at basics: to cut faster than foes, draw faster than them.
Click-!
Metal meant to harm inches away, her hand seized the cape's hidden hilt.
Not a skill, no wasted aura.
No arrogance in speed—just her way of seeing the perfect path for one strike.
Shing-
Hand grips sword, legs spread in a slight crouch.
Thigh muscles tense seized, waist pulls and swings.
The blade in slim, long fingers traces one arc.
In one stroke, all slept.
