Chapter 207: A Pitch-Black Night (3)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 207: A Pitch-Black Night (3)
Assassination.
The act of killing a target in secret.
When the Kronos Empire declared they would assassinate Roman Dmitry, Kevin had briefly imagined his liege’s death. The lord he served was not a man who would ever fall to an assassin’s blade. Kevin couldn't even fathom how such a thing could happen, but if he were ever forced to face that reality, he would lose his very reason for living.
Roman Dmitry.
His sky.
His god.
The mere thought of losing the man who had dragged him up from the absolute rock bottom of his life made his blood boil with rage.
At first, he had worried about the assassination plot.
But somewhere along the line, that worry had twisted into pure, unadulterated fury.
If anyone dared to attempt it, he would tear them limb from limb with his own two hands. He would set a brutal precedent, ensuring no one would ever dare to even dream of assassinating Roman Dmitry again.
And now, he had found Kort.
The moment the assassin gritted his teeth and tried to flee, Kevin lunged at him like a starving predator.
Crash!
"It's you!"
The Sword of Écorché.
This was the dangerous target Lucas had warned him about.
Kevin closed the distance in an instant. Kort grimaced and flared his Aura. With his body already in such a battered state, Kort had no confidence he could shake his pursuer off. In that case, a head-on clash was his only option. As a 4-Star Swordsman, he was confident he could crush this Kevin—the subject of so many rumors—in a single blow.
Whoosh!
Aura sliced through the air.
Kevin slipped past the strike, closing in so tightly he could feel his opponent's breath.
Slash.
"Ugh!"
A sword stroke sliced cleanly through Kort's leg.
It was blindingly fast.
Kort twisted his dagger to counterattack, but Kevin didn't back down a single inch, maintaining a suffocating proximity. From a distance, they looked completely entangled. A single mistake would surely cost the boy his head, yet Kevin pressed on relentlessly, utterly devoid of fear.
Blood splattered.
Evading Kort's bizarre, continuous attacks, Kevin carved wound after wound into the assassin's body. In terms of raw skill, Kort was clearly superior. Kevin's Aura was noticeably weaker than Kort's, but having already lost an arm, the assassin couldn't fight at his full potential.
Furthermore, his opponent was recklessly bold.
Pursuing him with bloodshot eyes, Kevin looked like a demon hungry for death.
Whoosh!
The attack missed by a hair's breadth.
The screams of the demons echoing in Kevin's head warned him of the blade's trajectory. Even as he tilted his head back to dodge, his gaze never wavered from Kort. It was a fight that defied common sense. Kevin had trained in swordsmanship under Roman Dmitry for barely two years; against a 4-Star Aura, he should have been overwhelmingly defeated.
But Kevin lived in a world outside of common sense.
Following the path forged by Roman Dmitry, he had learned that the power of Aura was not an absolute metric. All humans were the same. Even an Aura Swordsman would die if their head was severed, and his past battles had only solidified this conviction. The foes he had faced before were all stronger than him, yet without exception, they had ended up writhing in pain, their eyes filled with disbelief.
This time was no different.
Kevin targeted his opponent's weakness.
Since Kort had lost an arm, Kevin relentlessly attacked his blind side. He threw Kort off balance and pressed his advantage, leaving the theoretically stronger assassin utterly unable to seize the momentum.
The Martial Arts of the Mad Demon.
Kevin's presence boiled over.
The moment Kort launched a surprise strike at Kevin's vitals, Kevin lunged straight into the Aura, matching the move with his own.
Flash!
They clashed.
Kort's pupils dilated in shock.
He was a step too late.
Even with Aura bearing down on his face, Kevin had boldly chosen to strike his opponent's vitals first. How could anyone make such an insane decision? There was no fear in the eyes staring back at him—only a fierce, absolute conviction that his judgment was correct.
'...We took the wrong contract.'
This wasn't even Roman Dmitry.
Nor was it Chris, who was considered the next strongest. Yet Kevin's strength defied imagination. Unless he was dreaming, Écorché had accepted a contract destined for failure from the very beginning.
Thud.
His head hit the ground.
As Kort collapsed onto the floor, Kevin looked down at him, his eyes brimming with murderous intent.
"If my liege hadn't ordered me to spare you, I would have carved the flesh from your bones while you were still conscious. But don't breathe a sigh of relief just yet. You won't find being alive something to be grateful for."
Those words.
Thud.
That was the last thing Kort remembered.
* * *
How much time had passed?
When Kort regained consciousness, he found himself in a secret room, illuminated only by the flickering light of a single candle on a table.
Pain flared.
He wasn't dead yet.
And if he was alive, there had to be a way to survive.
'Roman Dmitry wants something from me. Otherwise, there's no reason to keep me alive. For now, I'll give him whatever he wants. If he needs information, I'll give him information. If he demands loyalty, I'll pledge it. I must survive, no matter what, to repay the humiliation I suffered today.'
In the world of assassins, once you were seen as weak, it was the end.
Even as he gritted his teeth against the agony radiating from his severed arm, his eyes burned with a desire for revenge.
It was then.
Creak.
The door opened, and a man walked in.
It was Lucas.
Kort intended to observe his movements first, but Lucas didn't even spare him a glance as he laid something out beside him. Kort's eyes trembled. Revealed inside the unrolled leather pouch were unmistakable instruments of torture.
"W-Wait, let's talk first—Argh!"
It started with his fingernails.
One by one.
Lucas ripped out Kort's fingernails with pliers, not even blinking as the man writhed in agony. The torture continued. Once the fingernails were gone, he moved to the toenails. Even as Kort bled profusely, stripped of all his nails, Lucas pulled out another tool to inflict a fresh, unfamiliar kind of pain, ensuring his victim could never adapt.
There was no conversation.
For an entire week, he tortured Kort.
With his mind gradually shattering, Kort eventually lost the strength to even groan.
"...Please, just kill me. Please."
On the seventh day, he abandoned all hope of living. He realized that any thought of survival was nothing but a futile delusion.
Only then did Lucas speak, looking down at the broken assassin.
"Kort. The Sword of Écorché. We have no intention of killing you. Our liege said we need at least one survivor to remember and tell others what happens to those who attack Dmitry. Every other Écorché assassin besides you is dead. And the scars of pain I've left on you will serve as a warning to the world of the price of crossing Dmitry."
He took a step forward.
Pulling a vial of clear liquid from his bag, he poured it down Kort's throat.
"Drink."
Gulp, gulp.
He couldn't refuse.
Having not had a single drop of water for a week, Kort greedily swallowed it all down, even knowing it might be poison.
"A week ago, our liege left for the Kronos Empire. He discovered that Écorché's headquarters is located not too far from the Cairo border. I'm going to let you go now. So..."
He smirked.
Lucas was not a kind man.
"If you want to live, run as fast as you can. Before my liege kills your master."
* * *
The Master of Écorché, Brakan, received a call from his client.
[It has already been a week. Surely this means the mission has failed?]
"Please wait just a little longer. The Sword of Écorché does not know failure. No rumors of a failed assassination have emerged from Dmitry, and Roman Dmitry's whereabouts have been unknown for the past week. It is too early to draw conclusions. Trust in Écorché's capabilities and wait."
[Very well. But keep this in mind: the price of failure will not be light.]
Click.
The communication cut off.
At the client's threat, Brakan felt a wave of dizziness wash over him.
'Did they really fail?'
A week.
Practically speaking, the deadline had already passed.
Although Brakan had already accepted the likelihood of failure, he couldn't admit it to his client. The client was none other than the Kronos Empire. Their Emperor had publicly declared he would assassinate Roman Dmitry; if Écorché failed, what kind of price would they have to pay? They had accepted the contract due to the astronomical reward offered by the Empire, but now he realized just how foolish that choice had been.
Yet, he couldn't give up.
Kronos's contract demanded Roman Dmitry's death.
Even if the Sword of Écorché had failed, the guild still possessed a significant number of assassins.
'From now on, we must cancel all ongoing assassination missions and commit Écorché's entire strength to assassinating Roman Dmitry. Even if we lose most of our guild members in the process, as long as Roman Dmitry dies, Écorché can rise again with the backing of Kronos.'
It was an agonizing, nerve-wracking situation.
Écorché had completed countless assassination missions, earning them a fearsome reputation in the underworld. The fact that their target was a 5-Star Swordsman was not an issue. While it was undoubtedly a dangerous mission, they had deployed an overwhelming force, confident of success.
Cliff and Kort.
And dozens of other elite assassins.
It was a force capable of killing even the King of Cairo, yet not a single one of them had made contact.
He was backed into a corner.
Brakan stood up, accepting that it was time for him to take the field personally for the first time in a long while.
It was then.
Flicker.
The lamp light went out, then flickered back on.
Brakan was alone in his office late at night.
As the lamp continued to flicker, he stepped forward to fix it himself.
At that moment, the light came back on.
And simultaneously, Brakan's heart plummeted at the sight of the mysterious figure revealed in the darkness.
* * *
One second.
The figure's face was familiar.
At first, obscured by the shadows, he couldn't make out the features clearly. But like a bolt of lightning, the contents of the documents he had been reviewing just moments ago flashed through his mind. A new plan to assassinate Roman Dmitry. On the very first page of those documents was Roman Dmitry's face—and this mysterious intruder possessed that exact same visage.
Two seconds.
His eyes widened.
The instant he realized the intruder was indeed Roman Dmitry, Brakan hurled the daggers at his waist and leaped backward.
Three seconds.
All his attacks were blocked.
But it didn't matter.
He had never expected to kill Roman Dmitry with such a simple attack anyway.
The fact that Roman was here, in the Kronos Empire...
Although Écorché's headquarters was not far from the Cairo border, Brakan knew exactly what Roman's presence here implied. The plan to assassinate Roman Dmitry had failed. Men like Kort must have died on the spot, and Roman Dmitry had somehow tracked down Écorché's headquarters with pinpoint accuracy.
If so, this was actually an opportunity.
If he could kill Roman Dmitry right here, he could still achieve his desired outcome.
Four seconds.
Throwing more daggers, he reached under the table with his other hand.
There was an emergency alarm.
If he could sound it to alert the base, the dozens of assassins stationed outside would swarm the room.
Five seconds.
Slash.
"Argh!"
His arm flew through the air.
Brakan's face contorted in agony as he collapsed to the floor.
Blood gushed out.
Roman Dmitry had drawn his sword and severed the arm in a single stroke, moving at a speed Brakan couldn't even react to. His head spun. His thoughts ground to a complete halt. He had known since entering the assassination business that he wouldn't die a peaceful death, but he had never imagined that accepting the contract on Roman Dmitry would lead to this.
This was Kronos.
What kind of madman would invade imperial territory just because someone tried to assassinate him?
"...Ugh."
He groaned.
Dragging his body with his sole remaining arm, he tried to crawl as far away from Roman Dmitry as possible.
He desperately hoped his subordinates had heard the noise.
It was a futile, impossible hope.
Glance.
Roman Dmitry checked the location of the emergency alarm.
"If you press this, your subordinates will swarm this place."
His intention had been completely read.
As Brakan looked up at Roman Dmitry with a pale face...
Click.
Breeeeeeep!
Roman Dmitry pressed the emergency alarm himself, looking directly into Brakan's eyes.