Chapter 63: The Meeting Ends
The meeting had concluded. The nobles departed, and even Ash vacated his seat. Left alone, Marquis Hallum surveyed the room with a smile.
It was already night. The only light reflecting through the window was moonlight, and the sole illumination in the chamber came from the candle before Marquis Hallum.
Confirming no one else remained, Hallum's face twisted in rage.
"That bastard! Filthy prince! All those troops...!"
He wanted nothing more than to wring the prince's neck. But Ash was still a prince—and a central figure in eastern Ronia. His humanity was utter trash, yet his status held value for exploitation. He ranked first in the line of succession, boasting overwhelming support compared to his brother Erone.
Should something befall the current king, Elron Ronia, Ash would automatically ascend the throne. That was why Hallum had attached himself to Ash... but now it had become a complete blunder.
"At least Ash brought some decent ones. We couldn't hire any Nords lately..."
Hallum knew full well the strength of the Nords. With them at the vanguard, victory would come swiftly.
"Recruitment, though..."
Hallum stroked his beard thoughtfully when the command room window slid open silently, and a black-clad group slipped inside. Cloaked in black leather garb and masks, their exposed skin painted pitch-black, they carried hand axes, daggers, small crossbows, hooks, and ropes at their waists. Optimized for melting into shadows—these were the Dark Guild, the continent's premier assassins and informants.
"You've arrived?"
Hallum cracked his knuckles, glancing at them sidelong. The Dark Guild assassins bowed to him.
"The commission..."
"There's work to be done."
Hallum stared at the flickering candle before him.
"Eliminate the leader of those Nords who entered the city."
Hallum had no intention of "hiring" the Nords. He planned to use them as slave soldiers—shields and blades at the forefront. Remove their leader and crush them with numbers, and they'd have no choice but to obey.
So he believed.
"...Nothing else?"
Hallum pondered before continuing.
"Come to think of it... do you know anything about this nation called Asgard?"
"...Nothing known."
"They say it's on frozen lands."
"The Nords on the continent vanished recently, so we sent men to the frozen wastes... but none returned."
"Dead?"
"Or captured. One or the other. But no leaks—self-termination if detected or seized."
"Can you gather intel?"
"Difficult now. If compromised, their guard will be ironclad."
"Hmm... I see."
"More time needed to probe."
"Pity. Anyway, I entrust it to you. Need reinforcements?"
"None required. Even the hardy succumb to ambushes when drunk and asleep."
"If you can't seize the leader...?"
"...Then we kill them all."
No loose ends. That was the Dark Guild's way. Besides, Nords specialized in battle or not, asleep in drunken stupor made ideal targets. A silent dagger to the heart before they sensed a thing.
"Good. Count on you."
The assassins bowed and slipped out the window. Hallum shook his head at the sight.
"Could use the door... Anyway, if things go awry..."
He gazed back at the candle.
"Eliminate them all. No loose ends."
Hallum blew out the flame.
A dark night. The gate guards yawned in drowsiness. Overwhelmed by fatigue and hunger, they leaned on their spear shafts, dozing off.
'When will this damn war end? I'm starving... When will my illness heal...? Some guy died of a cold... Hope I'm not next.'
The soldier was gripped by anxiety. He wanted rest, but it was denied. His body felt limp and heavy, pricked by needles yet stiff with knotted muscles. Nose and throat clogged like with phlegm, breathing labored. Even his mind fogged, standing a chore.
He peered ahead through blurred vision.
"...Wha...t?"
A group approached. A procession. Refugees? No—their attire was too unfamiliar. Black-and-white garb split left and right. Torches in hand, swords at waists, faces veiled in cloth and masks.
The soldier jolted alert at the mysterious band. He reached for the bell, but a comrade stopped him.
"Wha...?"
"...Wait."
The soldier eyed the approaching line. Uniform garb. And at center, a woman in black-and-white dress and veil stood out sharply.
"No way...?"
"What're you doing? Sound the alarm! They're suspicious!"
"...It's the Black-and-White Order."
"Bla... what?"
"The Black-and-White Order! Procession led by the Death Angel!"
The soldier gaped at the line. They all knew the Death Angel tales—tavern gossip lately. Goddess summoning plague. Her followers, the Black-and-White Order, a mobile cult. But mere rumors—he hadn't believed them real!
"Then sound it! She's the plague goddess!"
"Idiot? That's nonsense! Plenty other rumors!"
"Like what?"
"Banishing plagues, healing wounded, redeeming sinners!"
"......"
"Open the gate."
"You're mad? Do you know who—!"
As the guards bickered, the procession reached the gate. More atop the walls, at the gate—none rang bells or shouted. They just eyed each other warily.
The line exuded an eerie aura. None realized it stemmed from the unconscious skill Charm.
The procession halted harmlessly. Guards swallowed dryly.
"Wh-who goes there! State your business!"
A sickly soldier, barely standing, mustered courage and approached cautiously. A Black-and-White devotee replied coldly.
"We seek entry. Open the gate."
Female voice, utterly flat.
"By whose order!"
"The Goddess is weary. Refuse... and."
Her hand drifted to her sword. Guards tensed, raising weapons.
Then the black-and-white dressed woman approached—neatly interwoven black and white hair, face veiled. She stepped forward, extending a hand to the guard.
"Wh-what...?!"
As he recoiled, white light flowed, absorbing into him.
"...?!"
Limp heaviness lifted; fogged mind cleared. Chill body warmed; pallor flushed healthy.
"What... is this?!"
Even costly meds failed. Half his fortune on trusted recommendations—useless. Yet she cured him effortlessly.
'Magic...?'
But even magic—was it this potent? Life-or-death mattered; he'd researched cures. Magic healed wounds, not diseases. Or if so, never this instant. Even holy monks used potions for ills, not magic!
This was like...
"A miracle...?"
The woman tilted her head at his murmur.
"May we enter? I want to heal the others."
The soldier trembled, kneeling. Tears streaming, hands clasped in prayer.
"An-angel...! Th-thank you! Thank you! Truly, thank you!"
"...!"
Guards gawked at their kneeling comrade. Calling anyone but Azelan followers gods or angels was blasphemy—heretic inquisitors would judge.
"...What now?"
"...You saw. He was dying—now fine as lie."
"A miracle?"
Guards whispered warily. Unbelievable, even witnessed. Not enough to trust blindly.
The woman spoke again.
"Will you open?"
"......"
"Can't eat more. Urgh...!"
Gripping his gut in churning agony, Kudan clutched his belly. Heroic fairy-tale physique or not, alcohol felled him—face ashen.
"...Still... can... urk..."
The Berserk Warriors reached for cups, then slumped, heads thudding tables. The boisterous hall fell silent. Vomit and stale booze stench everywhere. Nearly nude, over a hundred men sprawled haphazardly.
Loki lifted Salat—eyes spinning, head on table—and dangled her to Aum like a kitten by the scruff. Aum took her with a subtle grimace.
"Put this one to bed."
"Understood."
Aum nodded, carrying Salat away. To a lavish single room—Hallum's courtesy. Spacious, ornate bed with frills. Beside it, a candle wafting odd scent—like expensive perfume. Subtle, soft allure.
Aum scanned, clicking his tongue.
'Complicates things. Need pretext... or fabricate one.'
He laid Salat on the bed, covering her. She groaned miserably, exhausted.
'Dark elves weak to booze? Never thought I'd link with one. What has Loki been up to?'
Questions swirled, but master's path unquestioned. He served the Constellation alone.
Judging safe, Aum closed the door softly and left.
Then, beneath Salat's bed, two pairs of eyes opened.
Dark room. Cloyingly sweet scent. Salat groaned awake.
"Ugh... what stench!"
Elf nose wrinkled. Headache-inducing for her keen senses. Nausea surged; she clamped her mouth.
Dazed, eyes open—someone seized her throat, pinning her down.
"...?!"
Two masked figures loomed, exchanging glances.
"Not the leader."
"What now?"
"Target's the leader... but eliminate anyway."
"Right. But... elf?"
They peered down.
"Marquis said spare some?"
"Merchandise potential."
"Orders were..."
"Assassinate."
They drew daggers. Blades glinted in gloom.
"She's seen us."
"Can't leave alive."
Salat's eyes bulged; she thrashed futilely—limbs pinned.
"...!!"
"Die painless."
With murderous glare, they raised daggers...
...and plunged toward Salat.