Kaban Binds the Assassin
Kaban had bound the assassin. Meanwhile, Marhal had been maneuvering a stone and a dagger through the air this way and that.
"What are you doing?"
"Hm. It's just a bit intriguing."
"Isn't this your magic, Marhal-nim?"
"Not to this extent."
Marhal's wind was too weak for direct use in combat. It was iffy even against ordinary folk as an offensive tool, and in fights between superhumans, it could only assist with movement at best. That was why Marhal preferred to rely on his leather cord in battles whenever possible.
But this wind was different. It was strong enough for direct combat application. Just moments ago, it had physically restrained a superhuman's body.
The history of the land, perhaps.
Beyond the power Marhal himself wielded, some external force was influencing his magic. He pictured it in his mind: the history of sandstorms sweeping over land ravaged by demons.
Marhal was indeed the landlord of this territory, but he hadn't accumulated enough to harness the land's history to that degree. He hadn't even stayed here long, nor built any special legacy on it.
That bullshit my damn brother-in-law spouted.
The nonsense about the world reaching a higher dimension. The man had such a unique perspective that he often spoke in riddles only he understood. Marhal usually only grasped the meaning after lengthy explanations or once events unfolded.
Knights slicing distant objects. Humans turning into demons. Landlords wielding the history of kingdoms with over a century behind them, all in under a decade. Now it clicked.
Humanity had gained access to realms once unreachable—faster, easier than before.
'Easier to accumulate'—that rings true.
Craftsmen would forge superior goods. Mages would conjure mightier spells. Superhumans would embody deadlier mysteries.
The world has reached a higher dimension.
It perfectly described the phenomenon unfolding now.
Good fortune or ill omen?
Marhal was undeniably talented. Certified by four inhuman beings, no less—it was certain.
But obstacles blocked his growth in droves. As he'd seen in that space where he met Mar, the history Marhal carried was far from simple.
Marhal had stood at the epicenter of slaying the Demon King—killing half the world. That history clung to his body. It defined Marhal the man.
Even an ordinary person amassing such history would become a monster capable of crushing high knights with a flick of the finger.
Yet Marhal poured it all elsewhere. He was using his own history to seal the demons' legacies. The Bachea Empire's—and the West's—histories served as the medium.
If Marhal's history was the box and the demons' the item to seal, then the Bachea Empire's history was the iron chains wrapping it tight. All Marhal could wield was a fraction of those chains' power.
His own history seemed bound alongside them, limiting his personal growth as well.
Now, with access to the land's history making unreachable heights attainable, Marhal could grow too. He didn't even need to obsess over his own development. Mastering the territory's history like this would let him resolve most issues on his land smoothly.
Definite good fortune for him.
The ill omen?
It doesn't apply just to me.
In time, the Duchy, Holy Empire, and Empire would notice the shift. Accumulated history wasn't light. The Holy Empire and Empire had stockpiles they couldn't—or wouldn't—use, but the Duchy couldn't be dismissed. Currently stagnant, it still brimmed with martial legacy. Numerous survivors of demon wars lurked there—not just knights.
The Duchy suffered severe gender imbalances from the conflict. Nearly every man around thirty had fought demons, carrying that history. If that potential ignited in this changed world?
If the Empire and Holy Empire began tapping their dormant histories?
Disaster for Marhal and the entire West.
Marhal dismissed the wind. The dancing stone and dagger clattered to the ground. He retrieved one dagger by hand.
"A special thread and a technique for drilling a tiny hole in the dagger hilt. Assassins use weapons like this."
The Thief had rifled noble libraries for her growth, even knowing Anche warriors' arms. Every notable eastern assassin guild had endured her covert visits.
"Black Finger's main turf was the Duchy and Holy Empire, right? No reason for them around here. If it's a commission, better gigs abound. If not... the West looked ripe?"
"Who are you?"
"The reaper who'll drag you all to hell. Kaban, kill him."
"Right now?"
Kaban double-checked. Even he, knowing Marhal's origins, still breathed. He didn't grasp Marhal's criteria for sparing or slaying lives. But this was the first time Marhal had ordered a death so decisively.
"Yes. Now."
"Understood."
"W-Wait...!"
Kaban's sword cleanly severed the assassin's neck.
"Marin, you okay?"
"D-Doesn't look like it."
Marin was drenched in sweat. The poison was kicking in fully. She endured only thanks to the relic's power—without it, she'd have collapsed ages ago.
"Antidote would be ideal, but these guys don't carry them. Take this for now."
Marhal produced a small pill. Marin, barely able to stand, swallowed it hastily and slumped down.
"Feeling rough?"
"Numb."
"That could be dangerous. Hop on my back. Keep your sword."
Black Finger's poison was no joke. Marhal knew the relic was all that kept Marin conscious.
"W-Wait, piggyback?"
"Quickly. Too late and it's trouble."
Marin awkwardly climbed onto Marhal's back.
"Kaban, can you track the footprints?"
"Understood."
"No—check here first. Mind the helmet gap. Take one of these too."
Wind descended before Kaban, tracing a line on the ground toward a narrow alley between buildings.
"Got it."
Kaban swallowed Marhal's pill and lowered his eyepatch.
Kaban followed the wind's path. It led deeper into the city.
No city used every district efficiently. Even the capital, rebuilt obsessively for perfection, had abandoned zones. And people lived there too—in power's blind spots.
Kaban's destination was one such place. Bulk goods generated discards, and dumps collected them.
Is this the West's hidden strength?
Dumps existed in the capital, in Duke Kalaens's cities. Beggars scavenged valuables; the rest burned or buried.
This was beyond that. Shattered furniture, scrap metal, animal carcasses piled building-high.
If assassins—or suspected drug makers—lurked here, ordinary methods wouldn't suffice. Assassins thrived in life's shadows. Only tracking knights or elite squads countered their treachery. Even knights and superhumans fell to blind arrows.
But cities bred one more assassin-hunter: siege knights.
They mastered moving more assassin-like than assassins in urban mazes, codifying it into schools. "Siege" covered wall maintenance but encompassed all city combat, including luring foes inside for trap annihilation—an ancient tactic.
Kaban inhaled deeply. Hidden by full plate, his chest swelled. He unleashed the air from his lungs.
"Assassins! Hear me!"
His thunderous roar collapsed part of the dump. Startled rats swarmed past his feet.
"Surrender now! Yield quietly, and I'll kill you painlessly!"
A glint flashed from the trash. Kaban shielded his face—his only exposed spot, the eyepatch—with his arm. A needle struck and ricocheted to the ground.
Tiny indeed. Could slip through the eyepatch.
Eyes linked straight to the brain. A poisoned needle there felled even an armored knight.
Deceptively perilous technique.
But that makes it hard to wield.
Even hurling daggers precisely took years. Wind-tossed needles? Far trickier. Few endured a famed school's full regimen.
After the first strike, silence fell. Kaban held still. He hadn't squandered the ambush chance idly. Confirmation was key: assassins present.
Hiding spots in a dump are obvious.
Narrow gaps in trash piles. Or burrowed underground. Both shared a flaw.
"A collapse like this would shatter any basement from the shock."
Kaban's sword plunged into the refuse. Pointless alone. But demolitions didn't topple pillars first. Weaken the rest, then drop the supports for total ruin—that was the art.
Underground watchers wouldn't grasp it, but a siege knight's battle had begun.
Marhal raced with Marin on his back. Her breaths came ragged.
Strekl's school turned anything into strength via consumption. Poison resistance followed naturally. Plus, Marin bore Bachea relics. Ordinary toxins failed her.
Black Finger famed for needle arts, not poisons—the Thief's verdict. This wasn't their brew.
Then these aren't their drugs either.
Easily made narcotics like cannabis or poppies fell under city oversight. Even minority hallucinogens circulated via intel in the motley West.
But this new drug? Hugo didn't know it. Highly addictive in tiny doses, flooding markets.
Beyond Black Finger's league.
A mage, then. Hope it's a lone lunatic—not a school...
That might overwhelm Marhal alone.
The city center held a grand mansion—Marhal's home, effectively Hugo's. A steward in a shack lacked dignity.
Marhal entered via the back door. He knew the layout. He opened the door to the medical supply room.
One presence inside, but he ignored it. Only he or Hugo approved entrants.
An unexpected face awaited.
"Dagon. What are you doing here?"
A small table held medical tools. Dagon stood before it, white paper atop, black powder scattered. His tongue extended toward the powder.
"Uh...? Wait, it's not what it looks like. This is all necessary business!"