Chapter 273 - Not Everything Goes According to Plan (4)

Jaxon twisted the instant the blade thrust at his side pierced his clothing and touched his skin.

RIP, RRRIP!

The blade pierced only his clothes. It grazed his skin, leaving a small scratch. Still, he felt something tingling where it had brushed him.

'Paralytic poison.'

It made no difference. He had conditioned himself with all manner of poisons since childhood. Something like this was useless against him.

Even as the thought came, Jaxon smoothly reached out and seized his opponent's wrist. From the attacker's perspective, his arm had been caught before he could even pull it back. Every movement unfolded within a single breath, as though rehearsed.

The man whose wrist he held pulled hard. Jaxon offered no resistance, letting himself be drawn along. That startled the man even more, and he reflexively swung his other hand.

He held a short dagger with one razor-sharp edge, its weight biased to one side for cutting. Naturally, it was poisoned. As the blade swept toward Jaxon's cheekbone, he tilted his head back, letting it pass over his nose. This time, it did not even scratch him.

It was a gap so brief it could be called an instant. Ordinarily, a chain of thought would have been needed to comprehend the situation, but Jaxon's Sixth Sense reduced all those calculations to one.

Instinct and intuition. The realm of the senses. He should have needed to see, react, determine what his opponent possessed, and decide what to do. Instead, he bypassed the entire process.

It was the intuitive compression of perception Encrid had performed time and again. It would be absurd if Jaxon, who had taught him, could not do the same. And so he did what was needed.

"Ghk!"

His unseen opponent's voice rang out in the air. Naturally. While blocking and evading those two strikes, Jaxon had moved as well. His foot had pinned his opponent's foot, and the blade in his hand had stabbed into apparently empty air.

With the sword in his left hand, he thrust diagonally upward. Red blood spurted and scattered through the air along its path. Only after completing every movement did Jaxon realize what his opponent possessed.

'An artifact that aids concealment.'

Nothing could escape his senses entirely without some kind of magic. No, there might conceivably be an assassin skilled enough to deceive his senses. But the thrust had been far too clumsy for that.

Of course, all of this was relative. His opponent was well practiced in stabbing people in the back. He had simply chosen a terrible target.

Blood pattered onto Jaxon's hair and face, but he did not so much as blink. His hair seemed to drink it in. Beneath the moonlight, its reddish brown looked a dull blackish red.

Blood gushed from empty air. The wrist remained in his grip. Keeping it that way, Jaxon reached out, took the weapon from the man's hand, and casually tossed it onto the roof. Then he felt around his attacker's face and whisked off the hood.

Naturally, his hand became sticky with blood, but his composure never changed. He handled the man as though he were an inanimate object. There was something eerily chilling about the sight. Even those around him, coldhearted as they were, felt it.

Unconcerned, Jaxon examined what his opponent had been wearing.

'A hooded robe covering the whole body.'

It was valuable enough to command whatever price the seller named. He worked it off the man. Ties secured it at the front, and another cord inside went around the waist.

'The hood just goes over the head.'

There would be parts he needed to watch to keep it from slipping off when worn. He knew because he possessed something similar. Silently, he undid the cords and collected the robe, then let the now-useless corpse drop as though discarding a stone.

"... You bastard."

Dark figures had emerged one after another on the surrounding roofs, encircling Jaxon on every side. Several more stood below with throwing daggers in hand. Among them, he could also see three or four assassins whose technical skill was apparent at a glance.

The man standing in front, apparently their leader, spoke. He had been too dumbfounded to do anything but watch until now. He had seen all manner of things, yet this felt strange, like watching an entirely different species.

This was killing, fighting, performed without emotion, as though disposing of a worthless object.

Jaxon stared at him in silence. There was no Jaxrais here; his gaze held only a bleak gleam.

Moonlight could evoke different feelings depending on the circumstances. Now it was like a blade, the very embodiment of cold, merciless winter. His blackish-red hair showed no trace of the blood it had absorbed. That made him look all the more demonic, all the more inhuman.

But to be frightened by that would disgrace the reputation the leader had built.

HISS.

Breath whistled through the gap between his front teeth. The leader who had posed as a stallholder opened his eyes wide, tensed, and clenched his molars. His eyes grew bloodshot. He wore no mask. Neither did anyone around him. They had no reason to hide their faces.

Jaxon naturally took that in as information too, recognizing several facts. None of it showed on his face. He remained still, sword in hand, like an inanimate object.

"Kill him," the leader said.

There was no need for a lengthy speech. He trained assassins and was a first-rate assassin himself. He had sent one of the "puppets" he had raised out with an artifact. The puppet had faithfully carried out the order to kill the target.

And this man had stopped it? No, not merely stopped it. He had counterattacked, killed the puppet, and pocketed the artifact? What was he? How could he move so nonchalantly in a situation like this?

The man had seemed suspicious from the beginning. That was why they had struck first, before he could try anything. It had been a sound plan. The attack had come from outside their opponents' expectations. Neither Encrid nor Jaxon, neither Sinar nor Pin, had anticipated it.

They had simply failed to gauge the skill and ability of the man called Jaxon. They had taken him for a nimble swordsman at best.

Jaxon stood upright without a trace of a smile, the rolled-up artifact in his left hand. As though it had belonged to him all along.

They were bandits because they took other people's possessions. And now someone was taking theirs? Watching it happen made the leader's stomach twist.

"Stop helping yourself to our things!"

The merchant and assassin trainer spat out the words. His voice rang subtly in the ears. That too was part of the plan. The shout masked the signs of an approaching rush. A sudden yell would draw the enemy's attention.

Jaxon read the tactic effortlessly. How could he not? It was a method he often used himself. Three men came at him from behind, while another concealed his presence farther back and moved to seize an opportunity.

The merchant with missing front teeth, the man who trained assassins, sneered inwardly.

'Done a little rooftop running, have you? Fucking idiot.'

There were ranks among assassins too. Dodging that earlier thrust had been impressive, but it seemed he had been lucky. The second time would not be so easy.

Jaxon did not move. Three pointed, skewer-like assassin's swords thrust toward him from behind. Only when they had nearly reached his back did he move. He vanished in a flash.

The trainer's eyes widened. As a child, he had swallowed Fairy blood, acquiring some of that race's characteristic sensitivity. Yet the man's presence and movements had slipped beyond his senses. He had lost him. Even his heightened sensitivity could not detect him.

Then—

THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!

He heard flesh being pierced, and suddenly a sword touched him from behind.

The trainer dodged and counterattacked. In his mind, he did. He turned, kicked at the man's shin, and drew his hidden trump card: a slender, needle-like spike that swept upward, a distinctive weapon adapted from the Fairies' needle.

His mind reacted and moved, but his body did not. It was already over. His body would not do what he wanted.

'Why?'

The leader wondered briefly, but no further thought followed. The world merely spun. His severed head lived a moment longer. Its optic nerves registered something.

He saw the second blade he had prepared: the puppet wearing a sound-muffling belt artifact. His real weapon, the second puppet held in reserve in case the first failed.

The puppet thrust squarely at the enemy. But what the leader expected did not happen. The man who had suddenly vanished and cut down three assassins brought his sword down with a clang. That simple movement stopped the trump-card strike.

The spike-like sword snapped. The assassin who had attacked relying on his artifact immediately retreated. An admirable assassin's approach: never attempt anything but a surprise attack.

Then came the soft thump of someone collapsing. That was all. Everything before the leader's eyes went black. He had once been the most notorious Black Blade Bandit assassin in this region, but death was fair to everyone.

'Direction, position, disturbances in the air.'

He could sense none of them. This opponent was as troublesome as the hooded robe. A capable assassin. Not bad at all.

That was why Jaxon had used this method. Deflect the incoming attack, establish its direction, then locate the opponent through the vibrations. The rest was easy. Before his opponent could dodge—to be precise, at the exact moment their blades met—he threw a silent knife.

A silent knife lacked the power of a whistle dagger. Its blade was only as long as an index finger. But because it flew without a sound at close range, it was harder to block.

Thus, also known as a soundless throwing blade, it was both a close-range throwing weapon and an art. An example of weapon and technique combining to become an art.

Paint the blade black and coat it with a few chemicals, and it would not even reflect light: a throwing knife that could neither be seen nor heard. That made it one of Jaxon's signature weapons.

That had ended it. The thrown blade had buried itself so deeply in the center of the man's forehead that it was all but invisible.

Six attackers in total. The fight had begun in an instant and ended just as quickly. That was the nature of battles between assassins.

Jaxon searched the dead man and found the belt.

'This one muffles sound.'

He recognized it at a glance and took it. At the same time, he reflected that he would have given both artifacts to one man.

'Ah, perhaps not.'

Would the man with both be able to slit his superiors' throats? Had they been meant to keep each other in check? Perhaps so.

In fact, they had. The dead leader had used the two puppets to keep each other in check. But no words would come from a dead man's mouth.

Standing on the roof, Jaxon opened his senses. Sinister killing intent lurked here and there.

'There are a lot of them.'

The entire village was a bandits' den. That would not make it a problem. The Black Blade Bandits did not know it, but although they had more than a hundred fighters available, they could not handle a proto knight.

Had they known who Encrid and his companions were, they would never have attacked. But what could they do? If they did not know, they would have to suffer for it.

* * *

The instant Pin kicked her sword, she rolled sideways and brought her wrist forward. The shortsword flew clumsily, but a blade was still coming at her opponent, and he dodged. He moved to the side, never taking his glaring eyes off her.

In that opening, Pin fired the short-bolt device strapped to her wrist—the one Encrid had given her. The small bolt shot out with a twang, but her opponent swung his club and blocked it.

CLACK!

The bolt flew aside with the impact. The club-wielder's eyes brimmed with killing intent.

'Oh, fuck.'

Wasn't it pretty dark? Even with the moonlight, it was quite dark. And he had knocked aside that tiny bolt in this darkness? That meant he could fight at least as well as a frontier guard.

Encrid and the Independent Company might overshadow them, but Pin considered frontier guards formidable opponents. And she knew her own strengths and weaknesses well.

She had the advantage if she could close in and turn it into an unarmed fight. With weapons, she was at a disadvantage. She had plenty of strengths outside combat, but that was where she stood when it came to individual tactics.

Then what should she do? As always, she had to create an opening and close the distance. Finishing her assessment as she rolled once across the ground, Pin honestly thought she was in considerable danger.

"Look at this fucking nonsense."

The foul-mouthed bastard tapped his crotch.

"You're going to pay for that."

If she was caught, things would not end well. Fuck it, she would get away somehow. She had even decided to bolt if things went wrong, but relief soon washed over her.

'I was wondering when you'd show up.'

Sinar, who had vanished without a trace, was suddenly there, slitting the throat of the crossbowman aiming at Pin. The Fairy had approached without a sound, and her hand was utterly cold, utterly ruthless.

With a wet gush, blood fountained into the air. The light left the crossbowman's eyes as his carotid artery was severed. Behind the collapsing man, a short dagger and dark green eyes seemed to float in the darkness. Shadows shrouded her body.

"You fucking bitch!"

The surviving man spat a curse. His mouth was as filthy as ever. Pin ignored him and rushed the third man, who stood stunned by the sudden turn of events.

Three men had been waiting for her here. One had bid this world farewell at Sinar's dagger, leaving two. The last of them awkwardly held up a dagger, leaving an opening. A very large opening.

Pin lowered her stance and charged. Her opponent slashed down. She had anticipated it and twisted aside. Still twisted, she kicked off the ground and surged upward. An Ail Karaz-style tackle.

The man who had been watching blankly had his wrist seized and bent back, his arm twisting to an unnatural angle.

CRRRACK!

"Aaaaargh!"

"Too loud," Pin said, snapping his finger bones one after another.

Tears streamed from his eyes. Snot and saliva ran down his face, and his eyes rolled with pain. Pin grabbed his neck and twisted it sideways.

CRACK.

His neck broken, the man crumpled forward. The entire sequence had taken only a moment.

Meanwhile, from the side came cries of "Fuck," "Crazy," and "You fucking bitch." While Pin destroyed one man's joints and finally broke his neck, Sinar used her dagger to present the foul-mouthed man with two holes: one in his heart and one in his neck.

He lay twitching on the ground.

GURGLE.

He tried to speak, but blood came out instead of words. Thick, red blood streamed down, catching the moonlight.

Before him, Sinar turned her indifferent gaze away without a word. Blood from the corpse flecked her face.

A pale face of inhuman beauty. A few red drops of blood upon it. Moonlight illuminating that face in white once more. She looked like some nameless work of art.

The work of art turned her eyes toward Pin and spoke.

"Things have gone awry."