Chapter 54
Ambush of a Mysterious Assailant
The largest church in Bern City.
Polvern Cathedral.
Since it wasn’t Sunday and it was early morning, the chapel was nearly empty.
There wasn’t even a trace of presence except for a woman sitting on the pew closest to the pulpit.
Even she had her hands clasped, fully absorbed in prayer toward the silver cross standing tall on the platform.
Light filtered in through the colorful stained glass high up on the distant ceiling, blending beautifully with the dust drifting in the air.
The chapel seemed immersed in silence and peace.
However, it didn’t last long.
Bang!
The double doors of the chapel burst open.
A rat-eyed man glanced around and strode toward the pulpit.
He wore a silk doublet, tight-fitting tights, and pointed shoes.
A long, luxurious velvet cloak wrapped around his body as if flowing down.
Even after spotting the praying woman, he made no effort to quiet his footsteps.
Instead, he stared at the silver cross on the pulpit and made even more noise.
“Beautiful, no matter when I see it.”
His voice was sharp and laced with mockery.
Though it wasn’t clear who he was addressing, it echoed through the chapel before fading away.
The man dropped heavily onto the pew where the woman sat.
Every movement he made was filled with irritation.
“How long are you going to keep up that pathetic act? You don’t even have faith.”
“I may not have faith, but belief is necessary.”
The woman opened her eyes.
She looked like an ordinary housewife one could find anywhere in Bern City, yet there was something aristocratic about her features.
Her brown eyes weren’t on the man beside her, but on the dust drifting near the window.
“You’ve heard the news, I assume?”
“Varis is dead.”
“Any ideas?”
“It’s a method I’ve never seen before. We questioned and searched thoroughly around the estate, but no one saw anyone who could be suspected as the culprit.”
“What about the writing on the parchment note? Could that Goethe brat be involved?”
“We’re investigating. Nothing certain yet.”
“Impressive.”
“And…”
“And?”
“It seems a swordsman has been taken by Goethe.”
“Are you sure?”
“They say he was dragged away from the slums. The one who took him was reportedly a soldier who used to guard Goethe’s eldest son. Even the gate guards say he was taken in the direction of the Goethe residence.”
The silence in the chapel grew unbearably heavy.
The man said nothing, and the woman tightened her clasped hands.
“Kill him.”
The man’s voice was cold and decisive.
“But… he has a daughter.”
“Kill him. That’s final.”
“My lord Marquis, please reconsider—”
“Weissman.”
The marquis grabbed the woman’s chin and pulled her closer.
“No—Violet. When I tell you to kill, you kill.”
He forcibly kissed her.
The woman didn’t even close her eyes, accepting it expressionlessly.
“You just do as I say. Crawl when I say crawl, bark when I say bark. Then you’ll get what you want.”
“…Understood.”
“You should be grateful I have a sense of chivalry. Otherwise, every time you questioned me, I would’ve stripped you naked in front of the priests and taken you right there.”
The woman didn’t avert her gaze and simply nodded.
The man, displeased with her expression, forcibly lifted the corners of her lips.
“Smile. Before I tear your mouth apart.”
The woman forced an unnatural smile.
“When this is over, I’ll take you as my concubine. Then you can play madam in a grand mansion instead of being a mere pimp. Of course, you’ll be able to take in your pitiful compatriots too. If you want that, do your job properly. Understood, witch of the Revolutionary Party?”
“…Yes. But, Marquis, may I ask one thing before that?”
The woman nodded and spoke calmly, unaffected by his insults.
“Ask.”
“Will we truly secure the city’s autonomy?”
“Have you ever seen things not go my way?”
“…No.”
“Then stop talking nonsense and give your future husband a proper farewell kiss.”
The woman kissed the marquis on the cheek with a dry expression.
Her lips, having barely eaten or drunk, were rough.
“Like a lifeless doll.”
The marquis shoved her aside and left the chapel.
The hands that had been clasped in prayer were now clenched tightly into fists.
Inside the windless chapel, her hair fluttered violently.
“Pallich.”
“Yes, Committee Member.”
A figure emerged from behind one of the pillars.
It was a man wearing a worn cloak, a sword at his side.
“Stop calling me Committee Member. Violet is enough.”
“I’m used to calling you that, Committee Member.”
The man replied lightly.
“You heard what the marquis said?”
“Shall I carry it out as ordered?”
“No. Rescue comes first. But if that’s not possible… make it painless.”
The man nodded at her words.
“Is that true?”
“At least, from what I saw.”
“Huh.”
The captain of the Goethe estate’s guard was playing cards with Carlson.
The reason they were staying here was to prevent an assassination attempt on the captured swordsman.
That’s what the captain believed.
Isaac, however, had secretly ordered Carlson to capture the assassin alive.
“Pull them all out, you bastards… teeth or balls… you sons of—”
Even while groaning in agony, the swordsman struggled desperately to show he wouldn’t break.
All ten of his fingernails had been torn out, yet he revealed nothing about Weissman’s identity or the marquis’s schemes.
Whether it was loyalty or fear, no one could tell.
“Tch, he doesn’t tire.”
The captain clicked his tongue.
“So, according to you, young Master Isaac—just twelve years old—stood surrounded by dozens of hell wolves, stayed calm, killed one, and boosted the soldiers’ morale… damn it, this is ridiculous.”
The captain flipped over his cards one by one, then threw them down.
“I guess I’m dead this round. Did you secretly become a bard without me knowing? You exaggerate just like those swindlers.”
“…From me… you’ll get… nothing…”
“Khng.”
The captain coughed awkwardly as Carlson stared at him.
“Well, that’s how it sounds. The way you tell it, Master Isaac sounds like the hero from those stories my grandmother used to tell me.”
“You were the one who praised his swordsmanship at the training grounds.”
“Swinging a wooden sword in sparring and wielding a real blade against monstrous beasts are completely different things.”
“Believe what you want. I have no reason to lie.”
“That may be so…”
Carlson shuffled the deck, laid down three cards, and dealt two each.
“Being here reminds me of life in Winterband. Sometimes a week felt like a day, and other times a day felt like a week.”
“…It did.”
Carlson understood what he meant.
War, death, pain, cold—
these things distort one’s sense of time.
“You’ve changed a lot since then.”
“Me?”
“Don’t you realize? You’ve become quite talkative. Especially when it comes to young Master Isaac.”
“Well, I’m always around him, so it’s only natural. Looks like I’ve won this time.”
Carlson spread the two cards in his hand and pushed three stacks of copper coins—ten in each pile—into the center of the table.
It was everything he could wager.
The captain of the guard grinned.
“Oh? Isn’t that a bit hasty?”
He jingled his coin pouch and placed the same amount as Carlson’s bet onto the table.
Then, like Carlson, he revealed the two cards in his hand.
They were two cards with ornate patterns.
The numbers on them matched the two cards laid out in the center.
It was the highest-ranking combination in this game.
Carlson’s eyes turned cold.
“What’s with that look? You shuffled and dealt the cards yourself. I didn’t cheat or anything.”
Seeing Carlson’s expression grow icy, the captain spoke as if wronged.
At last, Carlson grabbed the sword resting against the stone wall.
“H-Hey, you’re not serious, are you? Over thirty copper coins?”
The captain looked troubled.
“If money’s tight, you could just say so—ugh!”
His attempt to calm Carlson never finished.
Carlson had already drawn his blade and swung.
Clang—
“Carlson, have you lost your—!?”
Clatter!
A piece of metal rolled across the stone floor.
It was a dagger, deflected cleanly.
Cold sweat formed on the captain’s forehead.
If Carlson hadn’t intercepted it, that blade would’ve been lodged in his forehead or throat.
“They’re here.”
Carlson’s eyes gleamed as he spoke.
Only then did the captain realize the situation and draw his shortsword.
At the prison entrance stood a strange figure.
Even Carlson hadn’t sensed their presence—clearly a highly skilled opponent.
The assailant, standing several steps away, was wrapped entirely in a cloak.
In his hands, he wielded a curved falchion and a dagger.
Scrrrk—
Dragging the falchion along the stone wall, he began slicing through the torches one by one.
Even a mere touch was enough—the ends of the torch poles were cleanly severed.
As the resin-soaked cloth was cut away, the flames died, leaving only darkness behind.
When about five steps remained—
Tat-tat-tat!
The assailant charged at Carlson and the captain.
Clang!
Thud—!
The captain blocked the falchion with his shortsword, but he was sent flying.
It felt less like clashing with a blade and more like colliding with solid rock.
At the same time, Carlson’s sword was stopped by the assailant’s dagger.
The attacker swung the falchion again.
Whoosh.
Another torch went out.
Clang!
Whoosh—
With another dual strike, darkness swallowed the surroundings in an instant.
Clang—
In the darkness, flashes of steel flickered.
The captain could neither advance nor retreat.
Carlson and the assailant clashed in a blur, their blades weaving unpredictably.
The captain instinctively knew—this was beyond ordinary combat.
His experience in Winterband told him so.
Those who fight using mana emit a sharp, distinct aura—like sandpaper scraping against the skin.
There was no place for someone like him in a battle between monsters.
If only he could see something, he might act.
Instead, he clutched the whistle around his neck, hesitating.
It was meant to alert the other guards.
But the moment he blew it, the assailant would surely slit his throat.
Yet escaping to gather reinforcements was impossible—the narrow corridor was blocked by the fight.
Kiiiiing—!
The eerie cry of blades and the sparks flying from their clashes filled the air.
The captain had no confidence he could avoid being caught in the storm of sword strikes slicing through the wind.
No words, no change in breathing—just relentless exchanges of steel.
Panic began to set in.
If Carlson were defeated, his own life would be forfeit as well.
Trapped in indecision, he suddenly sensed another presence.
“Carlson! Carlson! Why are all the lights out—what are you doing!?”
Isaac appeared, holding a lantern.
“An assassin! Get out and call for—!”
Thud!
Before he could finish, something struck him heavily.
His vision flashed white.
The assailant had struck him with the flat of the falchion, knocking him unconscious.
“He’s heading your way!”
Carlson shouted.
Realizing the fight with Carlson was becoming disadvantageous, the assailant turned and rushed toward Isaac.
He intended to take Isaac hostage.
Judging by his appearance and demeanor, Isaac was clearly a member of a noble family.
If he could exchange Isaac’s life for that of the captured swordsman, his mission would be complete.
Of course—
he didn’t realize he was walking straight into Isaac’s plan.
For a moment, time seemed to slow for the assailant.
There was only one reason for such a sensation—
when faced with danger, the body heightens perception to buy time to respond.
In that instant, the young boy’s eyes shone yellow.
Not quite gold—
but something wilder.
Primal.
Goosebumps rose along his arms.
It wasn’t fear.
It was instinct.
A chill spread through his body.
He thought it was just his imagination, but his movements dulled.
As if waiting for this moment, the boy drew his sword.
He showed no panic upon seeing the assailant.
He was already prepared, and even the motion of drawing his blade flowed naturally.
“…!”
The assailant realized he had fallen into a trap.
This wasn’t how he intended it, but he released his aura.
His falchion glowed with a bluish light.
There was no room for mercy.
Clang—!
The aura-clad blade collided with Isaac’s sword.
With a deafening crash of steel, a broken fragment flew into the air.
Isaac’s sword snapped in half.
But it had bought enough time.
As the assailant’s senses focused entirely on Isaac—
Carlson’s scabbard slammed into the back of his head.
Thud—
The assailant collapsed.