Chapter 21: A Sudden Intent to Kill

The drizzle fell lightly, soaking the ground where once the bustle had faded away with the onset of night. Though the stone-paved paths still saw, from time to time, a few companions walking in pairs or trios, when the surging clouds swallowed the bright moon, and thunder and lightning ruled the sky, the streets were left with only the youth, alone and solitary.

Loneliness?

—Not at all.

The young Glorious One did not wallow in sorrow, pain, or confusion. Although his bitter parting with Yulia had struck him hard, it was nothing more than a momentary affliction. By the time he regained his composure, he could accept, albeit with difficulty, that his sister had grown up.

After all… in some ways, this was a good thing.

He could not entirely agree, yet it was, at least, Yulia’s independent decision—a proof of her maturity.

If so, as her elder brother, what reason was there for him to feel sadness or despair? It was merely a fleeting inability to accept the change. What brother in this world would not feel gratified by his sister’s growth?

Perhaps, because their parents were constantly away from home, the youth’s memories of those who had raised him were far from vivid, almost insubstantial—replaced instead by his near-obsessive concern for his sister and the responsibility he bore as her guardian.

It seemed as if, from the earliest days of his memory, he and his sister had always relied upon one another.

But… how could that be?

Shaking his head to banish such fantasies, the young Glorious One could not help but laugh at himself. Though those irresponsible parents’ “mysterious disappearances” were almost routine, their days at home were not so few, and the pitiful scenario of mutual dependence was hardly something that could have happened to him.

So… it could only be a misperception.

Amy thought thus, and his steps halted abruptly. The smile that had just appeared froze on his face, but only for an instant—his expression turned grave as water, and his eyes, deep and black as ink, brimmed with hostility.

Trouble.

He wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, silently clenching his fists, his gaze sweeping back over the shadowy, unknowable path behind him, feeling for the first time a sense of being caught between advance and retreat.

His encounter with Yulia had unexpectedly delayed him far longer than planned; he had intended to return to the lower district before sunset, but plans rarely keep pace with change. The spies and informants of the Glorious Ones’ families in the upper district were far keener than he had anticipated, and now he was seen by those wolves driven by gold as easy prey.

One, two, three—at least three assassins in the vicinity?

His peripheral vision swept the surroundings. The question of whether to strike first still lingered in his mind.

Yet there was no time to weigh options—better to risk suspicion from Michelangelo in the lower district than to lose his life here. Assassins from the upper district were not like their counterparts below; their methods were tailored for Glorious Ones, their weapons poisoned, their fighting styles highly skilled, and they excelled at using the environment to set traps.

Even a single such foe would be troublesome.

And now, confirmed by sight alone, there were three—how many more lurked unseen?

So—

He drew his sword as a matter of course, then rolled across the ground.

—He threw the sword.

With a roar that split the air, the black blade cleaved through the curtain of rain beneath the night, and a crimson blossom unfurled in its wake!

Without time even to cry out, the figure hiding in the treetops crashed to the ground, splashing mud and water, and lay still, lifeless.

He was dead—utterly dead.

Yet even then, the young Glorious One felt not a shred of relaxation—for the counterattack, as expected, was upon him.

Sparks flickered, illuminating the long-silent night. The dense rain extinguished the thin wisps of rising smoke. In the invisible time between bullets, heavy lead slugs tore through the endless rain, rending the oppressive air, like raging waves in the sea, like wildfire in the woods, or meteors plunging from the sky, unstoppable and sweeping aside all that dared to stand before them, cutting through the night, through the heavens, leaving even sound far behind.

Unseen, unheard, unfelt.

The counterattack of the money-driven hounds was as elusive and deadly as death itself wandering the dark.

Where could he flee? How could he evade?

Fast—so fast, there was hardly space for a reaction.

Almost at the very moment Amy rolled, the cobbled ground beneath him was riddled with holes, the once narrow street now churned as if by wild oxen, no patch left untouched, devastation in every direction.

Yet the youth was the exception.

No luck involved—amidst the hail of bullets, he was unscathed.

Old muskets were never very accurate; and to maintain stealth, many assassins kept their distance. The combination ruined their original plan: the first round of fire struck nothing, instead creating a landscape of ruined walls and debris, offering the youth plenty of cover, and shrouding the situation in uncertainty.

Even so, Amy remained at a disadvantage.

His unscathed appearance was only a facade. In truth, during that round of distant fire, he had already died once.

—A premonition of death.

Thanks to the order blood innate within him, he returned from hell, bearing the will of vengeance.

Perhaps on another timeline, or in some parallel world, he had failed to notice the ambush until the assassins struck from the shadows, realizing too late that death was imminent. In such circumstances, his options were few—barely surviving the first wave, he was then engulfed by a rain of lead. The assassins, well-prepared, had chosen the best sniping points. The old muskets, though inaccurate, laid down a dense web of fire in that confined space. Even after slicing or blocking a few bullets near his vital spots, he could not avoid the third wave.

The arrows, hidden beneath the blaze, were as cunning and deadly as vipers.

Even though only his arm was struck, the venom smeared upon it clouded his mind and weakened his limbs.

And then… inevitably, he died.

Counting carefully, this was probably the second time in a month he had tasted death.

The sensation of life and vitality draining away was thoroughly unpleasant; if possible, he never wished to endure again the pain and despair of blood running dry.

These chaotic thoughts flashed by in an instant; Amy, in battle, dared not allow idle musings to take root. He quickly gathered his thoughts, seized the brief interval while the muskets were being reloaded, and before the second round of fire could begin, pounced like a tiger upon another assassin hiding in a nearby haystack.

The order blood granted Glorious Ones extraordinary bodies—a fact never hidden from upper district assassins. They were the wings secretly cultivated by those who wielded power over life and death, tasked chiefly with assassinating important figures of hostile factions when necessary. They knew better than anyone how to fight a Glorious One—so the assassin beneath the haystack did not underestimate the youth’s age, nor relax because his opponent was unarmed. Facing the sudden assault, he did not hesitate, snatched up a handful of straw, flung it without looking, and turned to flee.

Amy did not pursue recklessly, his vision dazzled but his mind wary. He had already encountered the assassins’ strange tricks months before, and would not be fooled again—common sense dictated that the fleeing enemy likely scattered rusty nails, or else had prepared hidden traps along his escape route. To chase would be to court disaster.

But doing nothing was not an option.

Unwilling to squander his hard-won advantage, Amy immediately turned back upon realizing pursuit was futile. He retrieved his short sword from the corpse beneath the tree, then used the low shrubs to conceal his not-so-tall frame, retreating slowly.

He had no intention of fighting these desperadoes to the death. Since they had raised such a commotion, even breaking out muskets—a restricted weapon—the city guard had no reason to continue playing ostrich.

Hemtica, after all, was not ruled solely by Galsworthy.

Moreover… whether Duke was involved remained uncertain. With the city lord’s reach, if he truly wished to kill, there would be no safe haven in the city for Amy, save perhaps the Tower of the Supreme held by the church.

As he carefully considered the causes and consequences of this ambush, Amy edged his way out of the assassins’ web—frankly, the hidden enemy behind the scenes had spared no expense. There were three confirmed frontline killers, and at least twenty snipers farther out, not to mention the assassin who had shot him amid the chaos of his death premonition… Such a formation, with calculation on their side and none on his, would leave most Glorious Ones with only a fractional chance of survival. Targeting him, a youth with only a name, neither power nor status, was truly an excessive deployment.

It could only reflect the mastermind’s murderous determination.

Thinking of the mysterious hand behind it all, Amy felt both gnashing anger and a chill—never mind the motive, the fact that he still had no clue who was responsible was enough to inspire terror.

But… this was not cause to shrink back.

Amy had never been a patient soul; he had always abided by the law of an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Even if the mastermind was Duke Galsworthy himself, he would demand justice in return—only now… the time was not yet ripe.

His eyes narrowed, brimming with murderous intent.

When Yulia made her choice atop the Tower of the Supreme, the youth felt as though he had shed a heavy chain from his shoulders, and the torrent of emotion that surged forth was something even he could hardly believe.

In a daze, he seemed to glimpse the shadow of another person in himself, but it was gone in a heartbeat, like—

—A dream, a phantom, a bubble.