Chapter 23: Approaching Death

It felt as if all his internal organs were shifting out of place, blood spilling uncontrollably from his lips. The boy doubled over in pain, his features twisted and contorted like those of a demon from the depths of hell. Sweat had soaked through his clothes without him realizing, and blood was smeared across his hands, his body, and the ground itself, painting his vision in a wash of crimson.

He wanted to die—wanted nothing more than death—

His tightly pressed lips had taken on a bluish hue, and every tendon in his body spasmed without rest. It was the first time Amy had ever borne such a terrible backlash. He felt like a fish thrown ashore, unable even to breathe, forced to endure the agony passively, to wait for the torment to end.

At last, it was over.

He had no idea how much time had passed before he opened his eyes again. He wanted to gulp down fresh air in celebration of surviving the ordeal, but instead instinctively held his breath, peering cautiously between the leaves to survey his surroundings. Fortunately, the backlash had not lasted long; the assassins’ search had made little progress, and it would be at least another minute or two before they closed in on his hiding place. He still had time—enough time to consider his next move.

But his physical state was wretched.

And the blood on the ground and on his body would serve as the most obvious trail.

He frowned slightly. Even with the extraordinary constitution of one descended from the Line of Glory, the blood loss left him weak and faint. Worse still, assassins were acutely sensitive to the scent of blood; the stains he bore would be a beacon, impossible to conceal.

This was a dire situation.

If it were only the assassins, he might have had enough confidence to rely on his advantage of concealment, even though his blood loss had severely impaired his combat prowess. But with the addition of the infamous black warlock, the odds became overwhelmingly bleak.

A cultist of chaos.

Amy was not unfamiliar with the term. He had heard whispers of it during his academy days. Not everyone in this world revered morals, law, and order. There were always some who betrayed the noble blood that ran in their veins and turned to chaos. They scorned all that was prosperous and good, craving only disorder and slaughter, seeking to please the dark, unfathomable will of chaos through bloody rituals and, in return, gaining powers beyond imagining.

They were demons wearing human skin—the greatest enemies of the Line of Glory.

And among them, Black Warlock Alfred was preeminent.

At the memory of that man, the boy instinctively pressed a hand to his left chest, feeling the vigorous thump of his heart. He was not on the same level as Alfred, one of the most formidable figures in Hemtica. He didn’t even know how to begin to defeat such a foe, or how to escape the deadly trap he’d found himself in during the last omen. He still had no idea how his heart had been stolen by the crows. If the warlock's familiars targeted him again, there would not be the slightest chance of escape.

When that time came, not even his own abilities could save him.

The Omen of Death was indeed a power capable of turning the tables, but it always exacted a price. The previous backlashes had been nothing compared to this, yet even then, he had coughed up blood and been left weak for some time. Whether it was Alfred’s unique nature or the fact that he’d triggered the omen twice in quick succession, this backlash had nearly killed him. If it happened again, even if his body didn’t give out, he would likely be left paralyzed for a long time.

Therefore, he could not die.

Nor could he allow himself to encounter Alfred again.

Chaos cultists could perform blood-soaked masses, sacrificing to the mindless, blind will of chaos in exchange for bizarre and mysterious powers. Those called warlocks were a particular group among them, their core abilities rooted in the unknown and the unknowable. They wielded powers beyond human comprehension, powers that could not be analyzed or even perceived. The summoning of familiars was but a small branch—and it was known only because of Black Warlock Alfred.

Humans could not grasp its mechanism, but they could recognize its effects. Unlike the Line of Glory, whose descendants inherited only a single ancestral power, chaos cultists could acquire multiple abilities through bloody sacrifice. Alfred’s powers fell into three main categories, the most critical being his familiars. His other powers—avatar and plague—could only be manifested through his red-eyed black crows. Without question, the familiars were the core of his strength. Through his summoned crows, he had an intelligence network spanning the entire city; with the red-eyed crows, he could spread plague and death, or, as before, manifest his will in the form of a crow avatar to silently snatch away a life.

Thus, crows were considered ill omens in Hemtica—messengers of death.

Alfred’s name topped the city’s most wanted list in the municipal hall. Many of the Line of Glory had died by his hand, some of whom had been men of great renown and power. Yet to this day, the black reaper remained at large.

His caution and his might could be glimpsed from this alone.

The young scion of glory could not comprehend how someone as powerless and destitute as himself could have attracted the attention of such a foe.

And it seemed the enmity was directed specifically at the name Ulysses.

Recalling the final, indistinct words he’d heard before his death, a heavy gloom settled on the boy’s heart.

If he guessed correctly, it was Alfred who had caused his parents' disappearance, forcing him to entrust his sister to the Franks. Even if that was not true, there must be a deep connection between them.

But now, what good did it do to know?

The urgent task was to stay alive.

Yes, to survive Black Warlock Alfred.

Amy clenched his teeth. Since he could not escape to open ground under the ever-watchful eyes of the crows, nor avoid the assassins’ sweeping net, he would have to take a desperate risk.

He gripped the short sword Bloodshadow, steadied his breath, and narrowed his eyes, scanning through the gaps in the leaves for a suitable target.

First, it had to be someone alone and easy to approach.

Second, their build had to be similar to his own.

Ideally, they should be masked.

Not too many requirements, but not too few either. Luck would play a part in finding a suitable mark. To swap places with someone unnoticed, thereby deceiving all, was no easy feat.

Fortunately, fate seemed to be on his side tonight.

It did not take long for him to spot a solitary assassin. He crept up on his prey like a silent viper, and then—

He leaped, the blade slashing the throat.

Not even a sound escaped. Amy eased the body to the ground.

Good, the first step was complete.

He quickly changed into the ill-fitting clothes, masked his face tightly, loosened his joints, and, pretending to search diligently, carefully buried the corpse. There would be traces left in the muddy earth, but under the cover of night and rain, they would not be obvious.

But there was no more time.

He could have done a more thorough job, but lingering too long in one spot would raise suspicion.

So, mimicking the other’s motions, he began to search the undergrowth along the prearranged route. Of course, his attention was less on the empty bushes and more on the assassins themselves, and the occasional flash of red-eyed crows among the branches.

Thank goodness for his swift action.

As the crows appeared more frequently, Amy was grateful for his timely decision. Had he hesitated, hoping for luck and failing to swap places quickly, then once the noose drew tight and his options dwindled, the woods would have been crawling with Alfred’s spies.

The situation was still grim and the path uncertain, but at least for now he had managed to stave off death.

He exhaled quietly, gathering his scattered thoughts.

Danger was by no means past.

For now, things seemed calm, but once the assassins closed the net to its smallest, only to find nothing inside, they would either search again with greater care or begin to suspect one another.

That would be the true test.

Eyes narrowing, the young scion of glory studied his “comrades” as they gathered.

It was a small consolation that these assassins were a disorderly, undisciplined lot. Their mixed, motley garb made it clear that most were strangers to one another, lone wolves. From the wary glances, it seemed old grudges simmered among them.

A chance to exploit.

He mused, and as the circle drew tighter, the assassins began to converge among the trees.

“Nothing—”

“He’s not here.”

“Maybe he slipped out already.”

“Could be.”

“Same here.”

Surprisingly, these killers showed little urgency in completing their mission. It should have been obvious that someone could have infiltrated their ranks, yet among the twenty or so present, not one mentioned the possibility. Amy, standing unobtrusively, guessed at the reason—not that they hadn’t thought of it, but that all chose to ignore it.

Any assassin who had survived this long was no fool. Their instinct for self-preservation was second to none. Their numbers might have seemed a strength, but having lost the initiative and with their quarry hidden, the situation was perilous. Rather than serve as another’s weapon and risk a pointless death, it was better to feign compliance, pocket their fee, and count the job as done.

They had no idea who their employer truly was.

But this seemingly favorable development only made Amy frown.

Black Warlock Alfred was no ordinary man. His money did not come easily, especially when his tasks were left undone.

And then—

Black feathers drifted down, cutting off his thoughts. At some point, a gray-haired young nobleman with heterochromatic eyes appeared at the center of everyone’s gaze. He spun a black parasol in his hand, as dark as the night, and with one crimson eye half-closed, he regarded every soul present.

For some reason, meeting that blood-red gaze sent a chill through Amy’s bones.

He was going to kill.

In the span of a heartbeat, the boy realized it, and held his breath.