Chapter Six: The Killer in the Foggy Night

In the deepest hour of night, the Black District, the White District...

As far as intelligence goes, tonight’s harvest was abundant; yet how much of it was true, and how much false, tainted by ambiguous, half-real reports, remained to be seen. To accept everything at face value, to mimic others without questioning the truth hidden in their words, would mean certain death in the intricate circumstances of the deepest night.

Moreover—

Amy narrowed his eyes: Ignatius was not to be trusted.

A returnee who, thirty years ago, was granted an audience with the city lord, whose arrival stirred all of Hemtica, now lived alone in a dilapidated house on the brink of collapse—if that could be explained by some unspoken reason, then how was it that he so easily obtained answers from the old man that not even Hemtica’s former glory seekers could acquire? Was it not too simple?

The old man attributed his isolation to a hatred of the world, born from his demonic transformation; this answer was delivered, intentionally or not, between the lines. It was a plausible reason, yet the youth’s suspicious temperament rebelled against accepting it. Many were interested in the dark world beyond the flames; why then was he, of all people, the one to receive the answer, through a process devoid of struggle?

Everything had been too smooth.

And deliberate.

Yes, deliberate—though Amy had heard of a traveler in the lower district who crossed the darkness, the specifics—who, where—were always beyond his reach. Then, by chance, the information broker Willie appeared, bringing news of the legendary traveler Ignatius. Coincidence, too, played a part in Amy’s decision to visit the old man tonight; had he not learned from Willie that the traveler’s life was waning like a candle in the wind, and that tonight the lower district would be embroiled in chaos, he would never have dared come.

What did Willie, who called himself an information broker, want from Amy, and what role did he play in tonight’s encounter?

Amy was wary.

Even if everything was accidental, a product of his own overthinking, he could not afford to lessen his vigilance.

Yet, no matter how heavy his suspicion, he never doubted that the Ignatius he met was genuine. To impersonate a man might not be difficult, but to pass for a glory seeker—a traveler who carved a path through the demons—was no simple feat. First, the resonance from the bloodline of order could not be forged; second, the darkness Amy sensed from the old man was the same as that which once drove him back, but even more potent.

The man was real, but the truth of his message was harder to discern.

Of course, he could not rashly deny everything; whether his suspicions were grounded or not, even if he guessed correctly at some hidden plot, lacking sufficient information, he could not tell if the intent was benign or malicious. If it was malice, what could he possibly possess that would attract a glory seeker’s schemes? The city lord’s friendship? Hardly. Judging from Ignatius’s clean rejection thirty years ago, he held Galsworthy in little esteem.

So all he could do was be cautious—cautious, cautious, and more cautious.

No matter what, prudence was never wrong.

Thinking thus, Amy’s steps halted abruptly. With a flick of his wrist, a dark red short sword ripped through his suit’s sleeve, his body leaning forward in a sudden, awkward motion—a brief, conspicuous pause in his otherwise fluid movement. Then, like a storm, he spun, his arm swinging through the cool mist, casting a crescent arc. Blade met blade, cold light against cold light, and fiery heat burst forth in the darkness.

The sharp blade cleaved the silent, frigid night; two swordsmen’s gazes crossed, blackness confronting blackness. Neither spoke a word, neither hesitated. Action replaced speech—their deadly blades parted in an instant, then reunited like lovers desperate after a brief separation.

Clang!

Metal rang out; sword met sword with no flourish, only the harsh rasp of steel as both parties locked in a contest of strength. Yet, contrary to Amy’s expectations, he found himself at a disadvantage, his ancestral bloodline unable to overcome the assassin’s deadly scimitar, which pressed ever closer—each inch bringing the mask into sharper focus, a grotesque face both laughing and weeping, as the shadow of death drew near.

Not good.

Though his heart trembled, Amy’s face betrayed nothing, nor did his narrowed eyes reveal any turmoil. Only the faint tremble of his blade hinted at his strain.

This couldn’t continue.

To yield would mean losing the initiative entirely; to persist would not reverse his disadvantage. What he needed now was—

His eyes sharpened, his foot stomped, and a flash of sparks burst between short sword and scimitar. Rather than retreat, Amy lunged forward with sudden force, crashing into his foe, then reversed his grip to free his blade and swung it at the assassin’s neck, breaking open a new situation.

But the opponent was equally swift. Though limited by reach, unable to counter with the scimitar, the masked assassin would not simply accept his fate. In a split second, he sidestepped, eased his grip, caught Amy’s forearm, and before the blade could strike, drove his knee into Amy’s abdomen—a defensive attack that neutralized Amy’s offensive.

Even a glory seeker, inheritor of sacred blood, was ultimately flesh and bone. Struck so abruptly, Amy’s body reflexively doubled over; but before the pain could register, he rolled away, narrowly escaping a beheading blow, then scrambled to his feet, grasping his short sword, facing the incoming flash with unyielding resolve.

Retreat, retreat, retreat—

On one side, fierce resistance; on the other, steady withdrawal. Amy, unfazed by adversity, wove a dense net with his blade, his steps tracing a neat line on the dusty ground. Defending, he gradually absorbed his disadvantage, accumulating the smallest chance for victory.

He was in no hurry, or rather, the urgency was not his.

In combat, it was undeniable that his earlier misjudgment left him at a disadvantage, but life and death were decided by more than battle alone. Assassination, being an unlawful, destructive act, carried dire consequences if discovered by the patrols.

The lower district’s patrols might lack the firepower of their upper district counterparts, but numbers could restrict the killer’s actions, affording Amy more opportunity.

Thus, the longer the fight lasted, the better for him.

The assassin seemed to realize this, and after prolonged failure, he did not press the attack. Instead, he stepped back, ended his futile assault, and after studying Amy with cold, black eyes, vanished into the mist.

Amy did not pursue, only watched the direction of departure in silence.

Who sent him? Was it Lord Galsworthy, Emperor Michelangelo, or... Ignatius?

All were possible. Lord Duke Galsworthy was never a magnanimous man; to expect compassion from him was less likely than placing hope in some mythical prophecy. Emperor Michelangelo of the lower district could easily suspect Amy over the death of Paul the Giant, viewing tonight’s assassination as a test. As for Ignatius, the enigmatic traveler’s motives were unknown, but the timing of the assassin’s actions seemed suspiciously coincidental.

Of course, these were mere guesses. With the intelligence at hand, no answer could be deduced. After a brief silence, Amy carefully concealed his sword at his waist, pressing the matter to the back of his mind. He tidied his disheveled appearance and resumed his journey home—though whether by intention or instinct, his right hand hovered uncertainly three inches from his waist at all times.

Perhaps it was vigilance against the assassin’s return, or perhaps not, but it mattered little now, because—home was near.

Though he called it home, Amy felt little attachment to the place; it was merely a shelter purchased for a hundred gold tolars, where he had briefly lived, nothing more. It could not compare to the old house, where, though he lacked warm memories with his parents, at least, at least, he had Yulia’s company.

Thinking of the sister he had not seen for some time, Amy sighed. It was the way of things—unlike the upper district, the lower lacked order and law. The glory seeker’s status was little more than a troublesome title; bringing her here would risk her safety, and if anything happened, he would never forgive himself.

He shook his head, pushing away troubling thoughts, fished a ring of keys from his pocket, turned the lock, and the door creaked open. But what greeted him was—

A flash of steel.

And, reflected in the blade, the grotesque mask, laughing and crying.

It was him!

This blow—

—no escape, no defense!

For the first time, Amy’s face changed.

Then—

—the fatal blade descended.