Chapter 273

Jaxon twisted his body the moment the blade that had pierced through his coat brushed against his skin.

Thud. Crack.

The blade cut through only his clothing. It grazed his skin but left nothing more than a shallow scratch. Still, there was a faint tingling sensation at the point of contact.

Poisoned blade.

It didn’t matter. Having been exposed to countless poisons since childhood, something like this had no effect on him.

The realization came in an instant.

Jaxon smoothly reached out and grabbed his opponent's wrist.

From the enemy's perspective, their extended arm was caught before they could even think of pulling it back.

Every movement unfolded as if choreographed, all within a single breath.

The wrist was caught, and the opponent instinctively tensed. Jaxon didn’t resist but allowed himself to be pulled forward.

This unexpected reaction startled his opponent, who reflexively swung their other hand.

In it was a dagger, designed with a single sharpened edge, weighted for slashing. Naturally, it was coated with poison.

The blade aimed for Jaxon’s cheekbone, but Jaxon tilted his head back, and the blade merely skimmed over the bridge of his nose.

Not even a scratch was left.

It was a fleeting moment—a mere instant where thoughts would typically process the situation. However, Jaxon’s instincts condensed all those calculations into a single, seamless response.

This was the realm of intuition and reflexes, beyond conscious thought.

There was no need to analyze, react, assess the opponent’s tools, or decide on an action. He skipped all those steps.

It was the same heightened intuition Enkrid had demonstrated countless times.

And as the one who had taught Enkrid, there was no way Jaxon couldn’t do the same.

He did what was necessary.

"Guh!"

A voice cried out, seemingly from thin air.

Of course.

In the time it took to block and evade twice, Jaxon had already moved.

His foot pinned his opponent’s foot to the ground, and their blade stabbed at empty air.

With his left hand holding a sword, Jaxon struck upward from below at an angle. Blood sprayed into the air in a vivid arc.

Only after finishing his movements did Jaxon fully comprehend his opponent’s equipment.

A relic that aids in stealth.

Unless it was something magical, it was impossible to escape Jaxon’s senses entirely.

There could be assassins skilled enough to deceive his senses, but this wasn’t one of them.

The quality of their stabbing technique was laughable.

Of course, everything was relative. His opponent was still proficient at striking from the shadows. However, they had been vastly outmatched.

Blood splattered through the air, landing on Jaxon’s hair and face, but he didn’t even blink.

It seemed as if his hair absorbed the blood, turning his auburn locks into a deep, dull crimson under the moonlight.

The blood that sprayed from the air, the shattered wrist still in his grasp—it all contributed to a chilling, macabre sight.

Jaxon reached out with his free hand, pried the weapon from his opponent’s grip, and casually tossed it onto the roof. Then, he felt around his attacker’s face before yanking back their hood with a swift motion.

It was only natural that his hand became sticky with blood, yet Jaxon remained unperturbed.

His actions were detached, as though handling an inanimate object. It was an unsettling sight.

Even the ruthless figures observing the scene couldn’t suppress the chill that ran down their spines.

Jaxon paid them no mind as he examined the garment his opponent had worn.

A hooded robe that covers the entire body.

It was an item worth a fortune, sold for as much as someone was willing to pay.

He began unfastening it, undoing the straps around the waist and the ties securing the front.

The hood is just for appearance, but it’s designed to stay in place during movement.

Jaxon could tell because he owned something similar himself.

Silently, he untied the straps, folded the robe neatly, and discarded the now-useless corpse as casually as tossing a stone.

"…You bastard."

By then, dark silhouettes had begun to emerge from all directions, surrounding Jaxon on the rooftop.

Several figures crouched below, clutching throwing knives, while three or four visibly skilled assassins stood among them.

A figure who appeared to be the leader finally spoke, standing at the front.

The leader had been silently watching in astonishment, but now, unable to suppress his disbelief, he opened his mouth.

Even after witnessing countless strange and terrible things, this felt different—like facing a creature of another kind entirely.

A battle devoid of emotion or hesitation, conducted with the precision of handling lifeless objects.

Jaxon stared at his opponents without a word. Without Kraiss present, his gaze glimmered coldly in the pale moonlight.

The moonlight seemed to shift its tone depending on the situation. Now, it was a blade—cold and unyielding, embodying the essence of winter.

His bloodstained auburn hair reflected none of the blood it had absorbed, adding to the perception of him as a demonic, inhuman figure.

And yet, the leader refused to feel fear. Succumbing to it would tarnish his reputation.

Hiss.

A sharp sound escaped between the leader’s front teeth. He clenched his jaw, his bloodshot eyes glaring.

He wore no mask, nor did his subordinates. They had no reason to hide their faces.

Jaxon took note of this detail, naturally gathering information without revealing anything outwardly.

Still, he stood motionless, holding his sword like a lifeless statue.

"Kill him."

The leader’s voice rang out.

There was no need for further words. The leader was both a trainer of assassins and a top-tier assassin himself.

He had armed his "puppet" with a relic and sent it to kill Jaxon.

But that puppet had not only failed—it had been countered, killed, and stripped of its relic.

Who the hell is this guy? How is he moving like that, completely unfazed in this situation?

From the start, he had suspected Jaxon was dangerous and acted preemptively. It had been a sound strategy—a surprise attack meant to take Jaxon off guard.

Even Enkrid, Jaxon, Shinar, and Finn hadn’t anticipated the first strike.

What they hadn’t accounted for, however, was Jaxon’s sheer skill and ability.

They had underestimated him, thinking him merely a nimble swordsman.

Without a hint of amusement, Jaxon stood straight, the relic he had taken wrapped neatly in his left hand.

He treated it as if it were his own.

These men were thieves, after all—stealing was their trade.

But to have their items stolen instead? Watching it happen was infuriating.

"Stop acting so smug, taking whatever you want!"

The merchant-turned-assassin snarled, his words laced with anger.

It was all part of his strategy. His sudden shout wasn’t just an outburst—it was meant to mask the sound of those sneaking up on Jaxon.

Three assassins aimed for Jaxon’s back while another, cloaked in silence, waited for the perfect moment.

The leader smirked inwardly.

Who does this fool think he is, playing on rooftops? He’s just a lucky bastard.

But luck wouldn’t save him this time.

Three razor-sharp blades closed in on Jaxon’s back.

Just as they were about to connect, Jaxon vanished.

Pop!

The leader’s eyes widened in disbelief. Despite his honed senses—enhanced by consuming fairy blood—Jaxon had slipped through them entirely.

And then…

Shhk. Shhk. Shhk!

The sound of flesh being pierced echoed.

Before the leader could process what had happened, a blade pressed against his back.

He had planned to counter and strike back, to kick at Jaxon’s shin and unleash his hidden weapon—a thin, needle-like blade designed after fairy craftsmanship.

His mind reacted, but his body didn’t follow.

Why?

He didn’t have time to find the answer.

His vision spun as his severed head fell, lingering for a moment before darkness consumed it.

Even the most notorious assassin of the Black Blade thieves couldn’t escape death.

Direction, position, the trembling of the air…

Jaxon couldn’t sense anything.

This opponent was just as troublesome as the hooded robe had been.

They were a skilled assassin, not lacking in ability.

That was why he used the method he did—deflecting their attacks to gauge direction and using the vibrations to pinpoint their location.

What came next was simple. Before the opponent could evade—right at the moment their weapon clashed with his sword—Jaxon threw a Silent Knife.

The Silent Knife lacked the power of a Whistle Dagger.

Its blade was only as long as an index finger.

But at close range, it flew silently, making it far harder to block.

That was why it was also called the soundless flying blade, both a weapon and a skill in its own right.

By painting the blade black and coating it with certain substances, it didn’t reflect light, making it invisible and silent—a perfect representation of Jaxon’s weaponry.

And with that, it was over. The knife embedded itself deeply in the center of the enemy’s forehead, so deeply it was nearly invisible.

There had been six attackers in total.

The fight was over in an instant, resolved just as quickly as it had begun.

Such was the nature of an assassin’s battle.

When Jaxon rifled through the body of one of the fallen, he found a belt.

This muffles sound.

He identified it immediately and pocketed it.

At the same time, he thought to himself, If it were me, I’d have given these two items to a single person.

Then again, maybe not.

Wouldn’t that make it easier for them to assassinate their superior?

Perhaps that was the purpose—ensuring mutual checks and balances.

In fact, that had been the case. The dead leader had given the two relics to different subordinates to keep them in check.

But the dead reveal no secrets.

Jaxon stood on the rooftop, opening his senses.

Ominous killing intent was palpable all around him.

There are many.

The entire village was a thieves’ den.

Still, this wasn’t a problem.

The Black Blade thieves didn’t realize it, but even with over a hundred combat-ready members, they were no match for a quasi-knight.

If they’d known the true identities of Enkrid and his party, they never would have dared to pick a fight.

But ignorance has its consequences.

***

Finn kicked a sword away and rolled to the side, raising her wrist.

A shortsword clumsily flew toward her, and though it lacked skill, the weapon itself was enough to make her opponent cautious and dodge.

The enemy moved to the side, never taking his eyes off Finn.

In that moment, Finn used the short arrow-launching mechanism Enkrid had given her.

Ping! The arrow shot forward, but the opponent swung a club, deflecting it.

Clack!

The arrow veered off course, while the club-wielding man glared at Finn, his eyes filled with murderous intent.

What the hell?

It’s pretty dark, isn’t it? Even with moonlight, it’s still quite hard to see.

And yet he managed to deflect such a small arrow in this darkness?

That meant he was at least as skilled as the Border Guards.

Though they couldn’t compare to Enkrid or the independent company, Finn knew this opponent wasn’t someone to be underestimated.

Finn was keenly aware of her strengths and weaknesses.

In close combat, she excelled in hand-to-hand fights. But if weapons were involved, she was at a disadvantage.

While she had many skills outside of combat, in personal tactics, that was her limitation.

So, what now?

As always, she had to create an opening and close the distance.

Rolling once more across the ground, Finn quickly made her judgment.

This situation was dangerous.

"Goddamn it."

The filthy-mouthed bastard grinned, tapping his groin mockingly.

"You’re dead meat."

Getting caught would undoubtedly lead to an unpleasant end.

Damn it, she needed to run.

Finn was ready to bolt if things got worse, but relief washed over her just as she prepared for the worst.

Finally.

She had been waiting.

From the shadows, Shinar appeared, slitting the throat of the crossbowman aiming for Finn.

The fairy moved silently, her hands cold and lethal.

Slice. Blood sprayed like a fountain into the air as the crossbowman’s carotid artery was severed.

The light in his eyes vanished as his body crumpled.

Behind the falling crossbowman, the faint glow of a short dagger gleamed, and two green eyes floated eerily in the darkness.

The shadows clung to Shinar like a shroud, wrapping her body in darkness.

"You bitch!"

The remaining enemy cursed, his filthy mouth as foul as ever.

Ignoring him, Finn dashed toward the third man, who stood frozen, stunned by what had just happened.

There had been three enemies lying in wait for her.

One was now dead, thanks to Shinar. That left two.

The last man hesitated, holding his dagger awkwardly, leaving an enormous opening.

Finn lowered her stance and lunged.

The man swung his blade downward—a predictable move Finn had already anticipated.

She twisted her body to the side, dodging the strike, and pushed off the ground, tackling him from below.

It was an Ailcarazian-style tackle.

The dazed man didn’t stand a chance.

The moment Finn grabbed his wrist, his arm twisted unnaturally, the bones snapping with a sickening crack.

Crunch, crack, crack!

"Aaagh!"

"Shut up," Finn muttered, snapping his fingers one by one.

Tears streamed down the man’s face, snot and spit dripping as his eyes rolled back in pain.

Finn grabbed his neck and twisted it sharply to the side.

Snap.

The man’s lifeless body crumpled forward.

The entire sequence of movements took only seconds.

Meanwhile, faint echoes of "bitch," "crazy," and "fucking" reached her ears.

As Finn crushed her opponent’s joints and broke his neck, Shinar silently drove her dagger into the heart and neck of the foul-mouthed man.

He fell, convulsing.

Gurgle.

Blood spilled from his mouth, thick and dark, glistening under the moonlight.

Shinar glanced at Finn without a word, her expression as calm as ever.

Blood from the fallen splattered across her pale face.

Her white complexion, inhuman beauty, and the crimson droplets illuminated by moonlight made her look like a work of art—haunting and surreal.

The living masterpiece turned her gaze to Finn and spoke.

"Things have gotten messy."