Episode 23 - The Assassin's Gauntlet 2

That had been the worst possible choice.
Every bone in Kaftin's body was laced with biogenic metal — density far beyond anything found in an ordinary living creature — and the pelvis was already among the thickest bones in the human body to begin with.

With a sharp crack, Alcorim's sword snapped. He recoiled, moving fast to recover his stance —

"Hff—!!"
"What—?!"

The fabric of Kaftin's trousers tore apart at the thighs, the muscle beneath swelling as if about to burst through the skin.

From an unstable position — knees bent, body angled back — he forced every ounce of strength into his legs and thighs and launched himself forward like a stone from a catapult.

A thunderous impact as two skulls collided. Teeth flew from Alcorim's mouth and he went tumbling backward.

"Gkhegh—?!"
"Ngh..."

The blow had been severe enough that Alcorim's forehead had caved in — dented roughly into the shape of Kaftin's skull.
He lay sprawled on the floor, bleeding from both eyes and nose.

Best case, a concussion. Worst case, brain death.
Kaftin staggered slightly, then steadied himself with a crooked grin and looked up at the manager still thrashing around with his head wedged in the ceiling.

All that was left now was to have some fun with this one.
He reached into his coat for his torture instruments, and smiled.
He could only hope this one would last a while.

*

He played with him for the better part of half a day — until the office floor was soaked through with blood.

Alongside the blood, strips of flesh and viscera carved from the manager's body were strewn messily across the floor, and rats had already begun to appear, drawn by the smell of death.

Kaftin left the manager's corpse dangling from the ceiling where it hung and set to work locating the hidden safe with practiced ease, sweeping its contents into his bag.

"Hah... haven't had that much fun in a while."

He stripped off his bloodied clothes and was burning them in the corner of the office when noise drifted up from below.
Already?

"Tch... I suppose half a day was pushing it."

He glanced up at the swaying corpse and clicked his tongue.

He'd played too long.
The City Guard had caught the scent and were already storming the lower floors.
Getting out through the front entrance on the ground floor was no longer an option.

Not that he couldn't force his way through if he wanted to.
The problem was simply that he didn't particularly enjoy watching Whispermere make that pained face of hers.

He gathered his bag, threw open the window the manager had been trying to use, and stepped out.

"Oh."

He emerged onto a terrace at attic height, took one look around, then pulled the window shut behind him and began picking through the clothes he had lifted from the gamblers.

He found something close enough to his size, changed into it, shouldered his bag, and started making his way across the rooftops.
The City Guard had apparently already encircled the building — he could hear them shouting at intervals below.

"Seal it off tight! Not a single alley gets missed!"
"We've got him this time! Move, move—!"
"No telling where he'll surface! Stay sharp!"

By the time they had finished enthusiastically drawing their net closed, Kaftin was already standing in front of the inn where he'd recently taken up residence.

The inn had connections to Whispermere, which meant it came with a guarantee of safety from the City Guard's patrols.

In exchange, of course, he had agreed to accommodate her requests to the extent he reasonably could.

He walked in at a leisurely pace. A few pairs of eyes briefly turned his way, then looked off again.
Her people, without a doubt.

He went up to the room first, set his bag down, and made his way over to Conquere.

She had taken a liking to the books Kaftin had written out for her himself, and today — as on most days except mealtimes — she was absorbed in reading.

"...Conquere."
"......!"

She set down the volume in her hands — Anatomy, it read on the cover — and looked up at him with a smile.

He smiled back and jerked his thumb toward the door.
An invitation to dinner.

"......!"

She nodded, and he took her hand as they headed downstairs together.

Whispermere had long since learned that Kaftin detested having his meals interrupted by trouble, and had made arrangements accordingly — the moment Kaftin and Conquere settled at a table, several of her people quietly rose from their seats and occupied the tables around them.

Anyone who tried to start something would find themselves intercepted first.

It had become a necessary precaution. Starting with the massacre at the restaurant some time back, Kaftin had now caused similar incidents three separate times.

Two of those three had been at the same restaurant he'd first gone to — and on both occasions he had, as a matter of course, attempted to butcher the bodies and sell the meat to various butchers in the area.

By the third incident, Whispermere had finally pieced together that he was going around selling human flesh, and had made it her mission to talk him out of it — with some difficulty.

The meal passed without incident. Afterward, as Kaftin sat with Conquere drinking milk, Whispermere appeared.

"...You're here."
"Yes."

One look at her eyes was enough to tell him this was something significant. He brought Conquere upstairs and waited.

Whispermere exchanged a few words with her people below, then followed up.

"...What did you need to tell me?"
"Well..."

She hesitated, then carefully drew a rolled piece of paper from inside her sleeve and held it out.

Kaftin took it and unfolded it.

--------------------------------------------------

CHALLENGE

Venue: Adventurers' Camp, center of the Forest of Prosperity

Time: XX Month, XX Day — 20:00

Terms: Veilslayer + 35 vs. Kaftin

-------------------------------------------------

"...Ha."
"He's... determined to deal with you. No matter what."
"Interesting. The man who calls himself a master of the assassin's way — putting out an open challenge like this."
"...Well..."

She hesitated. Kaftin grinned.

"Because not one of those assassination attempts has made me flinch."
"...Yes."

Over the past week, with assassins coming at him every hour or two without fail, Kaftin had not flinched once.

Each time they thought they had him, he shook it off and stood back up. Each time one was caught in the act, they died for it.

At one point, a child on the street had driven a poison-coated blade into his stomach.

The child had run — and died when the stone Kaftin threw caught them in the head.

He had mentioned it to her later, almost in passing: he operated under a general rule against using violence on women and children, but the rule had an exception.

If the other party was not simply a woman or a child but a person bearing a weapon with the intent to fight — then regardless of sex or age, he saw them as a killer, someone taking another life to preserve their own, and showed them no mercy whatsoever.

He might stop if they dropped the weapon and surrendered. But as long as they came at him armed, they were fair game.

"Are you going...?"
"Of course. He's gone to the trouble of offering me his neck — I intend to go and bite it off."
"...Even knowing it could be a trap?"
"Heheh... a trap, you say. All the better. If he manages to pull off something I haven't imagined, that just means I'll have something to enjoy."

He tucked the challenge letter inside his coat, shuddering with anticipation, and clicked his tongue in relish.

"Are you sure about this? Veilslayer is..."
"Not to be underestimated? I know. He's almost certainly a Sword Master, or close enough to make no difference."
"......!"

Whispermere swallowed hard at how effortlessly Kaftin had sized up an opponent he had never directly crossed blades with.

"The Phantom Fang Lord is a Sword Master, isn't he? Talent aside — someone who's kept at it to that age, you'd expect at least that much. Otherwise he'd have been dead long ago. This world isn't so forgiving."
"...True."
"And sending an open challenge like this means..."
"......"
"He's worked out a proper plan to kill me."

He said it as though announcing that his opponent had come up with a plan to kill him — and showed not a trace of fear or tension.
If anything, he was smiling, bright with anticipation.

"Are you sure you'll be alright? He's the finest assassin in the Maritime Kingdom — no, in the Southern Alliance."
"Heheh... that's exactly what makes it good. I'm curious whether his assassination techniques can actually kill something that's stopped being human. This is a fine opportunity to find out."

As he stretched out his hands, Kaftin was genuinely looking forward to it.
Evil was life itself, to him.

Would Veilslayer be the one to finally release him from this existence?
Or would Kaftin be the one to avenge his master — and grant Veilslayer his own release?

Either way, the world would be no worse for it.
Either way, Kaftin himself would be no worse for it.
Simply enjoy it to the fullest — and if luck ran out, die. That was all there was to it.

He was still basking in that anticipation when someone tugged at his sleeve.

"......"
"Ah. Conquere?"

She held up the small writing board he had given her, something carefully written on it.

'Please come back alive.'
"......!"

He stared at it. Scratched his head for a moment. Then the smile faded from his eyes entirely, and something else settled in their place.

"...Right. Dying now would be inconvenient."
"Is it... because of Conquere?"
"Yes... I took responsibility for her. I see that through until she can stand on her own."

He finished scratching his head, then spoke — the way a man announces something already decided.

"I'll come back alive. And I have a master to avenge — Veilslayer dies. That's settled."
"......!"

The appointed day arrived.
Kaftin had made successive trips to the pharmacy and prepared twenty bottles of his usual liquid, stockpiled and ready.

His opponent was Veilslayer — widely considered the most formidable of the Four Gang Lords.
And he had openly declared he was bringing thirty-five of his people.
All thirty-six of them, coming for one man.

Veilslayer had made the wrong choice.

Kaftin lost his composure far more readily when facing two, three, or more opponents than he ever did facing one.
The trauma buried deep in the fragments of his memory drove him — goaded him into something more savage.

"...I'm heading out."
'Please be careful.'
"Yeah."

With Conquere seeing him off, Kaftin tied four of the medicine bottles to a cord, slung them over his shoulder, and stepped out into the street.

—To be continued—