Chapter Eighty-Four: There Are Still Assassins!

Bicisarsburg lies within the Weilan region of the Vela Empire, a land blessed with gentle seasons, serene landscapes, and abundant resources. Sixty percent of the empire's annual grain harvest is reaped here, making it the greatest granary in all of Vela. Yet, what captures the attention of most is not merely its fertility, but that this prosperous domain is the private fief of the wealthiest count in the empire—Count Chelsburg.

At this moment, Chelsburg himself reclined comfortably in his wicker chair, a luxurious blanket made from rare ermine fur draped across his legs. He savored exquisite pastries at his leisure, taking in the tranquil beauty of his garden under the night’s embrace. Behind him stood Ist, his loyal guard, whose face betrayed no emotion. Like a statue, he remained motionless, ever watchful.

After a long while, Ist finally stirred, lifting his head to glance at the darkening sky before addressing Chelsburg respectfully. "My lord, it grows late."

"Hmm?" Chelsburg popped the last piece of pastry into his mouth, then looked up at the moon and stars... Indeed, it was getting late.

"Let us go," Chelsburg said to Ist, wiping his mouth with a pristine napkin and rising to leave. But just then, Ist’s keen ears picked up a strange sound not far off—the unmistakable click of crossbow mechanisms being drawn. Tension flashing through him, he barked a warning and leapt at Chelsburg, dragging him down behind the table.

With a sharp hiss, several crossbow bolts shot through the air, but the table, fashioned from the finest ebony, was sturdy enough to stop them from piercing through.

"Stay here," Ist instructed Chelsburg. Like a beast unleashed, he sprang from cover, roaring as he surged forward. In midair, his arms swept out, conjuring two blue, claw-like blades of energy. With a powerful lash, he shattered the second volley of bolts before they could reach their mark.

Twice the attackers launched their crossbow volleys, and twice Ist single-handedly repelled them. Realizing the futility of their assault, the assailants changed tactics. Led by an armored, masked figure, a dozen or so black-clad, masked soul warriors emerged from the shadows.

"Kill!" the leader commanded coldly. Instantly, the warriors surged toward Chelsburg, soul energy of varying hues flaring around them. Ist watched their coordinated attack, relaxing slightly. Apart from their leader, the others were merely seventh- or eighth-tier soul warriors—no real threat. He saw no need to intervene further. Fixing his gaze on the leader, he retreated calmly to Chelsburg’s side and made a simple gesture—raising his arm high.

With a sweeping rush, nearly a hundred soldiers poured in, surrounding the garden so thoroughly that not a gap remained. Even the nearby pavilion rooftops bristled with armed men. Their equipment was uniform, each pair comprising a spearman with a broadsword and a partner wielding a heavy crossbow and a massive shield—attack and defense in perfect harmony. It was clear at a glance these were elite among elites.

Most striking of all, nearly a third of these soldiers were themselves soul warriors. The masked leader’s face turned ashen; he bit his lip hard. They’d walked right into a trap.

As he surveyed the soldiers hemming them in on all sides, the leader’s composure shattered. His careful plans had collapsed in an instant, leaving him dazed and motionless. Chelsburg, too, sensed something amiss.

Yes, he had indeed set a snare, waiting for others to step into it. And now his prey was caught. Yet Chelsburg felt no triumph. He kept his eyes fixed on the group of soul warriors before him, a peculiar glint flickering in his gaze.

It all seemed too easy.

In just six days since arriving at Bicisarsburg from the imperial capital, Chelsburg had survived thirteen assassination attempts. But the cunning, rotund count had long ago stationed layers of guards around himself; none of the attacks, despite their suddenness, had succeeded.

Yet Chelsburg dared not relax. What most unnerved him was that every assassin escaped unharmed, each time choosing their moment with uncanny precision. Thirteen attempts, each drawing ever closer—it spoke volumes of their caution and terrifying skill.

So why had they blundered so obviously into his trap tonight? Were they panicked, or was this precisely what they intended?

Unsettled, Chelsburg glanced at Ist. "Test them, but withdraw at once if anything feels wrong."

"Yes, my lord." With a nod, Ist vanished like the wind, charging into the midst of the surrounded attackers. The masked leader snapped out of his daze just then. Seeing Ist coming alone, rage reignited within him. With a wild cry, his soul force erupted, and a huge brown bear sigil appeared upon him, visible even in the darkness.

"Roar of the Giant Bear!"

Though furious, the leader knew Ist’s power, and began by unleashing his mightiest technique. Tawny energy burst from him, coalescing into the fierce visage of a giant bear that lunged straight for Ist.

Seeing this, Ist instantly recognized his opponent as a master soul warrior. Tension flickered across his face as he slowed his advance and shouted, "Hunger Howl of the Silver Wolf!"

No sooner had the words left his lips than Ist’s body was sheathed in a radiant mantle of silvery energy, blindingly bright. With a howl worthy of a wolf king, the energy condensed into a brilliant beam that collided headlong with the bear.

With a thunderous crash, the two forces exploded against each other, sending shockwaves across the garden and hurling dust and sand into the air.

Out of the swirling smoke, Ist emerged, agile as ever. He wiped a trickle of blood from his mouth, the tension in his gaze easing. Against a second-tier master soul warrior, Ist might have struggled before, but an ordeal in the Imperial Forest had recently broken his years-long plateau. Now, he had advanced to the third tier.

"It seems there’s nothing unusual," he thought. Remembering Chelsburg’s instructions, he withdrew after probing the enemy. Yet in that moment, shrill whistles sliced through the sky—the telltale sound of crossbow bolts. Ist dodged instinctively, avoiding the first barrage, but to his shock, the true target was not him but Chelsburg.

"My lord!" Ist realized at once what was happening. He unleashed his full soul force, wrapping himself in a protective aura as he threw himself toward Chelsburg, intending to shield him with his own body. But he had not anticipated the true scale of the ambush. Outside the garden, a cacophony of battle erupted—cries and screams filled the night.

More assassins! The thought flashed through Ist’s mind even as a hundred arrows rained down. The air was thick with their shrieking flight.

Ist reached Chelsburg in time to block most of the arrows, yet the count’s girth far exceeded Ist’s own. Even his protective aura could not entirely shield Chelsburg’s massive form. With a sudden, chilling hiss, an arrow shot from behind Ist, piercing straight through Chelsburg’s left chest.