TUK 11

Chapter 11

Puh-book—! Thud.
Hiiiing—!

“……”

Crimson, who was born and raised in the slums, had always been good at throwing things since he was a child.
When he threw something, it usually hit the target dead-on.
It was a talent he’d discovered early, just to survive.

If you didn’t want to get robbed, you had to fight.
If you wanted to rob, you had to fight.
That was the everyday life of the slums.

So Crimson stained the stone—a gift of talent from the gods—with blood.
Over the bloody years, the stone grew sharper. It became a blade.

His fame got him recruited into the shadow unit raised by Marquis Arzen, and now, the day when he would gain honor and status was not far off.

“Just think of it as being used as a stepping stone for my future.”

That was Crimson’s thought as he walked toward Lian, who had collapsed on the ground.
He was going to confirm the kill and retrieve his knife.

Step—. Step—.

But then, something nagged at him, like a piece of meat stuck between his teeth.

“That sound at the end… was a little unnatural.”

Normally, the sound of the knife should’ve been clear—cutting flesh, breaking bone, and severing nerves in one stroke.
But it wasn’t sharp.

It wasn’t the sound of someone struck unawares, but rather of someone bracing themselves and making a last, desperate move.

“I think his hand went up as he fell. Almost like he was deliberately falling under the horse’s neck…”

But what could it matter? Even if he were alive, he wouldn’t be in any condition to do anything.

Even the horse hadn’t realized its master had been assassinated—that was how clean and precise the strike had been.

“Of course.”

Throwing knives in the dark was something Crimson had trained endlessly for.
And Lian had even been kind enough to hold up a torch, practically inviting him to aim at his throat.

Unless the man had an immortal body, failure was impossible.

And look—
the knife was lodged neatly beneath his ear, piercing his skin.
No one could survive that.

“Kuh-lughk—!!”
“What?! Ugh!!”

Crimson almost fell backward in shock at the sound of Lian coughing up blood.

He nearly screamed but managed to clamp a hand over his mouth, forcing himself to calm down.

Then he muttered under his breath:

“You unlucky bastard.”

Yes, such things could happen.
Some people had such a strong will to live that they clung to consciousness, enduring pain with sheer obsession.

Of course, the suffering was theirs to bear.
They might even be grateful if someone ended it quickly.

Thud—.

Crimson kicked the prone Lian onto his back, forcing him to look up at the sky.

Their eyes met.
And strangely enough, there was no hatred exchanged there.

It was as if both accepted that they were simply enemies doing what enemies must do.

Crimson found that odd.

“Shouldn’t his eyes show resentment, anger, or at least a plea for mercy?”

Instead, Lian looked detached, almost serene, as if this was nothing, even trying to grip the knife stuck in his own throat to pull it out.

“Impressive… to even think of moving in that state. Looks like he got lucky and avoided the nerve cluster?”

Well, either way, Crimson had no taste for watching a man suffer until his final breath.

“Rest easy. I’ll say a prayer.”

He crouched, reaching to pull the knife from Lian’s throat.

But his intent shattered at the faint words that escaped Lian’s lips:

“…That’s… my… line.”
“What?”

Crunch—!

Lian’s left hand shot up, clamping down on the gap beneath Crimson’s armored neck.

Startled, Crimson grabbed at his wrist with both hands, trying to pry him off.

“What the—?!”

But the strength overwhelmed him.
It wasn’t the strength of a dying man. It felt anchored, immovable.

And that wasn’t all—

Swish—!!

Lian calmly yanked the throwing knife from his own neck.
He winced at the pain, but that was nothing compared to what should have happened.

“…Ah.”

Crimson assumed, wrongly, that his perfect throw had threaded the knife through skin and muscle, somehow missing nerves and arteries by sheer precision.

But that was only his delusion.

“Rest easy.”

Lian swung the bloody knife at Crimson’s throat.

“You son of a—!!”

Crimson reflexively raised his left hand—the one gripping Lian’s arm—to block.

Thwack!!

“Aaagh!!”

The knife drove straight through his palm, but the blade’s trajectory toward his neck didn’t waver.

“I said I’ll let you rest.”

Lian was fully exploiting the regenerative burst and temporary boost in strength that came with brushing against death.

But Crimson wasn’t some ordinary soldier, nor the kind of fool who carried only one knife.

“Like hell you will!”

From his belt, he yanked another knife and stabbed it mercilessly into Lian’s side.

Thud! Thud!

The gambeson’s leather padding stopped the first two strikes, but on the third, the blade pierced through, sinking into his flank.

Stab! Stab!

“Ha! I don’t know how you endured, but this is the end!”

Stab! Stab! Stab!

Crimson was sure of his victory.
With his throat pierced and now his side as well, no knight—no matter how skilled—could survive.

But he had fatally overlooked one thing.

Schluck—!!

“Guh!! Wha… why?”

Lian never released his grip on Crimson’s armor.
Keeping his promise to “let him rest,” he drove the knife into Crimson’s throat without hesitation.

While Crimson was busy stabbing at his side, Lian surged all his strength into one thrust, skewering him clean through.

It was Crimson’s misjudgment—he had never realized Lian’s true condition.

“Kuhk!!”

Crimson coughed blood, collapsing to his knees.
His bloodshot eyes scanned Lian’s body at last.

“This… damn… bastard…”

The wound in his throat was gone.
And the side he had stabbed—the torn leather was weaving itself together with web-like strands, sealing it.

It was so unreal, he wondered if he were hallucinating in his final moments.

“You… mon…ster…”

Thud—.

Crimson fell, his last words wasted into nothing.

Lian finally turned his attention to the wound in his side.

“Tch…”

It hurt. The knife hadn’t gone too deep, so it wasn’t fatal, but the pain was very real.

Still, thanks to the regenerative burst and enhanced body that came with evading death, the pain felt dulled.

He’d noticed it before—
the wounds received during that state hurt less, less than half as much.

“Looks like wounds also heal explosively fast during enhancement.”

This divine force—triggered when death was delayed—was already fading, and Lian roughly gauged its duration.

“From the moment I pulled out the knife until now… enough time for about fifty vertical sword swings.”

In terms of strength, it meant he could swing twenty more strikes than usual without tiring, and strong enough to rip through armor he normally couldn’t.

Clearly, it gave him an edge in survival.

But first, there was the immediate problem.

Shhhhk—.

He slung Crimson’s corpse like baggage across the back of the brown horse’s saddle.

“I need to get back and report this to the main camp.”

The shadow unit had attempted an assassination.
That alone was proof they were preparing an ambush.

With no way of knowing their numbers, scouting alone would be suicide.

The smart move was to return immediately, report the ambush, and prepare.

He had to leave before more enemies gathered here.

Hyahh—!

Lian mounted his horse with that thought.

But he couldn’t depart just yet.

***

“Gyaaah—!!”

Jerard and the eight shadow soldiers with him flinched at the scream echoing up from the slope below.

“Jerard?!”

One of them recognized the scream as Crimson’s.
For Crimson—an expert in throwing knives—to make someone scream during an assassination?

That was wrong.

“It’s time to move anyway. Let’s go.”

Jerard wasted no time. With his men, he descended toward the direction Crimson had gone.

His elite squad spread out like a net around him.

Having trained endlessly in the dark, the night was no obstacle for them, and their rapid movements were no louder than leaves rustling in the wind.

Reaching the slope’s base, they spotted a silhouette lifting something onto a horse.

It was obvious to all—it wasn’t Crimson.

Swish—!!

In the blink of an eye, the shadows darted into position, surrounding Lian.

“……”

The moonlight was blocked by rain-heavy clouds, but the torch Lian had dropped earlier now lit the leaves and twigs it had set aflame, casting flickering light.

“You…”

Jerard recognized Lian.
And though Lian couldn’t see Jerard clearly, he knew from the voice who stood before him.

“Glad to see me?”

How could he ever forget the voice of the man who’d once stabbed him through the heart while coldly giving his name?

It was branded into him like a scar.
He was face-to-face with the enemy he had sought all this time.

“…How?”

Jerard hadn’t recognized him immediately.

Black hair, black eyes.
A striking appearance.

The last time he’d seen him—eyes glaring even in death—it had been an unnerving sight.
There couldn’t be three men like that.

So Jerard realized the truth—
all those corpses he had seen were the same man.

“…Ah.”

It was impossible. Yet, the man he had killed himself on the Dandelion Plains, the body he had seen on Trevor Bridge—they were all this same person.

If that was true—
if he had survived, killed Crimson, and was now sitting on that horse—

“Why… are you alive?”

Jerard couldn’t hide his shock.
The puzzle pieces fit together, but the picture was absurd.
It was impossible in reality. His confusion showed plainly on his face.

To that, Lian replied:

“Mm… thanks to you?”

He had no reason to explain his immortality, that he couldn’t die.
And in truth, it wasn’t a lie.

It was because of Jerard that he’d learned of his immortal body, and that he could turn the tables against the enemy’s mage.

But with that offhand answer—
Lian had no idea the situation was about to twist in a very strange way.