“Captain, not a single one of those Guild bastards got away. Our people are converging on your position.”
The scout’s voice carried hurried gasps, echoing through the damp, gloomy alleyway.
Renard Eckhardt didn’t raise his head. The whetstone slid across the blade, producing a rhythmic, monotonous scraping sound.
He was polishing a family heirloom sword. The blade was plain and unadorned, with no superfluous decoration, just like the man himself.
“A pack of useless trash who can’t accomplish anything but ruin everything. It’s no surprise they were slaughtered like dogs.”
Renard’s voice was as steady and cold as his sharpening motions.
“It seems we have a traitor in our midst. Our operation was anticipated by the enemy from the very start.”
He lifted his head, his gaze sweeping over the silent figures in the shadows.
“You did well. If we’d charged in according to the original plan, this wouldn’t be a raid—it would be a massacre. Hmph. They preach about loving the people, then turn around and shove civilians out as human shields. CleverTactics”
Renard’s thoughts raced.
Urban warfare—the most troublesome element was the incited civilians. They were the best disposable weapons and the perfect cover.
Once they, as soldiers, laid hands on civilians, the situation would spiral out of control and erupt into a citywide riot.
By then, the Sword-Bearing Nobles’ crime would no longer be covert sabotage—it would be open rebellion.
Their opponent this time was a ruthless figure who covered every trace.
Before him stood a private army that had already assembled with swift efficiency.
They were the sharpest fangs of the Sword-Bearing Nobles, death-sworn soldiers cultivated by their respective families at enormous expense.
Although today was their first joint operation, as the kingdom’s most elite professional soldiers, war was already in their blood.
No chaos, no clamor.
Within mere minutes, a temporary command hierarchy was established, and all forces were efficiently integrated.
Everyone wore the coarse cloth cloaks favored by bandits, concealing their forms and faces.
The family crests on their armor that could identify them had long been pried off, leaving only bare rivet holes.
Even if they all perished here, they would only be remembered as a band of especially elite, exceptionally fearless bandits.
Their deaths would bring not even a sliver of trouble to the lords behind them.
“What about the Crestbearer lords?” Renard asked.
“They seem to have run into unexpected trouble. They’re being held up for now.”
“Trouble?” Renard’s sharpening paused for an instant, and his brow finally furrowed. “The enemy has Crestbearers too?”
The situation was worse than the worst-case scenario.
Alarm bells rang in Renard’s mind. He immediately ordered his adjutant:
“Count our numbers!”
According to the military system of the Kingdom of Lorraine, the most basic combat unit was called a “Lance.”
A standard “full Lance” consisted of one heavy lancer as the core combatant, one mounted archer for support and reconnaissance, one attendant, three foot archers, and one page.
Of course, in actual combat—especially in a covert urban operation like this—the Lance composition would be greatly streamlined. But its core was always the heavy lancer, typically a low-ranking Knight.
They were the most numerous rank-and-file force among the Sword-Bearing Nobles.
Their Crestbearer bloodline might be so thin as to be negligible, but their bodies, tempered through endless training, far surpassed ordinary men.
Even without warhorses, they could transform into rampaging steel beasts.
Those present today were all elites from various Lances, totaling no more than two hundred.
But these two hundred professional soldiers were enough to become a fearsome, decisive force in any large-scale war.
“Captain! Six full Lances and one half Lance didn’t rendezvous on time!” The adjutant’s report instantly thickened the air.
As if to confirm the report, several soldiers came scrambling into the alley.
One had an arm dangling limply, another’s face was covered in blood, his eyes vacant, still mumbling to himself.
“Crestbearers… We ran into unidentified Crestbearers! The brothers… the brothers… their status is unknown!”
“Status unknown means dead.”
Renard calmly struck them from the combat roster. He glanced at the handful of soul-shocked survivors and issued a concise order.
“Reassign them to other squads. Adjutant, what about our ‘allies’?”
“Reporting, Captain. The Cult’s people are preparing to move. Target: the Continental Hotel.”
“The Continental Hotel…” A glint flashed through Renard’s eyes.
That was the headquarters of the Mutual Aid Association and the most important objective of this operation.
But their true purpose was never to burn down a hotel.
According to Cult intelligence, the greatest secret of the Rabel Family, the Minister of Finance, was hidden beneath that hotel.
If they could obtain those things, not only would the Minister of Finance be brought down—his entire family would go to the guillotine.
But since the enemy had already laid such an elaborate trap, that place was surely a den of dragons and tigers.
Damn it! We know nothing about them, yet they know everything about us.
Renard drew a deep breath. He knew there was no turning back.
Feed an army for a thousand days, use it for a single hour.
If they were destined to fight to the death, then they would offer their final loyalty to their lords in the way of warriors.
“Abandon the original plan. Splitting our forces will only let the enemy defeat us one by one. Concentrate our actions!”
His voice echoed through the silent troop, clear and decisive.
“Notify our ‘allies’ to move immediately. No more waiting! Once the Crestbearer lords break free, have them reinforce the Cult with all their strength. We’ll detach one-third of our people to coordinate with them!”
“The rest—I’ll lead personally. Target: Gutenberg’s Workshop! Intelligence says the secret of printing the Newspaper is hidden there. Even if we can’t seize the technology, we’ll use a massacre to utterly smash the Mutual Aid Association’s laughable prestige!”
“Today, we must bring back at least one thing!”
“Move out!”
“Yes, sir!”
The two-hundred-strong force split apart like a silent leviathan, merging into the shadows of the Capital.
Renard raised his head. The sky had become overcast with dark clouds at some point.
A pale lightning bolt split the heavens, and a dull rumble of thunder rolled in.
A storm was coming.
It would wash away filth and sin—and also wash away blood and fire.
Today, whose blood would be spilled?
At the same time, in another dark alleyway in the Capital.
A silent hunt was unfolding.
A Lance of ten men was moving quickly through the labyrinthine alleys along their designated retreat route.
They were the elite of the elite, every one of them accustomed to death.
And yet, fear descended upon them without their notice.
“Wait, where’s Marco?” A Knight attendant in the middle of the formation suddenly stopped.
The soldier at the very rear of the group was gone.
No scream, no sound of struggle—as if an invisible hand had simply erased him from the world.
“Damn it, he must have fallen behind.” The Knight leading the group cursed under his breath and ordered the two behind him, “You two, go back and check.”
The two acknowledged the order and turned, disappearing into the darkness they had come from.
One minute, two minutes…
From the depths of the alley came only the sound of dripping water. Nothing else.
They didn’t come back either.
The Knight’s heart sank. He finally realized something was wrong.
He drew his Sword with a sharp rasp and growled, “Everyone on guard! We go back together!”
The remaining men immediately formed a tight circular formation, blades pointing outward, and cautiously retraced their steps.
The alley was utterly empty. Aside from their own footsteps and the clatter of armor, it was dead silent.
No corpses, no bloodstains—not even a single fallen feather arrow could be found.
As if the three missing companions had been a collective hallucination.
A chill crawled up the base of the Knight’s spine and gripped his neck.
The hand holding the sword hilt began to tremble uncontrollably.
“Stick together, damn it! Back to back!” His voice already carried a tremor he didn’t recognize himself.
The remaining men huddled together like frightened hedgehogs, vigilantly scanning every inch of shadow around them.
Just as the Knight’s gaze shifted from the wall on the left—marked with a strange blue scribble—to the pile of broken crates on the right, in the corner of his vision, a figure that should have existed simply vanished into thin air.
No energy fluctuation, no wind, not even the faintest sound of fabric rubbing.
That archer, like a drop of ink falling into a deep pool, disappeared without a trace in an instant!
The Knight’s pupils contracted sharply, his blood nearly freezing in his veins.
“Run! Break out!”
He abandoned all thought of formation, roared, and sprinted toward the alley entrance.
But when he rounded a corner, what he saw was not the exit to the main street—but the place they had just started from. The wall with the strange blue scribble.
“This… how is this possible?”
They tried to charge forward again and again, but each time they would eerily loop back to the starting point.
What was terrifying was that each time they returned, the surrounding walls twisted a little more as if alive, and the alley grew longer and darker.
A low, eerie humming began to sound in their ears—like some kind of primitive ritual music, burrowing into their brains, stirring their most primal fears.
“Aaah—!”
Finally, someone’s mental defenses collapsed.
A young soldier pointed at something in the distance and let out a piercing scream, swinging his sword wildly at the air.
“Eyes! His eyes! They’re black holes! Don’t come closer! Stay away!”
“Shut up!” The Knight slapped him to the ground, but his own eyes were more bloodshot than the soldier’s.
They were not afraid of dying in battle, but this unknown that defied all reason was gnawing away, inch by inch, at the iron will they prided themselves on.
“Monster… The monster is among us!”
Another soldier’s face suddenly turned savage. He drove his sword viciously into the abdomen of the comrade beside him.
“It’s you! You’re the monster! Your face is melting!”
“You… you’re insane…” The stabbed soldier stared at him in disbelief, blood pouring from the corner of his mouth.
Once the plague of panic spread, it could no longer be contained.
The surviving few looked at each other with eyes full of suspicion and madness.
Every teammate they had fought beside day in and day out could now be the invisible monster in disguise.
In the grip of absolute terror, this well-trained elite squad began to slaughter one another.
Clashing blades and death cries composed a symphony of death in the narrow alley.
Yet something even more bizarre happened.
Those corpses that fell into pools of blood, in the intervals between the men killing each other, writhed one by one and vanished as if devoured by shadow.
The last surviving soldier, staring at the empty alley now covered only in bloodstains, went completely mad.
He let out a meaningless peal of wild laughter, then raised his sword and slit his own throat.
In the alley, only one person remained.
It was the Knight who led the group. He was the only one who had maintained his sanity from beginning to end—or rather, who had not completely lost his mind.