42: Bloodstained Daggers
Liz glanced at the third intruder, her eyes emotionless. Perhaps intimidated by the unfathomable depths of her gaze, the young man’s shoulders trembled.
Perhaps he was frightened by the bloodstained, menacingly designed knives glinting in her hands, or perhaps by the fact that his companion, the mage, had been killed so easily.
Or perhaps it was the unsettling dissonance of her adorable maid uniform juxtaposed with the scene before him.
In that brief moment, Liz had finished her assessment.
Lightly armored, dual daggers. A short bow on his back, a quiver at his hip. A ranger.
He lunged, his knife held forward with determination. Liz caught the blade with the sword breaker on the hilt of her left knife—four metal prongs, like the teeth of a comb, trapping the blade and sending it flying.
His momentum carried his right arm upwards, and Liz’s right knife darted forward, a snake striking at its prey.
She slightly deflected his left knife, which he’d thrust forward in a desperate attempt to protect his heart, and sliced through the artery in his left wrist.
He was finished the moment he instinctively tried to staunch the gushing blood.
Pain and bleeding were less valuable than life.
If he focused on the pain, he would be dead in a second. He knew that. He knew this was the battlefield.
And yet, knowing and doing were different.
When your body screamed in pain, when it registered mortal danger, to override those instincts and calculate how many seconds you had left. To suppress reflexive actions. To prioritize evasion or attack over alleviating pain.
These were actions that went against instinct, skills honed only through rigorous training.
And she had that training. He did not.
As he hunched over, clutching his wrist, his neck was exposed. Liz’s right knife sliced deep. She flicked her left knife upwards, blinding him with a single, swift stroke across his eyes, then threw both knives into the air.
She drew six throwing daggers, three from each thigh, thick as nails, holding them between her fingers. She threw three into the ranger’s torso, now practically defenseless, and the remaining three at the white knight, who was charging towards her, sword drawn.
The knight deflected one dagger with his sword and intercepted the other two by stepping forward and taking the impact, controlling where they struck his armor. While the rounded shape of his plate armor was designed for deflection, it was still a bold move against daggers powerful enough to pierce armor at close range.
But the ranger, writhing in agony from the pain and blood loss, now blinded, could do nothing.
All three daggers found their mark, embedded in his torso. One narrowly missed his ribs and pierced his heart. The other two struck his lower abdomen, avoiding his ribs, tearing through his stomach and intestines.
Without even looking at the body, Liz darted to the side, dodging the white knight’s charge.
She caught the daggers she’d thrown, still spinning in the air, with a flick of her wrist and a touch of magic, reversing her grip as she held them ready. Manipulating her own weapons, whose properties she knew intimately, with magic over short distances was child’s play.
However, it was also a risky maneuver. Stories of warriors losing fingers while attempting such flashy moves in the heat of battle were common tavern jokes.
“You… bastard… you killed my comrade…”
She ignored his words, his voice filled with barely suppressed rage.
He had come to kill. Therefore, being killed was a given.
That was battlefield common sense.
She had taken down two. And the remaining one was undoubtedly the most formidable.
Even disregarding the simple fact that a fully armored knight wasn’t an ideal target for an assassin. Even without her level of skill, it was obvious from his movements and equipment that this white knight was no ordinary soldier, but a hero.
And yet, she wouldn’t retreat. To eliminate any and all enemies, as ordered. That was an assassin’s job.
Even if it meant abandoning stealth, surprise attacks, and poison, her specialties.
Knights trained to fight other knights—those similar to themselves. Assassins did not.
Farmers, citizens, soldiers, knights, nobles, kings.
They existed solely to prey on all of them.
The white knight moved first, thrusting his ornate white and gold sword.
Liz dodged the attack with a graceful leap, using her lighter weight, unburdened by heavy armor, to her advantage.
While her attire seemed utterly inappropriate for the battlefield, the swirling skirt and apron, the long, thin ribbon trailing behind her, the fluttering frills, all served to distract and disorient her opponent as she spun and danced around him.
Her steps, seemingly focused on evasion rather than engagement, light and elegant, were meant to lull him into a false sense of security.
As he lunged again, she stepped forward, disrupting his rhythm.
The red scarf wrapped around her arms tightened, constricting her muscles, forcefully accelerating her already swift movements.
With her left knife, she deflected his blade slightly. Her silver hair scattered as she felt the wind from his sword brush against her cheek. She drove her right knife into the narrow gap in his visor, aiming for the eye and the brain behind it.
The knight’s body convulsed.
There was no cry, but the tremors in his body were the unmistakable sign of death. Destroy the brain with a single blow, and a human would die. —As would dark elves, beastmen, and most demons and dragons.
So, calling it carelessness would be unfair.
The moment she withdrew her knife, blood gushed from the wound, and a pale green light enveloped the white knight.
Startled, her vision momentarily obscured, she instinctively thrust her knife again, only managing to scratch the surface of his visor. His armored knee slammed into her stomach, doubling her over.
“…Gah…!”
The sound that escaped her lips wasn’t a cry of pain, but the involuntary expulsion of air from her lungs.
The knight raised his sword and swung it down at her.
(I love you, Liz.)
Why? In that brief, helpless moment…
…that peaceful scene flashed through her mind.
…that voice echoed in her ears.
Blood splattered.
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