Chapter : 387

The assassin’s eyes widened, locking with Lloyd’s. And for the first time, he smiled. A bloody, triumphant, gurgling smile.

Then, his body began to convulse violently. A thick, blackish foam, smelling faintly of bitter almonds and decay, erupted from his lips, spilling down his chin. His body arched once, a single, brutal, back-breaking spasm, then went limp, the last vestiges of life extinguishing from his hateful eyes, leaving them dull, empty, staring at nothing.

He was dead.

Lloyd recoiled, letting go of the man’s mask, staring at the still, lifeless form before him. He had hesitated for a fraction of a second too long, lost in his assessment, and the assassin had used that opening to seize his own end. A poison capsule, concealed within a hollowed-out tooth. A classic spy’s tool. But this one had been laced with something more. A curse, designed to ensure not just death, but the swift, utter decay of the body, to destroy any identifying marks, any clues.

He stood up slowly, the steel chains around the now-limp body dissipating back into the void, their purpose served, their captive gone. He was left with a corpse, a chilling mystery, and the undeniable, terrifying proof that he was no longer just dealing with political rivals or commercial saboteurs.

He was dealing with a disciplined, fanatical, and technologically (or at least, biochemically) sophisticated organization that equipped its agents with suicide pills and black magic. An organization that was willing to die rather than be captured. An organization that was now actively, professionally, hunting him.

The game had just escalated. Dramatically. And the taste of poison, bitter and cold, lingered in the silent, dead-end alley.

________________________________________

—

The silence in the alley was absolute, a heavy, suffocating blanket broken only by the faint, distant sounds of the city and the slow, steady drip of something dark and viscous from the corner of the dead assassin’s mouth. The body lay sprawled on the grimy cobblestones, a testament to fanatic loyalty and the terrifying efficiency of a well-designed poison.

Lloyd stood over the corpse, the earlier adrenaline of the fight replaced by a cold, analytical dread. He crouched down, forcing himself to push past the visceral revulsion, the pragmatic soldier and scientist taking over. He examined the body, his senses on high alert. The blackish foam still clung to the assassin’s lips, its faint, bitter-almond scent a classic sign of cyanide or a similar fast-acting neurotoxin. But the underlying current of dark, corrupted energy he had felt… that was something else entirely. It was a curse, designed to accelerate decay, to destroy evidence. He could already see the man’s features beginning to subtly shift, to blur, the skin taking on a waxy, unnatural pallor as the black magic did its grim work.

This wasn’t the work of his uncle Rubel. Rubel was a political animal, a creature of intrigue and coercion, not a spymaster commanding a death squad of fanatical, poison-wielding assassins. This wasn't the work of the Bathhouse owners; they were pathetic, grasping merchants, not a shadowy cabal of killers. This was something else. Something far more disciplined, far more dangerous.

The ghosts from his past. It had to be. Rashid al-Fulan’s Crimson Crescent. Colonel Volkov’s network. A remnant of Firefly. Some organization with the training, the resources, and the deep, festering grudge to hunt him across worlds, across lifetimes. And they had found him.

He carefully, using the tip of his knife, pried open the dead man’s mouth. As he had suspected, a molar on the upper right side was shattered, the remnants of a hollowed-out tooth containing the poison capsule. Sophisticated. Professional. He checked the man’s clothing, his gear. The dark leathers were well-made but utterly devoid of any maker’s mark, any identifying sigil. The twin black swords were the same—functional, lethal, but generic, untraceable. This man had been a ghost, designed to leave no trace, to ask no questions, to simply kill his target or die trying.

The sheer, cold professionalism of it all sent a shiver down Lloyd’s spine that had nothing to do with the cool afternoon air. He had underestimated the threat. He had thought he would have time. Time to build his empire, to accumulate power, to prepare. He had been wrong. The war hadn’t been coming. It was already here. It had just been undeclared.

As he stood up, the full, crushing weight of his new reality settling upon him, the familiar, almost smug, chime echoed in his mind.

[System Notification: High-Value Hostile Threat Neutralized!]

Chapter : 388

[Analysis: User successfully engaged and eliminated a trained, hostile operative from an unknown, disciplined organization. Threat assessment indicates subject was a professional assassin with fanatical loyalty, possessing advanced infiltration skills and contingency self-termination protocols (Poison/Curse Capsule).]

[Conclusion: A significant, immediate threat to the User's life has been removed. Tactical adaptability and decisive force application noted. Intelligence-gathering objective… partially failed due to subject’s self-termination. Room for improvement in interrogation techniques, perhaps?]

[Bonus Reward Issued: 100 System Coins (SC)]

[Calculation: Base reward for neutralizing a high-value, trained hostile (70 SC) + Bonus for successful defensive engagement and survival (30 SC) = 100 SC.]

[Current System Coins: 110 (Previous) + 100 (Reward) = 210 SC]

Lloyd stared at the notification, a bitter, humorless smile twisting his lips. A hundred coins. The price of a ghost. The System, in its own, cold, clinical way, had just confirmed the severity of the threat. This wasn't a low-level thug; this was a ‘high-value hostile’. And his reward was a paltry one hundred coins. It felt… inadequate. A drop in the ocean compared to the vast, shadowy threat that now loomed over him. But it was something. Resources. A means to an end. A way to arm himself for the next encounter. And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that there would be a next encounter.

He had no time to waste. The body, with its magically accelerating decay, would become a problem soon. He couldn't just leave it here. It would be found, questions would be asked, the City Guard would get involved. He needed this to disappear. Silently. Completely.

He didn't need to call out. He simply stood, waiting. And from the deepest shadows at the mouth of the alley, a presence detached itself from the gloom.

Ken Park materialized, moving with that same silent, unnerving grace. His face was the usual impassive mask, but his eyes, when they swept over the scene—the sprawled, foaming corpse, the lingering scent of poison and dark magic, the grim, hard set of Lloyd’s own jaw—held a new, cold, and deeply, profoundly, dangerous light. He had been watching. He had seen it all.

He stopped beside Lloyd, his gaze fixed on the dead assassin. “Professional,” Ken stated, his voice a low, flat rumble. It wasn't a question. It was a verdict. “The self-termination protocol is indicative of a highly disciplined, covert operations cell. Not local. Not Rubel.”

“My assessment as well,” Lloyd replied, his own voice quiet, grim. “Someone else has entered the game, Ken. Someone with resources, with training, and with a very specific interest in seeing me dead.”

Ken’s gaze shifted to Lloyd, a silent question in his eyes. Who? Do you know?

Lloyd shook his head slightly. “I have… suspicions. Old enemies from a… previous conflict.” He kept the explanation vague, knowing Ken would not press for details he was not yet ready to give. “Suffice it to say, the threat level has just been significantly re-evaluated.”

He gestured towards the corpse. “This… needs to disappear, Ken. Completely. No trace. No witnesses. No questions.”

Ken simply nodded. It was a task he had likely performed a dozen times before in service to the Arch Duke. He was not just a bodyguard; he was the House’s cleaner, the man who made problems… vanish.

“It will be handled, Young Lord,” Ken affirmed. He reached into his tunic, producing a small, dark, silken cloth. He knelt beside the body, and with a detached, almost clinical efficiency, he began the grim work of evidence removal, his movements swift, practiced, leaving no doubt that this was familiar territory for him.

“While you handle that,” Lloyd continued, his voice regaining its sharp, commanding edge, the Major General reasserting control, “I have new orders for your network. A new intelligence priority.”

Ken paused his work, his attention focused entirely on Lloyd.

“I need you to dig, Ken,” Lloyd commanded, his eyes hard as flint. “Deep. I want every whisper, every rumor, every scrap of information regarding any foreign agents, any unusual new arrivals, any clandestine organizations operating within the capital and the surrounding duchies. Focus on individuals or groups with advanced skills, military or assassination training, and no clear, local allegiances. I want to know who they are, who they work for, what their objectives are. This assassin was a soldier, not a lone wolf. He belongs to a pack. I want to find that pack.”