CHAPTER 140: 140. SUICIDE?

The next instant, his hand smashed through the wall—wood splintered, bricks cracked, and a startled gasp was cut short. The assassin’s hand wrapped around the Baron’s neck like a vice, yanking him clean through the shattered wall.

The impact was brutal. Bones cracked—ribs, shoulder, probably part of the spine. The Baron’s body hit the stone ground like a discarded sack of meat. Blood spurted from a gash along his side of his gut.

The assassin loomed over him.

A tall figure, dressed in shadowy armor, his presence suffocating. Black eyes burned with malice, a twisted hunger hidden beneath their cold surface. He tilted his head slightly, voice lilting with a mockery that crawled under the Baron’s skin.

"Now~ now~ Baron," the assassin whispered, almost playfully. "What do we have here? A very happy little family..."

He looked past the man, through the gaping hole in the wall, where the Baron’s wife and two children stood frozen in horror.

A slow, deliberate smile crept onto the assassin’s face.

"What do you think I should do to them?" he murmured. "Hmmmm... maybe a little slash across their necks. Quick. Clean. They won’t even feel a thing."

The Baron’s eyes widened. His entire body was wracked with pain—his ribs screamed, and blood was gushing out of his side like a waterfall. But none of that mattered.

His family.

His wife, still clutching their daughter. His son, too young to even comprehend what was happening.

He couldn’t let them die. Not like this. Not in front of him.

With sheer will alone, he pushed himself up slightly, gritting his teeth, bile rising in his throat. He forced words out of his broken mouth.

"I don’t know... who put a bounty on my head," he choked. "But trust me when I say this—I’ve never... never been involved in the conflict between Everhart and Opalcrest. I haven’t done anything outside my jurisdiction."

The assassin leaned down, just enough for their faces to be a breath apart. His voice dropped into something far more terrifying—calm.

"I know you didn’t cross your jurisdiction."

He smiled. A grin wide and malicious.

"But that’s the problem, isn’t it, Mister Baron? Your jurisdiction... has always been Everhart."

The Baron’s heart stopped.

The assassin continued, his tone darkening.

"You’re a noble of Everhart. Maybe not in practice, maybe not in daily life—but on paper, in the eyes of the world, that’s what you are. And that alone makes you my target."

He grabbed the Baron by the hair, jerking his face upward. His breath was ice on the Baron’s skin.

"So let’s skip the word games. No scrambling. No evasions. Tell me clearly—what did you do in Everhart? Who advised you? Who gave you the damn idea to take part in this mess?"

The Baron could barely breathe.

Blood soaked his shirt. His vision blurred at the edges. He could feel consciousness slipping—drifting into the void. But before darkness could claim him, a chill washed over his tongue.

The assassin popped the cork off a vial—blood red, glowing faintly—and poured the contents down the Baron’s throat.

The effect was immediate.

Agonizing warmth spread through his chest. Bones shifted and reset. Flesh knitted back together. His body trembled, spasmed, and then... stabilized.

His wounds were gone.

He was back to full health.

But the moment he realized that, a new wave of dread hit him like a tidal wave.

This wasn’t mercy.

This was torment.

The assassin had healed him... only to continue the pain. Only to squeeze more out of him.

The Baron felt a scream building in his throat but forced it down. He couldn’t... wouldn’t give in.

He couldn’t betray Opalcrest.

Not just because of loyalty—but because he knew what Lucian Lancaster’s ultimatum was. If Opalcrest ever made a move against Everhart, Lancaster would bring the full weight of his wrath upon them. And there would be no survivors. Not even ash.

If he spilled even a fraction of the plan... Opalcrest would burn. His family. His people. Everyone.

He clenched his fists and bit down on his lower lip hard enough to bleed. His voice trembled, but he forced it out.

"I’m telling you the truth," he said, locking eyes with the assassin. "I don’t have any details. It’s above me. I’m a minor functionary—my involvement is surface-level at best."

"And about the noble status?" He spat to the side. "That’s a lie. Maybe someone forged records, maybe it’s a setup. But it’s not true. I’m not part of Everhart’s nobility. I live in Opalcrest. I’ve bled for Opalcrest. We’ve already backed off from any action against Everhart. We don’t want war. Not anymore."

The assassin stared at him in silence.

The silence was worse than words.

His black eyes gleamed with unreadable intent. For a moment, the Baron wondered if this was the end. He could feel the tension in the air stretch thin like a blade about to drop.

Then the assassin sighed.

A long, slow, heavy breath.

And without another word... he turned.

Turned his back on the Baron.

But not to leave.

No.

He turned toward the wall.

Toward the gaping hole.

Toward the Baron’s wife.

His children.

The Baron’s stomach sank.

Terror flooded every inch of him.

"W–Wait... WAIT!! PLEASE!!!" he screamed, dragging himself across the floor, fingers scraping against stone.

The assassin took a single step forward.

The assassin’s hand reached once more into the gaping wound he’d carved into the wall.

This time, it was the Baron’s wife.

She shrieked as her hair was wrenched, her body dragged like a broken doll from the debris. Her nightgown was soaked with dust and blood, one slipper missing, her eyes wide with helpless terror.

The young boy—their son—rushed forward.

Tiny arms outstretched.

Voice small but desperate.

"Hey, Uncle... this isn’t how you’re supposed to play, you know!!" he said, lips trembling. "See? Mother’s hurt! Can’t you see that? L-Leave her hair alone!"

The assassin didn’t respond.

He simply tossed the woman beside her broken husband, like she weighed nothing at all.

Her head hit the stone with a crack. Her whimper was barely audible.

Then the assassin turned.

And crouched.

Face-to-face with the boy.

He tilted his head, curiously, as if examining some rare specimen. His hand moved, slow and deliberate, caressing the child’s chubby cheeks. Fingers still wet with the father’s blood left crimson smudges on pale skin.

But then—

SMACK.

The assassin’s hand was swatted away.

A trembling girl—no older than ten—stood before him.

Shielding her brother.

Her arms outstretched, body shaking, but her eyes... her eyes refused to look away.

She stared straight into the abyss wearing a face carved from glass and fire.

"Don’t touch my brother," she said, voice cracking. "Keep your filthy hands away from him."

The assassin blinked.

Then looked down at his own hand.

Blood.

Dirt.

Viscera under the fingernails.

Yes. Filthy indeed.

An amused smile played across his face—twisted, almost... proud.

But rather than retaliate, he stood. Spun on his heel. And walked back toward the broken Baron, now gasping on the floor like a dying animal.

He crouched beside him, that same sickly lilt returning to his voice.

"Baron~ you know... I’m wondering something." His eyes glimmered, dark and bottomless. "Should I really go through with it? Are you going to lie there like a corpse, or... will your inner father finally wake up?"

The Baron’s eyes shifted to his wife—now bleeding from the scalp, eyes barely open. Then to his children. The girl still shielding her little brother, tears streaking down her face but refusing to scream.

And yet—

He couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t.

Even now... even now, he remained silent.

The assassin sighed.

A long exhale. Almost bored.

Then he raised his hand.

It hovered for a moment—

—and plunged into the woman’s thigh.

Steel met flesh.

The dagger slid deep. And then it moved, sawing upward with methodical cruelty.

A spray of blood painted the floor. Her scream was a thing born of agony—shrill, raw, and endless.

"AHHHHHHHHHHH!!"

The sound tore through the house.

The little girl acted fast, clutching her brother’s face and burying him into her shoulder, forcing his eyes shut with tiny, desperate hands.

But even she—she who tried to be brave—was shaking so hard her knees nearly buckled. Her lips moved, silently begging someone to stop this.

She was only ten.

She wasn’t ready for this.

No one ever was.

And that was the last straw.

The Baron’s will shattered.

He threw himself forward, crawling across the blood-slick floor until he reached the assassin’s boots.

"I’ll talk!!" he cried, voice hoarse, broken. "Please! I’ll tell you everything—everything I know! Just—just stop this! Heal her—let my children go—PLEASE!!"

But as his plea echoed through the chamber, something shifted.

The room dimmed.

As if the very air grew heavier.

The assassin’s smile vanished.

In its place was a look of cold disappointment.

He stared down at the man groveling before him—at the pitiful shell of what was once a Baron—and for a moment, his expression was unreadable.

Then he spoke.

Quietly.

"That’s exactly what you shouldn’t have done."

The world paused.

And then—

It ended.

Countless weapons—blades, spears, halberds, axes—materialized in midair, summoned from the origin in perfect synchronization.

Their tips gleamed.

Their descent was silent.

And in the span of a breath, they fell.

One for each.

Father.

Mother.

Daughter.

Son.

Even the youngest—the two-year-old boy—did not escape.

The room was painted in blood.

Limbs twisted at impossible angles. Eyes frozen in eternal screams. The girl had died mid-reach, arms still outstretched toward her brother. The boy’s small body was nearly split in two, too fragile to survive the force of the blow.

All of it—

Silent.

Final.

And then, only the assassin remained.

Standing in the middle of it all.

Still.

Breathing.

He exhaled slowly and walked among the corpses, blood soaking the soles of his boots.

He knelt beside the Baron’s lifeless form, fingers glowing faintly with unnatural energy. A whisper of magic passed through the room as he altered the bodies—shifting the wounds, reshaping the injuries, arranging the scene like a twisted artist.

By the time he stepped back... it looked like a suicide.

A nobleman’s family, driven to despair, ending it all.

No suspicion. No trace.

Clean.

"[Creation: Grief Composition]," he muttered.

The room took on the scent of despair. Old tears. Sorrow so thick it clung to the walls.

Perfect.

His job was done.

He stretched his back, feeling a vertebra pop.

Then, with a tired breath, he spoke:

"[Creation: Portal]!"

A shimmering rift tore open before him, swirling with black-blue energy.

Without a glance back, he stepped through—disappearing from the massacre he’d authored.

And behind him, the portal closed.

Silence returned.

Only the scent of blood remained.