Tower of Paradise

Chapter 118: Night attack (2)

I woke with a start, jolted by a chilling noise coming from the hallway. My heart pounded as my eyes adjusted to the darkness surrounding me. Glancing at the window of the luxurious guest room, I realized it was near midnight.

The orders I had received were clear: infiltrate this mansion, gain the trust of its owners, and «survive» until midnight. Everything had gone better than I initially thought, but I still didn’t understand why they used the term survive.

Although Daphne’s family had seemed a bit odd from the start, they hadn’t treated me poorly at all. Quite the opposite—they had been extremely kind and hospitable. Daphne herself came across as an incredibly empathetic and caring person, like the textbook definition of «a good person.» They showed none of the bloodthirsty and cruel nature that Mica had described in such detail.

I lifted the blankets silently, opened the door, and bolted out of the guest room. As I raced down the long hallway, I hesitated for a moment. Should I confront my own group just to save Daphne? The chaos echoing through the mansion confirmed what I already suspected was happening.

On my way, I stumbled upon the lifeless body of Daphne’s sister, split in half. Blood and organs flooded the immaculate marble floor, creating a macabre contrast between white and vivid red. The horrific sight made my stomach churn violently, and it brought back the words Daphne had spoken days ago, her voice laced with concern.

—It’s the group of assassins shaking Sherazade.

«No kidding…» I thought bitterly as I continued running down the hallway. My breathing grew heavier, mingling with the metallic scent of blood that permeated the air. I reached a rose window, a massive circular stained-glass window reflecting the silvery light of the full moon.

Beneath that majestic moon stood five imposing figures perched on a web of thick threads.

They had arrived. I hadn’t expected such a dramatic entrance. Those figures were the group I had joined, and I clicked my tongue in frustration as I realized the assassin group Daphne spoke of with such fear was none other than the one I belonged to.

«Are we targeting this place just because they’re rich?» I wondered as my thoughts raced like a galloping horse. They never really told me the mission’s objective. Suddenly, I looked below the window and noticed the mansion’s bodyguards heading toward the forest.

«What… what should I do? Should I go help them?» The weight of indecision paralyzed me momentarily.

From my vantage point, I could see Anastasia, one of our companions, who seemed only a year or two older than me. Her long, silver hair, shining like the moon in the clear sky, cascaded to her knees, flowing with an ethereal softness that contrasted with the harshness of her appearance. Her crimson eyes burned with an intensity that seemed to pierce the soul. Her expression was serene yet unrelenting, as if ready to face any challenge fate might throw at her.

Her armor was a masterpiece of gothic design and lethal functionality. In shades of black and silver with golden accents, it was adorned with sharp spikes and engravings that seemed to tell tales of ancient victories. The pointed shoulder guards, resembling bat wings, gave her an intimidating air, while the fitted breastplate, ornamented with a golden cross emblem, highlighted her slender yet powerful figure.

Her thighs were protected by articulated plates that didn’t sacrifice mobility, and her high black boots, reinforced with more spikes, were ready to crush her enemies. In her right hand, Anastasia wielded a colossal sword, almost resembling a lance. The blade, a deep black with jagged edges, was decorated with faintly glowing golden runes. The hilt, wrapped in black leather and topped with a claw-shaped pommel, suggested this weapon had been her companion in countless battles.

I watched her leap backward and land on the ground with one hand on the earth, with the grace and precision of a predator. The guards attempting to flee froze at the sight of her. Then, another figure landed beside her. By the time the bodyguards reacted and aimed their weapons, Anastasia was already standing, glaring at them with a furrowed brow as the night wind played with her long white hair.

Captain Gilthunder, standing next to Anastasia, was a tall, muscular man. He had piercing gray eyes and medium-length black hair, swept back in a messy style, with thin black eyebrows. His sharp jawline was adorned with a faint stubble that made him even more intimidating. His attire was simple, consisting of a tight black shirt that emphasized his muscular build, loose tan athletic pants with a black belt at the waist, and high black boots covering most of his calves.

I observed as Anastasia and the captain approached the group of four guards, their faces and expressions tense.

Suddenly, one of the guards closed the distance with Anastasia and attacked at high speed. She reached for her sword, and before my eyes could follow her movements, with a single step, she unsheathed her blade and slit the bodyguard’s throat in an instant.

The man’s body fell to the ground with a dull thud that I could hear clearly even from my position. As I watched Anastasia kill one guard, the captain was already in front of another, his bloodied hand piercing through the bodyguard’s chest. With a shake of his hand, the body collapsed like a rag doll.

—What’s with these guys? —I heard one of the surviving guards exclaim.

—They’re monsters! —the other replied, his voice breaking with fear.

The two remaining guards exchanged pale, terror-stricken looks as one, without thinking further, stumbled and ran in the opposite direction. But before he could get far, the familiar sound of a gunshot echoed through the night, shattering the silence like glass. The man fleeing like a frightened rabbit fell to the ground like a felled tree. A hole had been pierced through the center of his brain, a wound from which there was no recovery. The same fate befell the other man running alongside his companion. No human could survive that, not even with ogre blood. Once the brain was destroyed, even an ogre couldn’t regenerate.

—How pathetic… Fleeing in the face of an enemy —I heard someone say with disdain.