Upon entering the catacombs, the trio divided their attention according to their respective goals. Although Darian had agreed to assist Rogier, he still intended to collect Deathroot; after all, resolving any part of the problem was a step in the right direction.
The catacombs were swarming with skeletal soldiers. These skeletons were numerous and difficult to permanently dispatch, but fortunately, Darian was a specialist in hunting those who lived in death. He was equipped with an array of weapons, items, and incantations specifically designed for this purpose.
"Hmm? Strange... the impact feels off," Darian muttered, his expression shifting as his gold-infused greatsword struck the skeletons with less-than-ideal results.
Before Rogier could ponder the reason, a thin, hunched figure holding a white torch limped out from a corner.
"A Necromancer..." Rogier noted. These sorcerers were inextricably linked to the dead, wielding a foul magic that could sustain the "lives" of those who lived in death. Unless the Necromancer was killed, the resilient skeletons would continue to rise, potentially launching a counterattack even against the power of Golden Grace.
As the Necromancer waved the torch, the bones Darian had just shattered suddenly snapped back together, launching themselves at the trio like jagged blades. The Tarnished, who had been silent until now, lunged forward. Using a tattered cloth gathered from who-knows-where, he expertly bundled the bone shards mid-air.
"Thanks for the materials," he remarked. Drawing the Crescent Blade, he thrust it into the ground. A wave of golden energy swept forward, reducing both the Necromancer and the skeletons to fine ash.
"A formidable weapon. What is it?" Darian looked from the Tarnished's blade to his own, feeling his armament suddenly seem quite dull by comparison.
"It's a secret. I'm not telling you."
Darian's eyebrow twitched at the blunt refusal.
They continued deeper until the thundering sound of massive blades striking the floor echoed through the halls. As they drew closer, they saw three gargantuan guillotines falling rhythmically from the ceiling.
"Ugh... a bit macabre, even for a tomb. Why build it like this?" Rogier shivered. Just as Darian prepared to dash through the trap, the Tarnished pulled him back and pointed upward.
Following his gaze, Darian saw a small ledge positioned above.
"I've seen my fair share of catacombs. Based on my experience, the true path lies up there." The Tarnished stepped onto one of the falling blades just as it hit the ground, riding it upward as it retracted toward the ceiling.
"Ha... a bit of a hassle, isn't it?" Rogier gave a strained laugh before he and Darian followed suit, using the guillotines to reach the upper level.
The upper floor appeared empty, but the battle-hardened trio remained on high alert. However, fortune was not on their side. A group of enemies had been lying in wait around a corner; as the trio turned, a dozen skeletons swarmed them, the sheer weight of the crowd separating the Tarnished from Rogier and Darian.
"Curse it! Why are there so many!?" Darian spat as a torch-bearing Necromancer grinned wickedly from the shadows. Meanwhile, the Tarnished faced his own obstacle: seven or eight small skeletons led by a hulking, dual-wielding skeleton.
By the time the Tarnished cleared his path, Rogier and Darian had been shoved by the skeletal mob into a pit below. The Tarnished peered over the edge to check on them. Fortunately, they were unhurt and called out that they would find a way back up, telling him not to worry.
"Well, I guess we're splitting up," the Tarnished muttered. He scanned the area and noticed a small path directly opposite the pit. It looked like a dead end, but just as he was about to jump down to join the others, he recalled Sellen's words.
Someone is hiding here... If they were hiding, they wouldn't be a simple gatekeeper, nor would they be in a common room. Recalling the hidden doors of the Academy, the Tarnished began to methodically tap on the walls, seeking a concealed passage.
Illusions were common in this world, especially for someone hiding in a sunless grave. After several failed attempts, his gaze fell upon the final wall. He walked toward it slowly.
Behind that wall, a slender, dark shadow gripped a wickedly shaped shortsword, pressed against the stone, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
"Hmm?" The Tarnished stood before the wall without moving. Behind it, the shadow held her breath. She was exhausted, but she could sense the man on the other side was powerful. As an assassin, if she lost the element of surprise, she was finished.
The shadow prepared to strike first, but at that exact moment, the Tarnished threw a punch. Sensing the lethal intent, the shadow dove backward. The sheer force of the punch's wind shattered the illusory wall, and the shadow was blown back a dozen meters.
(Not good...!) She was horrified. Her preemptive strike had failed, and if this man could break her illusions with just the wind from his fist, she had zero chance in a direct confrontation.
"Ha... so the person Sellen said was hiding here is you." Judging by her appearance, she was definitely a woman—exceptionally tall, perhaps two meters. In the Lands Between, the only women of such stature were the Numen. And that silent landing... those fluid movements...
"You're a Black Knife Assassin, aren't you?"
"!" The assassin's grip on her blade tightened.
"Hmm... what a coincidence." The Tarnished's eyes grew cold as they landed on her dagger. "Is that the weapon used to kill Godwyn?"
"A... remnant of the Golden..." the Black Knife spoke. Her voice was as cold and clear as ice—emotionless, yet not unpleasant to the ear, though most would find it chilling.
"A remnant? I suppose so. Godwyn was my nephew, after all. Knowing that, you should understand why I've come for you." The Tarnished's laugh was dark. He had been genuinely fond of Godwyn—a perfect child who inherited Godfrey's strength and Marika's grace. He had even coached the boy in combat.
Though they weren't father and son by blood, the bond was close enough. Learning of Godwyn's assassination had kindled a quiet, burning desire for retribution against these assassins.
"Ah..." Hearing his frigid tone, the Black Knife didn't show fear. Instead, she seemed almost relieved.
"Hmm?" The Tarnished found her reaction strange.
"May I ask... is Excellency the White Wolf...?" There was a note of hope in her voice.
"Oh? You know me?" As the Tarnished confirmed his identity, the Black Knife let her dagger fall to the floor. She dropped to one knee.
"You... you truly have returned. If that is so... the Black Knives can finally rest..."
"What is that supposed to mean?" The Tarnished sensed a profound air of resignation, as if she were seeking death.
"Our lives... Destined Death... all lie in your hands, My Lord. We have... fulfilled our mission." She lowered her head, murmuring words that left the Tarnished bewildered.
"Speak clearly. No riddles. I have no patience for those who speak in circles." The Tarnished cast aside his helmet and knelt to look her in the eye.
"This mask even covers the eyes..." He reached for her cowl. The Black Knife flinched slightly but did not resist. The mask was removed, revealing a face of cold, breathtaking beauty.
Now, the Black Knife saw the Tarnished's face clearly. It was exactly the face her Master had described... the one who would bring an end to the Black Knives.
"It truly is you..." She lowered her gaze, her lips curving into a faint, tragic smile.
"I've changed my mind. I won't take your life yet. I'm curious—how exactly do you know who I am?" His grey eyes locked onto her pale blue ones.
"I... cannot say." She bowed her head.
"Why did you strike Godwyn?"
"Again... I cannot say."
"I see... I see." The Tarnished nodded and stood up. The Black Knife remained silent. He could see it now: a faint, almost invisible trace of golden scripture—a geas—etched upon her right hand.
"Stand up," he commanded, his back to her.
"But..." she hesitated.
"If someone entrusted you to me, then I believe I have some authority over you, don't I?" He turned and offered a small, knowing smile.
"Yes..." After a moment's thought, she stood obediently. The Tarnished sat on a nearby stone bench and gestured for her to join him. They sat side-by-side in a silence that filled the entire chamber.
The Tarnished had abandoned the idea of killing her because he realized this situation was far from simple. He saw the marks of a silence curse on her—a spell designed to seal one's lips. Combined with the fact that someone had "entrusted" them to him and the assassin's desire for death, the pieces began to fall into place.
This was an internal affair of the Golden Order. The mastermind behind the Night of the Black Knives was someone who knew him personally. As for who... the Tarnished already had a very good idea. The Black Knives had followed their orders, and once the task was done, they were meant to be silenced by death—specifically, by a Destined Death delivered by his hand.
It was a plan perfectly in character for that person.
"Ah... the Greater Will," the Tarnished sighed, looking toward the ceiling. "The reason you must die... it's because of the Greater Will, isn't it?"
The Black Knife stiffened. Her reaction was all the confirmation he needed.
"It's not hard to guess. You 'assassinated' Godwyn. The envoys of the Erdtree and the Greater Will could never let you live." Rumor had it that the Fingers, the emissaries of the Greater Will, possessed the power to warp the consciousness of others. The Black Knives—highly trained and wielding the power of the Rune of Death—were the perfect blades to be used and then discarded to bury the truth of that night.
"However, since you've been entrusted to me, I won't let you die."
"My Lord..." The Black Knife was moved, but she quickly added, "But Lord Godwyn... he..."
"The boy probably had no regrets." Based on the goals of the mastermind, Golden Godwyn—the perfect successor to the Golden Order—had to die.
Godwyn surely knew the Night of the Black Knives was coming. Even if the assassins could infiltrate the capital unnoticed, even with the power of the Rune of Death, the possibility of them killing Godwyn in a fair fight was near zero. Godwyn was too powerful—the pinnacle creation of the lineages of the Barbarian King and the Golden Goddess.
Yet, Godwyn died. The conclusion was obvious: he had died willingly, playing his part to accommodate "her" plan.
The only question was: had becoming the Prince of Death also been part of their calculations?
•
And, that's for today! I have translated around 80chs of this series, and among it was few extras and interlude. However I won't post those additional chapter here, at least until the main story end. But if you can't wait to read it, you can found more on my Patreon here—↓
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