The air in the dungeon turned static, the tension so thick it felt like a physical weight. Gilbert's face was a grotesque mask of disbelief, his eyes darting between Hance's trembling sword and Valerian's impassive face.
"Hance… you traitorous dog!" Gilbert hissed, his voice cracking. "Do you think this brat can protect you? Guards! Kill them both! I'll have your families flayed for this!"
The two guards behind Gilbert didn't need further prompting. They were career soldiers, conditioned to follow the orders of the Ironwood bloodline. They drew their longswords, the ring of steel echoing sharply against the stone.
"Targeting initiated," the synthetic voice of Nano whispered in Valerian's mind.
In Valerian's vision, the world didn't just slow down; it fragmented into a series of vectors and probability arcs. Red silhouettes highlighted the guards' movements before they even made them. Their muscle contractions, the shift in their weight, the slight lag in their nervous systems—it was all laid bare, a biological blueprint for their own destruction.
"Nano. Execute Ghost Blade. Minimize stamina expenditure. Maximize lethality."
"Acknowledged. Overclocking motor neurons in 3… 2… 1…"
Valerian moved.
To Gilbert and the guards, he didn't just run; he blurred. It was a movement that defied the physics of a malnourished fourteen-year-old. He stepped inside the guard on the left, his body twisting like a shadow.
The guard swung his sword in a wide, desperate arc, but Valerian was already gone. The boy's hand, guided by the microscopic corrections of the Nano Machines, shot upward. The iron dagger didn't aim for the chest or the gut—those were protected by leather and bone. Instead, the blade slipped into the narrow gap beneath the guard's helmet, right where the jaw met the ear.
Crunch.
The iron found the brain stem. The guard didn't even have time to grunt; his nervous system simply shut down, his body hitting the floor like a sack of wet grain.
The second guard roared, a sound born more of terror than bravery, and brought his blade down in a vertical cleave.
Valerian didn't retreat. He stepped into the strike's dead zone. He used his left hand to slap the flat of the falling blade, redirecting its momentum into the floor. As the guard's chest was exposed by the overextension, Valerian's dagger traced a silver line across the man's femoral artery and then up, through the soft tissue of the armpit.
Blood sprayed—a hot, crimson mist that coated Valerian's face. He didn't blink. He watched the light fade from the guard's eyes with the same detached interest one might show a guttering candle.
Six seconds. Two professional guards dead.
Valerian stood amidst the corpses, his breathing shallow but controlled. His rags were soaked in blood, his pale skin stark against the gore. He looked like a demon birthed from the very stones of the dungeon.
Hance dropped his sword. It clattered against the floor, the sound shattering the silence. He stared at Valerian, his knees shaking so violently he had to lean against the wall. He had seen death before, but he had never seen a slaughter so… surgical.
"My… my lord…" Hance stammered, his eyes wide with a new, primal fear.
"Pick up your weapon, Hance," Valerian said, his voice as smooth as silk. He didn't even sound winded. "The floor is slippery. Don't fall."
Gilbert was backed into the corner of the cell, his expensive silk doublet stained with the blood of his own men. He was hyperventilating, his eyes fixed on the two bodies. "You… you're a monster. You're not Valerian. What are you? Some kind of spirit? A demon?"
Valerian walked toward him. Each footstep was deliberate, calculated to maximize Gilbert's psychological collapse.
"A demon?" Valerian mused, stopping inches from his brother. He reached out a blood-stained hand and gripped Gilbert's golden hair, yanking his head back. "No, Gilbert. A demon has passions. A demon feels anger. A demon enjoys the kill."
Valerian leaned in, whispering into Gilbert's ear.
"I feel nothing at all. To me, you are just a poorly written line of code in an unoptimized world. And I am the debugger."
"Please…" Gilbert sobbed, the smell of urine suddenly filling the air as his bladder failed him. "I'll give you anything. The inheritance… the title… I'll tell Father it was an accident! Just let me live!"
Valerian's eyes flickered with a cold, blue light.
"Nano. Analyze the Baron's personality profile based on host memories. Probability of him accepting a 'peaceful' transition of power if I let Gilbert live?"
"Analyzing… Baron Archibald Ironwood: High pride, low empathy, values strength above all. Conclusion: He would view Gilbert's survival as a sign of your weakness. He would hunt you to protect the family's 'honor.' Probability of hostile retaliation: 94%."
Valerian sighed. "Logic dictates otherwise, Gilbert. You are more valuable as a tool of provocation than as a living being."
"Wait—!"
Valerian didn't wait. He didn't even use the dagger. He grabbed Gilbert's throat with his bare hand.
"Nano. Stimulate grip strength. Bone-density reinforcement."
The sound of Gilbert's windpipe collapsing was like the snapping of dry kindling. Valerian held him as he thrashed, watching the struggle with a clinical gaze, until the light finally left the boy's eyes.
Valerian let the body drop. It landed in the straw, joining the others.
"Hance," Valerian said, turning to the last surviving guard.
Hance jumped, standing at stiff attention. "Yes, Master!"
"Go to the barracks. Tell the men that Lord Gilbert and the guards were attacked by an assassin—a professional from a rival house. Say that I, the 'mongrel,' managed to drive him off but couldn't save the others."
"But… the wounds, Master! They'll see the dagger work!"
"The wounds will be consistent with an assassin's style by the time you return," Valerian said calmly.
He turned back to the bodies.
"Nano. Reconstruct the wound patterns. Use the iron dagger to simulate a 'Flowing Shadow' style common among Asuran mercenaries. Disguise the precision strikes as frantic, high-skill combat."
"Acknowledged. Beginning tissue manipulation."
Hance watched in horrified fascination as the wounds on the corpses began to shift. The clean, surgical punctures widened into jagged gashes. Skin was torn, bones were artificially shattered from the inside, and the very angle of the entries changed as if the bodies were being remolded by invisible hands.
It was a miracle. It was a nightmare.
"Go," Valerian commanded. "And, Hance… if you speak a word of what you truly saw, I won't kill you. I will dismantle you, piece by piece, while you are still awake to watch. Nano can keep a heart beating for a very long time without the rest of the body."
Hance didn't wait for a second warning. He bolted out of the dungeon, his footsteps fading into the distance.
Valerian stood alone in the dark, surrounded by the dead. He looked at his hands, watching the last of the blue light fade.
"One variable removed," he whispered. "Now, for the source."
He began to walk out of the cell, his mind already calculating the layout of the mansion above. He didn't feel the cold. He didn't feel the weight of the lives he had just extinguished. He only felt the hum of the machine in his soul, and the steady, cold ambition of a predator who had just found his first hunting ground.
End of Part 3