Chapter 60: Borgias assassin prodigies

Lyerin stood before Lucius, his gaze sharp, intense, and utterly devoid of pity.

Lucius, dangling upside down by the monstrous grip of the Mana beast, struggled fruitlessly in the air. His face contorted with fear, and his eyes, once full of bravado, were now filled with desperation. But Lyerin didn't savor this. He wasn't one for prolonged torture, despite the dark satisfaction it might bring to others.

His hand moved without a flicker of hesitation, faster than the eye could follow, with his clawed fingers glowing with a faint aura of violent magic.

With one powerful crushing intention, Lyerin thrust his hand forward, and his claw-like fingers pierced Lucius' skull with ease, cracking through bone and flesh as though it were an eggshell.

The sickening sound of bone shattering reverberated in the silence of the dungeon.

Crack!

Lucius' body convulsed briefly, then fell limp. Blood ran down Lyerin's arm in slow, thick rivulets.

To Lyerin, it was a quick and necessary action. He could have prolonged Lucius' agony, but what would be the point?

Torture was the tactic of men who enjoyed suffering for its own sake, who found joy in drawing out the inevitable.

Lyerin saw things differently. He believed in the efficiency of death--swift, final, and without ceremony.

"Pain and suffering," Lyerin muttered to the empty air as he retracted his bloodied hand from the lifeless skull of Lucius, "are fleeting distractions for those who fail to understand the true meaning of control. When death is inevitable, prolonging it serves no purpose. Torture is only the refuge of the weak.

The strong know that a clean death is enough, and that, for the one who delivers it, the true victory lies not in the suffering inflicted, but in the execution itself."

He wiped his hand on his tunic as he continued speaking, his voice calm and steady, almost as if he were reciting a lesson to unseen students. "Lucius, an assassin should never wait for their enemy to grow stronger, to become ready, to find balance. No matter how weak or small the target, you strike. Hesitation is death. Weakness, no matter how insignificant, must be eliminated.

Even a mouse can become a beast if left to grow in the shadows."

For a brief moment, Lyerin's eyes narrowed.

Something was... wrong.

His instincts screamed at him, but it was too late. As he withdrew his hand from Lucius' skull, the body in front of him began to dissolve. Not in the slow, inevitable way that flesh decays, but in an instant.

The solid form of Lucius disintegrated into wisps of smoke, with the heavy scent of sulfur filling the air around him.

Lyerin's lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.

"Ah," he mused, "so there was more to this after all."

He barely had time to finish the thought before his senses flared again. His eyes flickered upward, and in the blink of an eye, a dagger was hurtling toward his head.

The blade gleamed with a dark, malevolent energy, its edge sharp and deadly.

Lyerin didn't flinch.

Instead, he tilted his head ever so slightly, just enough to avoid the strike.

As the blade passed him, he raised his hand, infused with transparent magic, and casually swiped the dagger aside in a deft parry.

The blade blurred as it moved, passing through the air with a force meant to split flesh and bone. But it seemed to miss its mark.

Boom!

The dagger exploded as it hit the far wall, sending fragments of stone and steel flying.

The dungeon rumbled with the force of the blast, but Lyerin remained rooted in place, unshaken. He raised his hand once again, releasing a transparent shield of mana that extended outwards, protecting both him and the Cragar'Throm Clan Mana beasts that surrounded him.

The shield shimmered for a moment as the blast's force dissipated harmlessly against it, then disappeared as quickly as it had been summoned.

When the smoke cleared, Lyerin looked up to see a woman standing a few feet away. She was fully clothed in dark, form-fitting robes, her body tense with exhaustion.

Her face, though partially obscured by a mask, showed enough to reveal her weariness--her heavy breathing, the faint tremble in her stance, the sheen of sweat on her brow. But despite her fatigue, her eyes burned with a cold, deadly resolve. Sёarch* The nôᴠel Fire.nёt website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Lyerin chuckled softly. "Aria," he said with a smile, his voice laced with amusement. "The Silent Blade herself. I should have known."

Aria didn't respond. She simply stood there, her eyes locked on him, her breathing still labored.

Lyerin studied her for a moment, taking in the small details--the subtle shifts in her posture, the way she clutched her remaining daggers tightly, the slight quiver in her muscles as if she were barely holding herself together.

"You've built quite the reputation for yourself, haven't you?" Lyerin said, his voice conversational, almost as if they were old friends exchanging pleasantries. "The Silent Blade of the Borgias family, known for their ability to slip into the most fortified places unnoticed, to eliminate targets before they even realize they're in danger.

A master of illusions, creating false realities so convincing that even the sharpest of minds are fooled."

He smiled wider, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of respect and condescension. "But as impressive as your illusions are, Aria, they're nothing more than tricks. Tricks, no matter how elaborate, can only delay the inevitable. And now," he said, gesturing toward the crater left by the explosion, "your tricks have run out."

Aria's gaze flickered with something akin to fear, but she remained silent, her grip tightening on her weapon.

Lyerin could see the toll the battle had taken on her. She was drained, and even though she was skilled beyond most, her energy was fading fast.

Before Aria could make her next move, Lyerin turned his gaze to the opposite side of the chamber.

There, another figure emerged from the shadows, fully cloaked and masked, but Lyerin could sense immediately that this was another woman. Her movements were lighter, more graceful than Aria's, and even though she was covered head to toe, Lyerin's eyes narrowed with recognition.

"Kira," he said softly. "The youngest prodigy of the Borgias family. The most ruthless of your generation, they say. A killer without hesitation, without remorse."

Lyerin's smile faded into something darker, more serious as he regarded her. "You've left quite the trail of bodies in your wake, haven't you? Butchering anyone who stands in your way. It didn't matter if they were defenseless, it didn't matter if they begged for mercy. Men, women, children--you slaughtered them all without blinking."

He let out a small sigh, his tone mockingly sympathetic. "Such a young girl, and already so filled with darkness. The stories they tell of you are... disturbing. They say you revel in the fear of your victims, that you smile as you drive your blade into their hearts. But, then again, that's what makes you so dangerous, doesn't it? It's not just your skill, Kira.

It's the fact that you enjoy the kill. That you find joy in the suffering you inflict."

Kira didn't move, didn't respond, but Lyerin could sense the tension building within her. Her silence was unnerving, but he knew better than to be fooled by it. She was calculating, always watching for the right moment to strike, much like a viper waiting to sink its fangs into its prey.

"And finally," Lyerin said, his voice taking on a more measured tone, "there's Varus."

He turned his gaze to the last figure standing at the edge of the chamber.

Varus, like the others, was fully cloaked, his face obscured by a mask. But Lyerin could feel the poison that clung to him like a second skin.

It radiated from him, invisible to the eye but unmistakable to anyone with a sharp enough sense of mana.

"You," Lyerin said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper, "are a monster in your own right. Not because of your skill with poison, but because of what you do to create it. How many lives have you taken in the name of your experiments, Varus? How many innocent people have you tortured, left to die in agony, just so you could create something new? Something more potent?"

Lyerin's smile returned, though it was colder now, filled with barely concealed contempt. "I wonder how many people are still suffering because of you. How many of your victims are lying in some dark, forgotten place, writhing in pain as your poisons eat away at their bodies? And all for what? For the sake of progress?"

Varus remained silent, his posture relaxed, as though he were completely unaffected by Lyerin's words. But Lyerin could see the faint twitch in his hand, the subtle tightening of his grip on his weapon. Varus was far from indifferent. He was simply waiting for the right moment to strike, just like the others.

Lyerin let out a soft chuckle, his eyes glinting with amusement as he looked at the three assassins arrayed before him. "I must admit," he said, his tone light and mocking, "I didn't expect to see all of you here. The Silent Blade, the ruthless prodigy, and the poison master, all in one place. I suppose I should have listened to that unknown fellow that I killed."