Chapter 661: No, Daniel

She turned her head in the woods and smiled at him. Her milk-like skin shone in the morning light and mist, unlike anyone else.

And he could only stare at her foolishly. The confidence, pride, and ease he showed before others were useless at this moment.

The only thing he could do was try his hardest to hide the bouquet behind his back.

But she was so clever. She had long since seen the flowers in his hand and seen through the embarrassment on his face.

"No, Daniel," she said, her cheeks faintly red. "You are a young master. If someone saw, I would die of shame."

I would die of shame...

Die of shame...

Of shame...

Shame...

But, he grew even more embarrassed and at a loss, what should he do? Should he tell her that these were flowers he had painstakingly picked all along the Mirror River?

A chill came over him.

Her voice sounded again, but now it was as cold as frost.

[No, Daniel.]

On the second-floor corridor, Doyle abruptly woke. At the critical instant, he raised his arm and swung his sword, knocking aside the lethal blade that came straight for his face.

Clang!

Bad. Amid the collision of metal, Doyle gritted his teeth desperately. Why did I lose focus at a time like this?

But reality gave him no time to think. The enemy's second strike followed like a shadow, forcing him to recall the most basic swordsmanship footwork: sidestep, turn, block, and at the same time leave the best space for counterattack.

Just as the old knight had taught.

Yes, the old knight, that annoying red-nosed old man. At this moment, he lay crookedly in the knight training ground that had once been crowded with visitors, but was now filled with the sour smell of wine. All around him were the filthy things he had vomited.

"Do you know, little Danny?" The old knight drunkenly raised his head, groped vaguely for his bottle, and muttered mad words that Doyle did not understand. "As knights, we ought to draw our swords for the weak. But reality is, if we do not draw our swords for the strong, we will not even have swords. On this point, that broken tower sees more clearly than we do."

As a squire under him, Doyle could only cover his nose and mouth in disgust, thinking that today's morning training was probably ruined again.

"So, little Danny, the smartest thing we can do is get drunk from one cup until morning whenever we have no choice but to draw our swords for the strong! Hahaha, cheers, my little squire!"

The old knight moved the empty bottle to his mouth, shook it hard, then fell flat again into the nauseating filth.

"So fuck swordsmanship! Fuck knights! Fuck Imperial Wind! Fuck the Standing Army! Fuck 'the troubled times must end'! Fuck the Empire eternal!"

A sudden sense of tension seized Doyle's heart.

The old knight's words repeated by his ear, deafening.

[Fuck the Empire eternal!]

With a violent jolt, Doyle finally realized that he was on the second-floor corridor of Diop's residence, facing the whistling wind of a sword.

But he no longer had time to dodge. He could only barely block.

Bang!

With a muffled sound, Doyle and his sword fell into a room on the second floor. He grimaced, feeling pain everywhere in his body.

"Focus." The old knight was incomparably strict, even the whiskers over his lips bristling like a hedgehog. He struck Doyle's crooked sword hand with a stick, making the latter hiss and shrink back. "If you really cannot focus, then use pain to help yourself. No, what use is pinching yourself? Think. Think about the most painful, most unbearable, most agonizing memory you have, the kind you cannot escape from. Experience it in your mind again and again. Then, trust me, you will discover that swinging and practicing the sword in dullness without thinking of anything is such a damn happy thing."

What is going on?

Doyle shook his head desperately, trembling as he climbed up from the floor and picked up his sword.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

He retreated to the window and confirmed again and again with himself that this was Jade City, the scene of a murder, not the old knight's training ground from his childhood.

Footsteps came. The enemy carried a knight's longsword and stepped from the dark corridor into the room, his whole body carrying a cold air.

Under sufficient light, Doyle saw the opponent's full appearance clearly, and his pupils shrank.

The man who stepped into the room was dressed in an extremely unusual way.

From top to bottom, his chest, arms, legs, feet, and crotch were all tightly wrapped in black cloth of unknown material, revealing not the slightest bit of skin or distinguishing feature. Even his head was covered in a deep-black face covering and headscarf. Only around the eyes did he wear a pair of dark action goggles.

Is he...

Doyle stared at the other party's outfit in disbelief.

Afraid of being recognized?

Or an assassin accustomed to moving in the deep night, specialized in hunting and killing?

"You..."

Doyle worked hard to restrain himself and not blurt out, "Do you not feel suffocated?"

"What trick was that just now?"

The black-clad assassin stopped before him.

"You are far weaker than him." Behind the dark goggles, the assassin gently turned the sword in his hand. His voice was cold. "That big fellow was very tough. He held out for at least eight rounds and still forced himself not to fall after taking three strikes."

Doyle jolted and remembered his comrade.

"What did you do to Glover?"

He shifted his steps and carefully looked toward the corridor.

"Zombie, are you all right?"

But Glover did not answer.

The other party said Zombie held out for at least eight rounds...

Damn it. It is all this cursed corridor's fault. If I had arrived earlier and attacked from front and back...

But Doyle immediately reacted, and his heart panicked.

Bad. Now he was the only one left.

The black-clad assassin sneered.

"But only so tough."

The moment the words fell, the enemy leaned forward, and his longsword struck!

No matter how panicked Doyle was, he had no choice but to brace himself and raise his sword to meet the enemy, barely knocking aside one strike.

Damn it. The enemy's sword was very steady, fierce and lethal.

He gritted his teeth and told himself, how did I get stuck with this rotten luck?

But this was not the hardest thing to deal with. What was even more fatal was...

"Raise your head! You are my son! You are a man of the Doyle family! Hmph, such a tiny matter, and it is worth scaring you like this..."

His father stood heroically with hands on hips, scolding him.

In his memory, this was the old baron's most impressive moment.

No, it is happening again!

Doyle shook his head desperately, pulling himself back from distraction into reality, then exerted all his strength to block the strike already before him. Was this how Glover fell for it? Losing focus while fighting, then toppling headfirst?

But he, Danny Doyle, social flower of the Guards, was weak... ahem, he was someone with other strengths!

When it came to swordsmanship, fighting, marching and battle, and even reliability, he was inferior to Glover!

How did he end up in danger, fighting the enemy to the death?

Was that not something the main character should do?

The enemy's sword moves were ruthless, and Doyle felt powerless. Before long, his left hand was struck, and he had no choice but to stagger backward.

What to do? What to do?

What to do?

He had no choice but to block while desperately shaking his head, struggling to think of current matters and avoid falling into inexplicable distraction.

When will the prince and the Blade of Terror's reinforcements arrive? That frightening Morgan, or that cocky Neshy. Even that Arunde woman would be fine!

He could not hold out alone!

No, wait, did he really have reinforcements? Did Mallos know he was here?

No, no. Focus. Focus. Stop thinking about other things. Hurry and think about how to survive. Could he jump out the window? Land in a better-looking pose? This fellow who dared not show himself could not chase him down an entire street in broad daylight all the way to Emerald Palace, right?

Ah, no. Zombie was still in the corridor. If he left, what would happen to that big blockhead? Sigh, in the end, this was all that stupid big blockhead's fault. Fuck attacking from front and back!

Amid his chaotic thoughts, Doyle's flaw was finally caught by the enemy. The black-clad assassin sneered, and a straight thrust broke through his defense.

[Think. Think about the most painful, most unbearable, most agonizing memory you have, the kind you cannot escape from. Experience it in your mind again and again. Then...]

The old knight's words sounded again, but this time, he was especially severe.

Doyle froze.

The enemy's sword point approached his head. It looked impossible to avoid.

The girl's voice sounded in the void.

[No, Daniel... I would die of shame.]

In that instant, Doyle felt his heart clog.

No.

Thump.

His heart contracted violently.

No.

Trembling, he remembered something.

In an instant, he instinctively stepped, dodged, and blocked. At the cost of letting the other party cut open his shoulder, he avoided this lethal strike.

"Mm?" The black-clad assassin questioned when the strike missed.

[...I would die of shame.]

No.

His body was moving, but his heart wailed powerlessly.

It hurts so much.

No.

[...die of shame.]

Pain spread from his heart, extending through his whole body, awakening the Power of Eradication that had slept for so long. Together, they let out endless wails.

It hurts so much!

No.

No.

No.

[You are a young master... no.]

"No!"

Amid heart-piercing pain, Doyle roared, as if tearing apart all perception before him.

At this moment, his Power of Eradication covered his brain like a spider. Its legs pierced into his flesh, seizing all his attention and spirit with incomparable agony, ordering him to forget those distracting images, ordering him to step, drop his shoulder, and swing his sword...

Clang!

Amid the clash of metal, Doyle breathed in a daze. The spider of the Power of Eradication still covered his mind, merciless and cold, moving its legs back and forth, yet completely unable to relieve the sharp pain in his heart.

Block. Advance. Force the opponent to defend.

Use this strike to lure the enemy, then counter with the next.

Find the right position. Prepare the killing move.

The feelings of the past crossed time and returned to his consciousness and body, the sword techniques and tactics he had once thought he had long forgotten.

But why...

Why did it still hurt this much?

"I misjudged you." The black-clad assassin swung his sword rapidly, his figure growing faster and faster, yet he still had strength to speak. "You are better than that big fellow... huh?"

Doyle had no mood to listen to his nonsense. Pain with nowhere to go flooded his perception like waves, suffocating him, and he could only use a roar to vent the resentment in his heart.

"No!"

Swish!

At last, Doyle's sword broke through the opponent's defense. With a Triumphant Strike once taught by the old knight, it rushed straight toward the opponent's chest.

Just like ancient knights in a duel, delivering the killing blow at the final moment.

Clang!

An unprecedented metal collision rang out. The black-clad assassin looked somewhat disheveled, but still completely blocked this killing move, retreating seven or eight steps until he had backed out of the room.

Damn it!

Doyle roared in his heart. Why? Why did it not hit? Why was it not lethal?

Fuck!

The merciless spider in his brain began moving again, which made him instantly calm down and immediately realize that the assassin before him was a swordsmanship expert.

Even his strongest killing move...

"Your Triumphant Strike is too scattered and too soft. It is entirely supported by a burst of ferocity," the black-clad assassin said, stopping outside the room and quietly observing Doyle, who was panting constantly. "You have not practiced enough."

Doyle froze for an instant.

"Are you Joaquin's student? Or the student of his student?" the black-clad assassin slowly asked, gradually pacing back into the room. "Or perhaps you even served as a knight's squire, which is how you learned the Legion's Ten Forms, including Triumphant Strike. Right?"

Joaquin.

The moment this name appeared, Doyle's thoughts paused for a second.

"Yes, Danny Doyle. These things you are learning will be useful. Even though the Bloody Year has passed, even though knights are no longer honor." The old knight's stick was still sharp, and being struck by it hurt terribly. As for Doyle, he only wondered when class would end so he could go find her. "You will face that moment. Everyone will. Whether with sword, or with life."

Joaquin.

Joaquin...

The spider in his brain moved again, pulling Doyle back to reality.

The black-clad assassin sneered. With a turn of his hand, he changed into another sword stance, and his aura changed with it.

Rigorous, grand, and strong.

Imposing and majestic.

But looking at the other party's posture, Doyle froze.

This familiar feeling...

In the next second, before he could react, the black-clad assassin attacked again, and their swords crossed in a flash.

The black-clad assassin attacked, turned, and dodged.

Doyle blocked, advanced, and counterattacked.

In move after move, the two attacked and defended, responding to each other with incomparable smoothness, like perfectly interlocking blocks.

As if they had practiced against each other hundreds or thousands of times.

This exchange did not last long. The two touched and separated.

Doyle looked at the black-clad assassin in shock, while the other party observed Doyle through the goggles on his mask.

"That is Marching Form, the opening stance of the Legion's Ten Forms," Doyle said in a daze. "You, old Joaquin, no... who are you? What are you to Teacher Joaquin? Also his student?"

In that instant, the old knight's figure did not disappear. Instead, it became clearer, overlapping with the person before him.

But... no, impossible.

According to his father, old Joaquin's students and squires, those seniors several generations older than him, had all, in the Bloody Year...

"No wonder."

The black-clad assassin did not answer him. Instead, he laughed to himself.

His laugh was cold and frightening, hoarse and unpleasant.

"No wonder you are the same as him," the black-clad assassin slowly said, bone-deep hatred in every word. "A failure."

The moment his words fell, the black-clad assassin suddenly bent his knees and lowered his body.

Doyle instinctively raised his sword, only to discover that the other party was not attacking him, but dodging.

Whoosh!

A cold sword light appeared above the black-clad assassin's head, missing by only a small margin.

In the next second, the black-clad assassin turned without pause and swung his sword, exchanging three strikes back and forth with the sneak attacker.

As their figures shifted, the black-clad assassin's sword wind was fierce, forcing the sneak attacker back.

Seeing who had come, Doyle was overjoyed.

"What, Royal Guards?" the black-clad assassin looked at the other person. "Do they have women now?"

The sneak attacker shook her sword and said coldly,

"Soon they will."

"Lady Miranda!"

Doyle breathed out, feeling as if the sky had brightened.

"Thank the heavens you finally... careful!"

Before his words fell, the black-clad assassin struck again, attacking Miranda, who had come to help.

The swordswoman refused to show weakness. Sword light flashed repeatedly as she met the enemy.

"Pegasus Movement." After two exchanges, the black-clad assassin still had leisure to speak during battle. "The easiest kind to recognize, and also the easiest kind to deal with."

Miranda frowned, and her sword momentum grew even stronger.

"He has an ability!"

Doyle could not interfere and anxiously shouted a warning.

"It can disturb the mind..."

But his warning came too late.

In Doyle's eyes, Miranda's Eagle Soar swam rhythmically toward the black-clad assassin, but halfway there, it paused and drooped crookedly.

As if it had suddenly fallen asleep.

Miranda's eyes were dazed, and her lips trembled constantly.

"All right, but Mother, you are not allowed to peek. You have to count to one hundred before you can come find me..."

The black-clad assassin sneered, and his sword edge went toward Miranda's neck.

Bad!

Doyle roared and charged toward Miranda, but he was too late.

No, no, no!

Bang!

There was a muffled sound. A figure crashed in from outside the door and slammed the black-clad assassin into the wall.

Miranda fell to the ground, shook her head hard, and struggled to regain clarity.

"Zom... Glover!"

Seeing the enemy suppressed, Doyle was both shocked and delighted.

"Ah, you are not dead! Damn attacking from front and back..."

But Glover ignored him.

At this moment, Zombie was covered in blood and looked like a madman. He choked the black-clad assassin's neck and pinned him tightly against the wall. His hair and beard bristled, and he shook his head in pain.

"Teto, little Teto... bastard, what did you do in my head?"

But only an instant later, Glover trembled all over and released the black-clad assassin.

"No, no! All right. I will not cry, I will not shout, I will not shake. I will hold this apple properly..."

With a thud, Glover knelt on the floor, his face full of terror.

"I know, my ability," the black-clad assassin said under Doyle's disbelieving gaze, tidying the clothes Glover had torn open and clicking his tongue as he shook his head. "I do my best to restrain it, but... you know, it is like instinct. No matter how you hide it, you will eventually reveal a flaw and show your true form."

He casually stretched out a hand, pushed the absent-minded Glover over, then stepped forward, retrieved his sword, and looked again at Doyle.

Doyle stared at his companions in shock. Glover leaned against the wall, trembling constantly, while Miranda lay on the floor, struggling to rise.

Only then did he react, and his heart went cold.

How am I the only one left again?

"You are very young." The black-clad assassin twisted his head, and his joints crackled. "Joaquin must have taken you in during his later years?"

"Truly unfortunate, for both you and him."

Watching the other party approach step by step, Doyle swallowed.

That was right. Being taken in by that old drunk knight was indeed not very fortunate.

"You are too weak, little Daniel. You cannot endure hardship, have no perseverance, and have even less of the will to face death calmly. Sigh, I fear you will never cultivate the Power of Eradication and become a knight in this life." The old knight took a drink and sighed to him under the star-filled sky. "But that is also fine. You must know, there are some people who, even with the Power of Eradication, are not worthy of being knights."

Damn it, again. That fellow's ability!

Doyle slapped his head hard.

[No, Daniel.]

The familiar and terrifying voice sounded by his ear.

It drew out countless pains, letting him drive away the memories and struggle to overcome the assassin's ability.

"The Royal Guards," the spider crawled back onto his brain, entering his consciousness amid pain and ordering Doyle to return to the residence, ordering him to grit his teeth and raise his sword. "The Royal Guards will not let you go."

Mm, no need to count on the Blade of Terror.

Would Guard Officer Brich help avenge him?

At least for the sake of an old subordinate?

"Royal Guards? I have encountered three, one after another. Indeed, each was very strong." The black-clad assassin did not care and approached step by step. "I only killed one of them."

Killed one Royal Guard...

Doyle's heart thumped, and he instinctively assumed Marching Form.

The black-clad assassin sneered behind his mask.

"Will you be the second?"

Doyle glanced at Glover and Miranda, then smiled.

The spider in his brain mercilessly plucked his nerves, forcing him to speak.

"I hope I am the last."

The black-clad assassin was silent for several seconds, then slowly raised his sword.

At that moment, Miranda finally came fully awake and spoke while panting.

"Window."

Doyle stared at the black-clad assassin with all his attention. Hearing this, he froze.

"What window?"

Crash!

In an instant, amid a crisp shattering sound, the glass on the window broke, frightening Doyle.

Thud!

With a muffled sound, the black-clad assassin instinctively raised his hand to block. Immediately after, he jolted hard and fell to the ground.

Among the shards of glass scattered everywhere, Doyle saw in surprise that a long arrow had pierced the black-clad assassin's arm, its arrowhead entering his chest, depth unknown.

Doyle instinctively turned his head.

Outside the window, on the roof opposite the residence, Paul Borzdorf stood calmly with bow in hand, methodically nocking a second arrow.

The big fool was right.

Western Wastelanders really do shoot accurately!

The black-clad assassin cursed, propped himself up with his sword, and roared as he rushed out of the room.

He was injured. He could not run far!

Doyle's spirits lifted. He was just about to call Zombie and the invincible northern steel swordswoman in the room to chase, but both had fallen in the room and could not rise, much less pursue.

But he immediately reacted.

Hey, is this not my chance, Danny Doyle's chance, to single-handedly achieve great merit, hold my head high, and take back the little cloth bear?

Thoughts turned quickly, and Doyle instinctively stepped forward to chase the black-clad assassin.

Haha, this black-cloth-covered birdman from head to toe is not so impressive after all!

But the instant he took the second step, the spider of the Power of Eradication in his brain mercilessly withdrew its legs.

In that instant, the injuries left by his fight with the black-clad assassin returned to his senses all at once: arm, wrist, calf, back. The pain made him shout, and he fell with a thud.

Holy shit!

Why does it hurt so much?

"Do not worry. We are only the first batch of reinforcements. There is a net outside," Miranda said, rubbing her temple and gnashing her teeth. "No need to chase. He cannot escape. Ah, this damned illusion."

Is that so?

In that case, mm.

Amid the pain filling his body, Doyle made up his mind to sacrifice himself for others.

The chance to achieve great merit should be left to someone else. There must be someone who needs it more than me.

Besides...

Remembering the black-clad assassin's skill just now, Doyle panted in exhaustion, still afraid.

[No, Daniel.]

He abruptly trembled.

What is... what is this?

That black-clad assassin had fled, had he not?

Why, why was his ability still affecting me?

[No, Daniel.]

At this moment, Danny Doyle stared blankly at the unconscious Glover and suddenly felt a chill on his wrist.

It was a drop of water.

Was it raining?

No, that was not rain.

One drop, two drops, three drops. More and more water fell onto his hand.

In the next second, the spider lying on his brain completely shrank back.

Doyle was abruptly shocked.

What... what is going on?

In the room left in utter disorder, he only then discovered, trembling, that before he knew it, his face had long been covered in tears.