Chapter 123: Make it Clean
But before the weight of this new reality could crush her, a new sound cut through the night. It was a sharp, whistling sound, the sound of an arrow cutting through the air at incredible speed.
Rhys moved in a blur. He appeared in front of Emma, his simple iron sword flashing out to deflect the arrow, which sparked and clattered harmlessly to the ground. Another arrow followed, then another. They rained down from the darkness of the surrounding forest, silent and deadly.
From the trees, figures began to emerge. There were at least thirty of them. They were not the clumsy outer disciples Rhys had dealt with before. These were true assassins. They wore tight, dark leather armour, their faces covered by black masks. They moved with a silent, deadly grace, their weapons held with the confidence of experienced killers.
On their shoulders, they all bore a small, subtle sigil: a single, crimson sun.
The real assassins, the ones sent by the Crimsons, had finally arrived.
They fanned out, surrounding the small, burning clearing, their cold, professional eyes taking in the scene of chaos and death. Their leader, a tall man with a long, thin scar across his eye, stepped forward.
He looked at the dead sect disciples, then at the bodies of the Lyra retainers. He looked at the broken, weeping form of Austin on the ground. Then, his cold gaze settled on Emma, and the silent, terrifying figure of Rhys standing in front of her.
"It seems someone has already done half of our work for us," the assassin said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "No matter. The pay is the same."
’So they have no idea her father sent someone to kill her,’ Rhys thought. He locked eyes with Emma for a fraction of a second and gave a barely perceptible nod. This confirmed it. There were two separate plots against her. One from her father, and one from the Crimson Sun family.
That meant her father and the Crimsons weren’t working together, and their motives were entirely different. Her father wanted her dead, while these assassins were here to capture her.
The assassin leader raised his hand, a simple, clear signal.
"Kill the guard. Capture the princess. Make it clean."
The assassins moved in perfect unison. They did not shout or make grand gestures. They saw a single Tier 3 guard and a princess who had just endured a mental shock. To them, this was not a fight. It was a simple job. Rhys did not give them a chance to complete that job.
He did not wait for them to reach him. He did not brace for their attack. In the instant the assassin leader gave the command, Rhys moved.
He used his Low-distance Jump, but not to retreat. He anchored it on the assassin leader himself. The space between them seemed to fold. Rhys vanished from his spot in front of Emma and reappeared directly in front of the scarred man, his face inches from the assassin’s mask.
The leader’s eyes widened in shock. He had no time to react. He had no time to even process the impossible speed. Rhys’s hand was already moving. He did not use his sword. He simply held up his open palm, and a small, thin blade of pure blackness formed in it.
He pushed the Twilight Edge blade forward. It touched the assassin’s chest.
There was no sound of impact, no resistance. Instead, a brilliant, blinding flash of pure, white light erupted from the leader’s body. The light was so intense it bleached the world white for a second. The other assassins stumbled back, their eyes temporarily blinded.
When the light faded, their leader was gone. There was not even a body. Just a faint, glowing hole burned into the ground where he had been standing, and the smell of ozone in the air.
The assassins froze, their professional calm shattered. They had never seen anything like this. Their leader, a powerful Tier 4 cultivator, had been erased in an instant.
Rhys did not give them time to think. He was a ghost in their midst. He used Shadowed Dive, his form dissolving into a black blur that flickered between the stunned assassins. He moved with a speed that their eyes could not follow.
One of the assassins finally managed to react. He swung his sword in a wild arc, aiming for the blur of motion. But he was too slow.
A black blade appeared from the shadows and touched his neck. Flash. Another silent, clean death.
Panic erupted. The disciplined formation of the assassins broke. They were no longer hunters; they were prey. They turned to run, to escape the silent, deadly ghost that was slaughtering them.
But there was no escape. Rhys was a whirlwind of death. He did not chase them. He simply moved among them, his Twilight Edge blades appearing and disappearing in his hands.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
One by one, they fell. Each death was the same. A silent touch of darkness, followed by an unexpected, annihilating burst of pure light. There were no screams. There was no struggle. There was only a series of brilliant, silent flashes that lit up the dark, burning clearing.
In less than ten seconds, it was over.
Rhys stood alone in the centre of the clearing, surrounded by the faint, glowing spots on the ground where thirty professional assassins had once stood. He was breathing calmly, his simple iron sword still in his hand, unused. He had not needed it.
The clearing was silent now, except for the crackling of the burning tents. The fire cast long, dancing shadows over the dead.
The few surviving retainers, who had been hiding behind the wrecked carriage, stared at him with expressions of terror. The young guard they had seen as a simple protector was a god of death.
Rhys turned and walked back to where Emma stood. She had not moved. She had watched the entire slaughter, her green eyes wide with a look that was no longer just awe. It was confusion, and the strange lack of fear in her eyes warmed Rhys.
He stopped in front of her, looking down at the broken form of Austin, who was staring at the empty spaces where the assassins had been, his mind completely shattered.
Rhys’s gaze was calm, as if he had just finished a simple chore. "What about him?" he asked, his voice a low, even tone that cut through the silence.
The question pulled Emma back from her shock. She looked down at Austin. The man was a pathetic sight, his body broken, his will shattered. He was no longer a threat. He was just a sad, old man who had made a terrible choice.
Austin, hearing Rhys’s question, scrambled forward on his hands and knees. He grabbed the hem of Emma’s dress, his face a mess of tears, blood, and dirt.
"My princess," he cried, his voice a pathetic wail. "Please... please have mercy. I was wrong. I was a fool. But I... I raised you. Don’t you remember? The sweet cakes I would bring you from the kitchen? The stories I would read to you in the library? I taught you your letters! I was like a father to you! I... I loved you like my own daughter!"
He sobbed, his body shaking. He was trying to appeal to the little girl he had once known, the lonely child who had looked at him with trusting eyes.
Emma looked down at the grovelling man. She remembered the sweet cakes. She remembered the stories. She remembered the kind, gentle man who had been her only friend in a cold, lonely castle.
But that man was a liar. His care was a lie. The person clinging to her dress was a traitor who had sold her to her enemies, a coward who had served a man who wanted her dead.
The little girl he was crying for was also dead. She had died a year ago. She had died again tonight, when she had been forced to face the full, ugly reality of that betrayal.
She looked at Austin, and she felt nothing. No anger, no sadness, no pity. Just a cold, empty finality. The past was a chain, and it was time to break it.
She looked up at Rhys, her piercing green eyes meeting his. Her face was calm, her expression resolute. The frightened, emotional girl was gone. In her place was a queen.
Her voice was clear and steady, without a single hint of hesitation.
"Kill him."