Chapter 181: Kamikaze Attack

The deep darkness of the night swallowed everything in sight. In Aleisterre’s military encampment, dim torchlight resembled the sole glimmer in the depths of the sea, attracting the attention of strange and eerie beings lurking in the surroundings.

In specialized nightcloaks, the assassins moved through the forests along the cliffside, concealing their forms as much as possible. They possessed specialized abilities focused on stealth.

Their footsteps fell upon the grass and leaves without as much as a single rustle. Even as their bodies brushed against bark and branches, the swaying of the foliage didn’t disturb the stillness of the surrounding environment.

This was “Silent Stride,” a technique used by assassins in Selwyn that incorporated both fighting spirit and magic.

The combined effects of the two forces were astonishing. As long as the assassins maintained a slow pace, all external disturbances caused by their movement would be significantly reduced, including their very presence.

Under the cover of night, these assassins approached the Aleisterre military camp at an eerily slow pace, as if they were merely taking a casual stroll.

Though there were no visible obstacles concealing them, an observer relying solely on the naked eye would find it difficult to detect their presence.

The raiders carried minimal equipment—only a single, oddly-shaped dagger that served as their weapon.

The dagger had a peculiar design. The blade forked at the center and split into three sharp edges. The grooves along the blade were intricately engraved with mysterious inscriptions.

The craftsmanship was exquisite; the dagger was less like a weapon and more a ceremonial artifact.

As time passed, an eerie silence loomed. The darkness enveloping the land grew ever more profound. The magical moon was exceptionally dim tonight. Thick clouds obscured most of its light, making the assassins’ approach even harder to detect.

Their hoods completely shrouded their faces, and the black robes covering their bodies concealed all distinguishing features—gender, age, and even physique.

The flickering flames of the military camp dimmed further. The soldiers, lulled into a false sense of security by prolonged minor skirmishes with no major bouts of fighting, had grown complacent.

No alarms were raised as the assassins approached—400 meters, then 300, 250, 150… The only sounds from the camp were occasional footsteps, the clinking of weapons, and intermittent snores.

The assassins moved ever closer to their target: the forward outpost of the Aleisterre army at the edge of the Sighing Canyon.

Their daggers were ready, their muscles tensed. Everything was proceeding smoothly—almost too smoothly. The Aleisterre soldiers’ didn’t seem vigilant at all. The ease with which they had silently eliminated a patrolling soldier earlier was proof enough.

Among them, a knight concealed himself with his potential, blending into the void. His eyes locked onto the enemy camp as he advanced alongside the assassins, drawing ever nearer to the outpost at the canyon’s edge.

Once they were in range, these assassins would give up their lives to ignite the flames of war.

The final hundred meters passed in the blink of an eye. There were yet no alarms raised, nor any reaction from the Aleisterre camp.

The moment they reached striking distance, all the assassins simultaneously dispelled Silent Stride, raised their peculiar daggers, and charged.

Even at full speed, their movements were unnervingly silent. The impact of their feet barely stirred the earth beneath them.

Though most of the assassins ranged from intermediate to advanced knights-in-training, their specialized training regimen allowed them to sprint far faster than others of the same level.

The first assassin reached the camp’s edge. The tents loomed ahead. Without hesitation, he slashed forward.

Despite its unusual shape, the dagger was sharp enough to cut through the thick tent fabric with ease, allowing the assassin to leap into the camp.

He lifted his weapon high, eyes scanning his surroundings, muscles poised to strike. At least one kill—if he could just take out even one of these unsuspecting, unguarded soldiers…

A flicker of confusion crossed his concealed face. The soldiers weren’t there.

The tent’s interior was intact. Armor, swords, and supplies were all present—all save the soldiers themselves.

The torch in the center of the camp crackled, casting flickering light across the space. The crisp sound of burning wood only emphasized the eerie silence.

“Where are they?” The assassin hesitated, his dagger hovering in midair without a target.

Then came a split second of realization: something was wrong, terribly wrong.

Those who had stormed other tents encountered the same scene. There was no one for them to strike. Everything inside the camps remained untouched, yet the Aleisterre soldiers—their sole objective—were nowhere to be found.

The knight accompanying the raiders felt a mounting sense of dread. The moment he sensed the abnormality, the ominous feeling in his gut grew stronger.

“Withdraw immediately!” he shouted.

All the assassins began retreating at once, but it was already too late.

Unbeknownst to them, thick stone walls had risen around the perimeter of the camp, encasing the entire outpost within an unbreakable barrier of earth and rock.

The walls were only about three meters high, and should have been easy to scale for knights with superhuman physique.

One assassin followed the command to retreat as he sprinted toward the wall. He leaped, planting his foot against the stone to propel himself higher and almost clearing the barrier—Darkness split as arrows streaked through the air. The sound was faint, nearly imperceptible.

The arrows struck with deadly precision.The escaping assassin froze in mid-air, his body pierced in his back, throat, and chest. He crumpled against the wall, lifeless, his dagger slipping from his fingers.

His comrades reacted instantly. They had fallen into a trap. They didn’t know how they had been discovered, but the enemy had clearly been prepared to surround and annihilate them.

“How were these walls raised so quickly? Earth magic? No—impossible. The mana required for stone this hard would be enormous, and there were no detectable energy fluctuations before they appeared.”

The hidden knight racked his brain for an explanation while watching his fellow assassins scramble for cover as they sought refuge from the unseen archers.

“Damn it. These walls were pre-constructed. They just had to be raised when needed. That way, the required mana would be minimal, making them impossible to detect in advance.”

He had figured out the trick, but it changed nothing. Their situation remained dire.

Concealed by his potential, the Unseen, the knight surveyed the battlefield and traced the trajectory of the crossbow bolts.

Atop the farthest wall stood a group of Aleisterre soldiers, their military-grade crossbows aimed and ready.

These were the same type of enchanted crossbows Avia had once used against Beran, but further refined. The enchantments for stealth and piercing had been greatly enhanced.

The silent execution of the escaping assassin had been carried out by these deadly weapons.

The knight’s pupils contracted as he recognized one of the soldiers standing on the high ground—the patrol soldier they had eliminated earlier.

“…I shouldn’t have killed him.” It was a grave miscalculation. Whoever he had killed must have been an illusion, a clone, a decoy spell—bait meant to lure them in.

By the time he had “killed” that particularly exposed guard, they had already been exposed.

“Fire a volley, then deploy alchemical incendiaries into their cover. My duplicate was too easily slain—there’s at least one full-fledged knight among them. Stay sharp.”

From his vantage point, Kevan coldly issued a command. As the stone walls turned their camp into a death trap, the true battle began.

Kevan, a member of the Nightblades, was the captain of the outpost at Sighing Canyon. He had been reassigned to the frontlines after the war began, and appointed as the commanding officer of this outpost—the one closest to the Selwyn army—as a result of his unique potential.

His potential, Dual Aspect, allowed him to create a duplicate identical in appearance and thoughts to his real self, though with only a third of his physical attributes. This duplicate could patrol the area, serving as the perfect sentry.

If the duplicate were killed, all of its experiences would be transmitted back to Kevan’s memory.

When that Selwyn knight slew Kevan’s duplicate, he had exposed the Selwynian intruders.

Arrows rained down upon the Selwyn assassins trapped within the stone-walled encampment. The sharp and powerful crossbow bolts rendered ordinary wood useless as cover.

Weak barricades would easily be pierced. Several assassins hiding behind flimsy shelters were skewered in this first volley, their bodies turned into pincushions.

Volley after volley followed, giving the Selwyn forces no chance to escape. The Aleisterre soldiers reloaded and fired relentlessly, leaving no gaps in their assault. For the assassins who were mere knights-in-training, escaping was seeming more and more like a dream.

Even those who managed to survive the first wave by taking shelter behind sturdier defenses had merely postponed their demise.

Kevan had already given orders on how to deal with these enemies hiding behind cover. They would be engulfed by roaring flames.

Earthen jars filled with alchemical solvent were hurled throughout the encampment by Aleisterre soldiers from elevated positions.

As soon as they struck the ground, the jars shattered, spilling the alchemical fuel everywhere. The sharp, acrid stench of the alchemical solvent instantly spread through the entire camp.

The assassins sensed imminent disaster, but they had no means to escape. All they could do was grit their teeth and brace for the coming inferno.

Moments later, torches were tossed down from above. By then, the highly flammable alchemical solvent had thoroughly drenched the area. The instant the fire met the fuel, flames erupted into the night sky.

The searing firestorm, walled in by stone, consumed the entire outpost. The fabric of the military tents, the wooden support structures inside, even some pieces of equipment—everything was reduced to ash and ruin.

This was a negligible cost for annihilating the Selwyn invaders without sustaining any injuries themselves.

Firelight flickered in Kevan’s eyes, reflecting the blaze that mirrored the intensity of his own emotions. Beneath his cold exterior, his mind roiled with unease.

Selwyn’s sudden night raid had shattered the current stalemate. A minor victory like this brought him no joy—what followed would be full-scale conflict, and with it, unimaginable casualties…

Suppressing his thoughts, Kevan’s cold gaze once again swept over the burning encampment. The flames obscured the enemy’s condition, but he didn’t lower his guard. He had no intention of ending up like the Selwynian assassins, after all.

The alchemical solvent burned fiercely and swiftly, consuming most of the oxygen within the walled space.

Then, the flames gradually weakened. As the alchemical solvent finally burnt away, all that remained of the camp was glowing embers smoldering in a thick blanket of ash.

Kevan scanned the area. The entire encampment was covered in blackened remains, with occasional embers dancing in the rising heat, making it difficult to assess the situation.

Although he had already relayed the report to command, reinforcements would take time to arrive. There were no field magicians attached to this unit—magicians being far more precious than knights—so they lacked scouting magic.

That meant they had to go in and confirm the enemy’s status themselves.

“Stay alert. Defensive formation. Focus on recon and prioritize your own safety.”

The soldiers raised their shields and formed a defensive formation around Kevan as they carefully descended from the stone wall into the smoldering remains of the camp.

Their wary eyes scanned the surroundings, on guard for any surviving enemies who might still be capable of launching an ambush.

Kevan’s eyes narrowed slightly. He had already noticed something amiss. As expected, the fire hadn’t been enough to kill the Selwynian knight, the one who had slain his duplicate in a single strike before it could even react.

The enemy’s potential didn’t truly render him nonexistent, only difficult to perceive.

The layer of ash covering the ground left subtle traces when pressed underfoot, and the drifting embers faintly outlined his silhouette. He was closing in on them.

With a concealed hand signal, Kevan alerted the soldiers beside him. The well-trained troops understood the signal immediately. They pretended not to notice the approaching knight as they continued advancing, their defensive formation centered around Kevan.

The moment Kevan stepped past the hidden knight, he suddenly dropped his concealment. His charred and mutilated body lunged from the void, a twisted, burned face contorted in a grimace. The strange dagger in his hand was raised high and plunging toward Kevan’s chest with unwavering resolve.

Several long swords, already drawn, stabbed out in unison and pierced the knight’s burned, armorless body.

The soldiers were all knights-in-training. Their swords didn’t penetrate deeply; the true lethal strike came from Kevan’s thrust, a precise stab that pierced the knight’s sternum and utterly destroyed his lungs.

Even as his body was impaled by blades, the knight didn’t drop the strange dagger in his grip. Instead, he revealed a chilling smile.

“I offer up my soul—let the corruption descend!” His voice was low yet resolute. Without hesitation, he drove the strange dagger into his own chest. Blood flowed across the ornate, branching engravings on the dagger’s blade. A sinister, indescribable power began to manifest.

The knight’s eyes lost all light. His soul had been wrenched from his body and absorbed into the dagger.

His goal had never been to kill Kevan. The raised dagger had always been meant for himself. The other assassins, too, followed suit.

Amidst the smoldering embers, the dying assassins, still clinging to their last breath, raised their own strange daggers—and plunged them into their bodies.

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