Chapter 22: Dead Men tell No Tales

A pack of dogs with sharp, well-trained noses.

Gima cursed them inwardly. She had absolutely no desire to be run out of Salem City with her tail between her legs, leaving her precious, treasure-filled vault for these hyenas to claim.

She put her hands on her hips, lifted her chin in a perfect imitation of aristocratic disdain, and said, “What seems to be the matter, gentlemen? You surround Sir George without cause. Are you looking to die and become the subject of a bard’s sad, cautionary tale about overconfident, and very dead, robbers?”

Sir?

The other soldiers finally took a good look at the armor George was wearing. The articulated pauldrons, the fingered gauntlets, the gleaming steel boots… this was no off-the-rack set from a common armorer. It was a suit of masterwork full plate, the kind that had to be custom-made by a master blacksmith to ensure each piece was both incredibly strong and fit the wearer like a second skin. It was outrageously, prohibitively expensive, far beyond what any ordinary person could ever afford.

Many of them unconsciously lowered their swords.

The man with the white scar, however, had noticed George’s full plate armor from the very beginning. It was precisely because of it that he was so suspicious of the two of them.

“And are we supposed to salute you? Just because you say so?” the man with the white scar said slowly, his eyes narrowing. “Let’s make this simple. Either you obediently open your bags and let us search you, or… don’t blame me for not offering the proper etiquette for guests.”

Gima felt a little nervous. George, beside her, was as silent as a stone statue. She knew he was waiting for her to cooperate, to be his straight man in this little play. She turned her head, gave George a meaningful look, and said:

“Do you really think a noble knight from Barto, suddenly surrounded on the street in a foreign land, would just drop his weapons and submit to a common search? Isn’t that exactly what robbers would demand?”

“Indeed,” George replied, his voice flat.

“And under siege by robbers, would a great Bartonian knight drop his weapons and meekly say, ‘Oh, but I’m a nobleman! You must follow the law and salute me, pretty please!’?”

“Huh? That can’t be real.”

“Oh, it’s real. But only in the fevered fantasies of a robber’s mind. Do you know what a Bartonian knight would actually do, my master?”

“He would cut them down with his sword.”

The tip of George’s greatsword slowly, almost lazily, pointed towards the face of the man with the white scar.

“Oh, I forgot to properly introduce my master to you,” Gima said with a sugary-sweet smile. “My master was born in the legendary kingdom of knights, Barto.”

“Yes.”

The man with the white scar didn’t know why George had simply answered “Yes,” but he felt it in his bones. George’s words were completely, unshakably persuasive. They were the truth. And so, he subconsciously believed that George was, in fact, a knight from Barto. And by extension, he started to trust Gima’s words as well.

But it was still deeply suspicious. How could they have just happened to run into them here, at this exact time?

The man with the white scar didn’t believe in coincidences.

“If you are willing to cooperate and are found to be innocent, I will personally apologize to you,” he said, his tone much more polite, but he still insisted.

“You have casually slandered my master, and now he feels he must defend his honor with his sword,” Gima said, her voice rising with dramatic flair. “So, you have two choices. Either you apologize and leave immediately, or you duel. Whether it’s one-on-one, or one against a whole group of you, my master is more than happy to oblige.”

George added, his voice a low rumble, “Yes.”

A few of the soldiers immediately had second thoughts, taking a nervous half-step back until their backs were pressed against the wooden counter.

Gima secretly activated her “Eyes of Desire” to observe their psychology. She saw seven-colored mists rising from their heads, forming seven different colored clouds above them. Among them, the pale green cloud symbolizing wrath was gradually, but noticeably, shrinking. This should mean that they were starting to back down.

The man with the white scar hesitated. Although it was a considerable loss of face, searching a Bartonian knight without any real reason was indeed unjustifiable. His brothers wouldn't risk their lives for this.

He opened his mouth, about to give himself, and his men, a way out.

Gima, without a moment's hesitation, flicked her little finger at the pale green cloud. The cloud symbolizing wrath instantly expanded, “standing out” from the other seven clouds like a poisoned mushroom.

A sudden, irrational surge of anger rushed to the man with the white scar’s head, and he instantly changed his mind.

This is just a routine search of a suspect! On what grounds do they slander me as a robber? And look at that little brat’s eyes! She doesn’t even see me as a person! And that knight, so arrogant he won’t even speak to me directly!

It was just a normal search, and yet they demand an apology? It’s time to teach this arrogant brat, and his master, what the laws of Salem City are all about!

The man with the white scar roared, “Brothers, are we really going to apologize to this arrogant little bastard?!”

The others, also feeling a sudden, inexplicable surge of anger, thought much the same.

“So what if he has full plate armor?!” 

“There are eleven of us!”

“Come on! Here’s our apology!”

One of them grabbed a ceramic pot and threw it at George. George shattered it with a casual backhand swing of his sword, and the sharp fragments scraped across the face of the man with the white scar.

“Cut him down! We’ll throw him in the dungeon!”

The man with the white scar led the charge, rushing forward with his longsword held high. The others charged at George as well. Gima was so scared she immediately covered her head and squatted down, making herself as small as possible.

George didn’t hesitate. Like a professional baseball player hitting a home run, he gripped his sword with both hands, twisted his waist, and poured all his strength into the greatsword, executing a basic, but devastating, sword technique—the Power Strike.

The blade swept to the left, so fast that one soldier didn’t even have time to react. His neck and one shoulder fell away from his body. The sword slowed slightly, giving the second soldier in its path a fraction of a second to react. He had just raised his sword to block. But when his longsword met the greatsword, it was immediately, violently knocked away. The greatsword swept across his neck, silently severing his cervical vertebrae. The greatsword then continued its deadly arc towards the man with the white scar in front of George.

He killed two men with one blow! He dares to ignore my attack and still try to kill me!

The man with the white scar’s eyes were bloodshot with fury. He swung his sword at the tip of George’s, intending to parry it and then close in to grapple George, to throw this iron turtle to the ground.

George was completely unmoved. He instantly changed his slash to a thrust. The greatsword scraped against the longsword, sending a shower of sparks flying, easily pushing it aside and plunging deep into the man with the white scar’s chest.

The man with the white scar subconsciously tried to stab him in a final, dying blow, but found he had no strength left in his hand. He looked down and saw that the greatsword’s heavy crossguard had already entangled the hilt of his own longsword, trapping it completely.

Even in heavy armor, George was still wary of his dying blow. He was a professional.

This person is no ordinary knight. His swordsmanship is terrifyingly, impossibly strong!

The man with the white scar’s eyes widened. The greatsword was pulled from his chest, and his body fell limply to the dusty floor.

The searing pain in his chest spread, dispelling the blinding anger that had clouded his mind. He was suddenly, horribly clear-headed.

Some sword styles emphasized both offense and defense, using offense as the ultimate form of defense. A sword technique that could achieve both offense and defense in a single, fluid motion was known as a Master Strike.

Undoubtedly, he had just died from a perfect Master Strike. And his opponent had executed it during a "Power Strike," effortlessly killing two of his brothers along the way. Three men, with one blow.

To die by such brilliant, masterful swordsmanship… he had no regrets.

The man with the white scar closed his eyes, letting his life drain away onto the filthy floor.

By the time George had swung his sword for the sixth time, the one-sided slaughter had turned into a grim game of cat and mouse.

The remaining three men were so scared they turned and ran towards the back room, shouting, “Split up! Split up!”

The three of them split into two groups and fled in different directions. A general store in the Tinder District would naturally have more than one back door. They believed that as long as they escaped, they would tell their superiors everything that had happened today and have a warrant issued for these monsters.

They believed they could escape. Because they had been standing at the very back, with a tall, heavy wooden counter blocking the way. By the time the man in full plate armor got over the counter, they would have long since escaped out the back door.

But they were wrong.

George easily, almost gracefully, vaulted over the counter, which was taller than Gima. Like a rhino in heat, he charged forward, killing the two soldiers who had run together with two quick, efficient slashes. The other soldier had just pushed open the back door, and the bright sunlight from outside fell on his terrified face.

A powerful hand grabbed his shoulder from behind and pulled him back into the dark doorway.

BANG! The back door slammed shut, cutting off his horrified, gurgling scream.

…

In the silent, blood-soaked general store, Gima closed the front door and thoughtfully hung up a “Closed for a Break” sign. She turned her head, looked at the bodies all over the floor, and received her feedback—the glorious, satisfying feedback of a successful conspiracy.

This feedback made her body feel wonderfully comfortable. She felt that she had taken another significant step forward on the path to power, that she had just touched the threshold of her next evolution.

She opened her personal panel system and, as expected, saw in the message log:

>DM: Your mastery of the succubus’s supernatural powers has taken another step forward.

A predatory smile appeared on Gima’s lips. She walked over to the body of the man with the white scar, drew her short sword, and plunged it into his neck. The body just twitched slightly. This was Gima’s habitual method of preventing enemies from playing dead.

She continued to search him and found a bronze insignia.

Supernatural beings were ranked according to their power level, with Black Iron, Bronze, and so on as identifiers. Later, a group of bored mages had hoped to use a similar ranking system to measure combat power, and it had become quite popular. A Bronze-rank could be a battle-hardened old soldier famous in the army, or an old adventurer with some minor supernatural power. For most ordinary people, it was the absolute limit of a lifetime of effort, enough to live a comfortable, well-fed life.

But for Gima, it was just a slightly larger, slightly tougher cannon fodder.

“A cannon fodder’s tag,” Gima said, tossing it aside with disgust. “He probably didn’t even have any real supernatural powers. How dare he wear a Bronze tag? Does he have no shame?”

Gima finally found a heavy, clinking money pouch. She immediately took it out and was about to stuff it into her own non-existent pocket.

“Gima!”

Gima was startled. She looked up and saw that George had returned, his armor spattered with blood.

“You scared me! Hey, don’t look at me like that. I’m just collecting the spoils of war. It’s my right as a victor.”

“You look like a vulture feeding on a corpse.”

“George~~” Gima put on a wronged expression. “I don’t believe for a second you didn’t strip the Demon Lord Kima’s corpse for loot after you defeated him. These people attacked us first. They were greedy robbers.” And I just gave them a little… encouragement.

“Stop searching for money for a minute. Come with me and search the house. See if the informant left any clues.”

Gima immediately dropped the money pouch and ran towards George. The long wooden counter blocked her way. She jumped up and reached out her hand to George. George took her hand, and Gima vaulted over the counter with practiced ease.

They went to the bedroom first. The informant was an old man, and he had died quite… artistically. He was leaning back in a chair, blood pooling on the floor beneath him.

The two of them searched high and low. Gima was especially thorough, touching every candlestick and handle, not missing any potential sign of a secret room. She didn't want to let go of any clue that could lead to her freedom.

And for this clue, she had used George. Ah no, can you really call it ‘using’ when it’s a tool?

When she had been stopped by the man with the white scar earlier, Gima had realized that he had no backup, that they were in a house where they could easily be wiped out, and that killing them might even yield a valuable clue. The thought of silencing them had risen in her mind.

And in just a few seconds, she had a preliminary plan. She knew George would never take the initiative to kill and silence them, so Gima had simply created the conditions for the other party to make the first, foolish move.

The only difficulty was to make it seem natural, so that George wouldn't suspect a thing.

Thinking of this, Gima couldn’t help but peek at George. They had been searching for almost ten minutes now. He hadn’t said a word. It seemed he hadn’t noticed her little conspiracy at all.

Gima secretly breathed a sigh of relief, mocking herself for thinking George was too smart.

“Found it,” George said, pulling a tattered notebook from under a loose floorboard. He flipped through it. “Writing intelligence in a diary. Clever.”

Gima went over to take a look and saw that the last few pages of the account book had been neatly torn out.

George frowned. “He was a triple—no, a quadruple agent. I don’t know if he sold our information to someone else.”

“Are the Holy Sanctuary’s informants so impious?”

“If he were pious, he would most likely have ended up in the pile of people at the city gate,” George said, reading the text. “I see a mage who works for the Good Master, named Nudelhi. But…”

“But what?”

“But the following pages have been torn out,” George said. “I’ve heard that a mage helps the Good Master create those evil slave contracts, but I’m not sure if it’s him.”

“A clue is better than no clue. Let’s go find him.”

“This feels like a conspiracy. We just happened to run into the soldiers, and the book just happened to have a part torn out.” George paused, staring at Gima. “Don’t you think it’s strange?”

Gima felt a little guilty. “Very strange.”

“The strangest thing is, how did that group of soldiers suddenly get so angry and attack us?” George’s gaze focused into a sharp, piercing beam, landing on Gima’s face. “They were a little scared at first, but then they suddenly got angry. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes.”

“I saw your little finger twitch,” George said.