49 - Deaths
The first night in the County of Libera was quiet.
Too quiet. Inside a modest roadside inn, the plump, unremarkable coachman retired early—just as any weary traveler would.
He ate a simple meal. Spoke little. Yawned often. And excused himself before the noise of the tavern could grow too lively.
“Long road,” he muttered lazily to the innkeeper. “Need the rest.”
The innkeeper nodded, uninterested. “Rooms are upstairs. Third door.”
Zafiel gave a tired nod. “Much obliged.”
He climbed the stairs slowly, his heavy footsteps deliberate. The floor creaked beneath him. Every movement was perfectly ordinary.
Predictable. Forgettable. Exactly as he intended.
---
The door to his room closed with a soft click.
Silence.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, the air shifted. The lazy posture vanished. The slight slouch in his shoulders straightened.
The dullness in his eyes disappeared. In its place, something sharp. Cold. Calculating. Zafiel removed his straw hat and set it aside.
His fingers moved with quiet precision as he loosened the outer layers of his disguise. Not entirely. Just enough. Enough to move freely. Enough to kill. He glanced toward the window. Night had fully settled over the town.
Perfect.
Without another sound, he disappeared.
---
The first knight never saw him coming. A hand clamped over his mouth. A blade pressed lightly against his throat. “Don’t move.”
The voice was soft. Almost gentle. The knight froze. His body trembled.
Zafiel leaned close, his voice barely above a whisper. “You scream…”
The blade pressed slightly. “… you die.”
The knight nodded frantically.
Zafiel smiled faintly. “Good.” He dragged the man into a narrow alley. Hidden. Dark. Isolated. “Now,” Zafiel said calmly. “let’s talk.”
---
The interrogations were… efficient. Zafiel did not waste time. Nor did he raise his voice. He asked questions. Simple ones. Names. Numbers. Locations. Supply routes. Meetings.
And when the answers came slowly, he adjusted. A slight increase of pressure. A shift in tone. A reminder of the blade resting against vital points. He never needed to shout. Never needed to rush.
Because fear did all the work for him. Within minutes, he had everything he needed. The knight sobbed. “… that’s all I know… please…”
Zafiel tilted his head slightly. “… I believe you.”
The knight’s eyes filled with desperate hope. “Tha-Thank you—”
The blade moved. Clean. Precise. Silent. The body collapsed before the sentence could finish.
Zafiel stepped back, expression unchanged. He wiped the blade carefully. No mess. No struggle. No witnesses. Then, he vanished again.
---
The second night, another knight disappeared. Then another.
Each one taken from isolated patrol routes. Each one questioned. Each one silenced. Zafiel moved like a shadow through the county. Unseen. Untraceable. Untouchable.
And every night before dawn, he returned. Back to the inn. Back to his room. Back to the role of a harmless, exhausted coachman.
---
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
“Sleep well?”
“Like a rock.”
Zafiel yawned as he stepped downstairs on the third day. He rubbed his eyes. Ordered breakfast. And ate slowly.
Like nothing had happened. Like the town was not quietly losing its knights one by one. Like he was not the reason.
---
By the fourth day, panic began to spread.
“Another one?”
“Yeah… gone.”
“No body?”
“None.”
Knights gathered in groups now.
Less laughter. More tension. Their earlier arrogance had begun to crack. Zafiel listened idly from a nearby table, chewing on bread.
“… maybe they deserted?”
“Deserted? Without pay?”
“… then what?”
Silence. Fear.
Zafiel took another bite.
Good.
---
By the fifth day, the knights changed tactics. They began searching. Aggressively. Doors were thrown open. Establishments were stormed.
“Anyone suspicious?”
“Speak up!”
“Have you seen anything unusual?!”
Zafiel watched as a group of knights barged into the inn. The innkeeper stammered nervously. “W-We get travelers every day—”
“Names!”
“I-I don’t keep records—”
Zafiel raised a hand lazily. “Oi." The knights turned. He scratched his head. “Something wrong?”
They looked him up and down. A fat coachman. Half-asleep. Unremarkable.
“Where are you from?”
Zafiel shrugged. “Everywhere.”
“Been here long?”
“Couple days.”
They stared at him. Then one of them scoffed. “Useless.”
They moved on. Zafiel yawned again. Lowering his gaze. Hiding the faint curve of his lips. Too many people. Too many travelers. Too many faces. They would never find him.
---
And in the heart of the county, inside a grand estate lined with polished marble and heavy curtains, the Count of Libera was trembling. “… how many?”
“A-At least seven, my lord…”
The Count’s face had gone pale. “Seven… knights… gone?”
“Yes…”
“No bodies?”
“… none.”
The Count gripped the edge of his desk. His hands shook. “Who is doing this?” No one answered. Because no one knew. The Count’s breathing grew uneven. “… no…” His eyes widened slightly. “No… no, no…”
A terrible thought had begun to form. Not bandits. Not deserters. Not random killings. This was… systematic. Controlled. Purposeful.
His voice dropped to a whisper. “… we’ve been found.”
The advisor beside him stiffened. “My lord—”
“They’ve found us.” The Count staggered back slightly.
His mind racing.
The meetings. The weapons. The coin. The plans. If they had discovered it... if word had reached them—
His body trembled.
Because there was something far worse than the Empire. Something far more terrifying than imperial punishment. A shadow. A hidden force. An organization that did not forgive failure.
His lips quivered. “… no…” He whispered. “… I won’t be taken.”
Not by them. Not to those dark places where screams never escaped. Not to the kind of torture that broke even the strongest men.
“Find him!” The Count suddenly shouted. “Find whoever is doing this!”
The knights bowed hurriedly. “Yes, my lord!”
But their eyes betrayed them. They were afraid. Because whoever was hunting them was far beyond their understanding.
---
That night, Zafiel stood on a rooftop. Overlooking the estate. His amethyst eyes gleamed faintly in the darkness.
He had everything he needed now. The names. The routes. The proof.
His lips curved into a cold smile. “… how disappointing.”
He had expected something more… impressive. But this? This was nothing more than a poorly concealed rebellion. Funded by greed. Driven by arrogance.
He turned his gaze toward the Count’s residence. “… shall we end this?” The wind stirred softly around him.
And somewhere deep within the estate, the Count of Libera shuddered as if he had just been marked for death.