473. Slaughter! Why Did Vesemir Teach Him Everything?!

The bronze door creaked open just a crack—then stopped.

A chill breeze blew in through the gap, carrying the stench of formalin, ether, and alcohol... and unmistakably, magic.

The scent of a laboratory.

No voices came from within, nor any sign of a human presence.

Whoever opened the door must have left—or perhaps it wasn't a person at all, but magic that opened it. That wouldn't be strange for a place run by male mages.

The cold wind snapped Danthe and the dazed House back to their senses, and they turned in astonishment to look at Allen.

"Let's go," Allen said calmly, reaching out and pulling the bronze door open.

There hadn't been any real trouble in Drakenborg for centuries. Even the few minor incidents hadn't affected the topmost tower where Rissberg's lab was located.

Negligence was only natural—making it as heavily guarded as a military stronghold would've been more suspicious.

Of course—

That negligence only applied if they hadn't been warned.

Now the value of killing the mage Padrek Vasquez was becoming clear. Otherwise, if they'd had to fight their way up, this one door alone might've held them up for a long time.

And time... leads to accidents...

"Mhm... alright..." Danthe withdrew his fingers, still half-formed in the Igni sign, then shoved a reluctant House forward and followed Allen through the doorway, courteously closing the door behind them.

Clang—

A soft echo rang out, and all the noise and commotion were cut off from the outside.

Inside the laboratory, a deathly silence reigned.

Yes.

A single glance revealed the lab was empty.

It was brightly lit, spotless, and well-maintained.

As with any laboratory, long metal-topped workbenches held neatly organized glassware racks—beakers, test tubes, retorts, mortars, and a wide variety of small instruments.

There were even decorative pieces, though the tastes were... questionable.

An ogre specimen with one eye, a wyvern suspended from the ceiling—those were bearable. Even a dust-covered human skeleton—at least Allen assumed it was human—was understandable.

But the glass display cases…

They held a disturbing number of jars—filled with murky alcohol or formalin—each one containing preserved specimens, both human and non-human. Most were organs... some were undeveloped fetuses, still attached to their placentas...

"Ugh—"

House gagged immediately upon seeing it.

The two witchers also frowned deeply.

"Didn't the late-night snacks already get delivered?"

From the eastern side of the lab—hidden behind shelves of preserved specimens—a puzzled male voice called out.

A deeper, mature voice responded, "It's probably Padrek Vasquez. He must've had too much to drink."

"Hmph," another voice snorted. "He's useless and just rides Lord Ortolan's favoritism—"

"Shut up!" the mature voice snapped.

"He can't hear you anyway. No one in Rissberg with less perception than him is going to notice much."

"Enough! He's only here to polish his credentials!" the voice said coldly. "Without him, where would we get this premium research material?"

"You want to risk offending the Witcher Order and ruining your reputation to go outside and catch witchers yourselves?"

House covered his mouth, bile rising in his throat. He dared not make another sound.

He couldn't hear the murmured voices from the other side of the lab. But he did see the faces of the two witchers darken ominously.

Their boots stepped silently across the expensive marble floor, weaving through the rows of grotesque display cases.

Two pairs of beast-like eyes—one blue, one brown—gleamed with a dangerous light, pupils narrowing to slits. They looked like starving wolves spotting prey—leaning low, muscles coiled, tails twitching.

House recognized the signs—it was the prelude to a hunt.

He knew better than to try and escape now, or cry out a warning. That would mean certain death. He had no intention of dying for a pack of male mages, so he followed, covering his mouth and keeping his steps light. Then, just as they passed a snarling werewolf specimen—

A battered steel sword appeared silently in the younger witcher's hand.

"Skill matters more than titles among mages. If you can become an Alzur, a Cosimo Malaspina, or Idarran, then not even the Rissberg Civil Cooperative—or the Brotherhood of Sorcerers—could restrain you…"

The mature voice, unaware of the approaching danger, was growing passionate and feverish: "And this body—this perfect body before us—is the key to that greatness. I've never seen a witcher with this level of physique at just thirteen years of age…"

"His blood harmonizes with gene mutation so perfectly. I imagine his pain during the Trial of Grasses must've been minimal…"

"He is the most flawless witcher specimen ever created. If we can study him, maybe we really can surpass Ortolan, prove the Übermensch theory, and complete the genetic blueprint humanity was meant to have…"

"And then... we'll be the ones assigning our own insiders to the other departments."

The other voices seemed thoroughly inspired by the speech, bursting into hearty laughter.

"So Quade, you really should thank Padrek Vasquez…"

"Hahaha!" the mage called Quade laughed. "I certainly do thank him—for letting us sneak our people into the Pseudo-Reptile Research Division. I'll make sure to handpick—"

"Quade, you're such a typical Ban Ard troublemaker!"

"You're no different, Elisha!"

"All right, enough," the mature voice cut through their banter. "If you're that grateful, Quade—go check on our esteemed Padrek Vasquez. Give him a sobering potion. We can't have him dying drunk in our lab."

"Our great work still needs Lord Ortolan's funding."

Elisha then sang out in a strange, theatrical tone:

"Go now! Go now, my Ban Ard bad boy—toward the glorious future where you'll stand beside Alzur, Cosimo Malaspina, and Idarran…"

"Damn it! You're the real bad boys!" Quade shouted with a laugh.

The conversation fell silent.

A breeze stirred from nowhere inside the lab, carrying once more the smell of formalin, ether, alcohol—and that familiar, heavy scent of blood...

Allen and Danthe exchanged a look.

"Let me handle it," a cold voice echoed in Danthe's mind.

Allen raised his right hand—the one holding Balmur—his expression grim. The steel sword gleamed with a cold, deadly light under the bright glow of the magical lamps, appearing sharper than ever.

Danthe pressed his lips together, glanced in the direction the wind was coming from, then nodded. He covered House' mouth and silently slipped into the narrow space between the glass tanks containing the specimens of a giant centipede and a massive ghoul.

The growing blaze of fury in Allen's heart brought with it a strange calmness. Like a true assassin, he lay in wait from the shadows, his heartbeat steady, watching his prey.

Tap, tap, tap~

Footsteps approached.

The mage named Quade appeared in Allen's line of sight for the first time. He was short and lean, with sharply defined features. The white lab coat draped over his body hung loosely.

A few drops of blood were smeared on the coat's midsection—carrying Bond's scent.

Allen's face remained expressionless. He didn't spare the blood a second glance. The Wolf medallion gave a faint tremble. In a flash of catlike blue, magic surged in his eyes as he scanned the mage from head to toe.

Quade was humming a cheerful tune as he passed by the cabinet aisle.

Allen stood up, stepped out from the narrow corridor, and tapped him on the shoulder...

His left hand quietly plucked the gem off the sleeve of the mage's coat. At the same time, as Quade's eyes turned back in stunned confusion, Allen covered his mouth—

Crack~

A crisp snap echoed.

The mage who was supposed to have a "glorious and magnificent future" had the light of magic vanish from his pupils in under two seconds.

No sound.

The dual-sword style of the Cat School at level 6 held countless assassination techniques within.

Empowered by supernatural strength, speed, and perception, Allen could very well be the greatest assassination master in this world.

Which is why the old saying held true:

'If you can get close to a mage, killing him is no harder than wringing a chicken's neck.'

"Allen, you…" Danthe stared in shock and disbelief at the youngest master of the School of the Wolf, watching him snap the neck of a full-grown mage with ease. Then, just as naturally, Allen removed the mage's lab coat and pulled it over his own crimson leather armor.

He even gently propped the mage's body beside the werewolf specimen, curling it into a fetal position.

In the bright magic lamp's glow, the shadow of the werewolf conveniently covered the corpse.

"Vesemir never taught me how to kill," Allen's voice rang in Danthe's mind, cutting through his astonishment. "I taught myself. Enough talking—keep up, Master Danthe."

With that—

Allen reversed his grip on the sword and silently sprinted in the direction the mage had come from.

His speed was incredible—but not a single sound could be heard.

Danthe hurried to follow, only to realize his hand was still clamped tightly over House' mouth.

House' eyes were wide with horror, filled with terror. His teeth chattered uncontrollably, rattling against each other.

"There's no need to waste time on that useless thing."

Danthe shook his head, removed his hand, and followed after Allen without another word.

----------------------------

By the time Danthe caught up, Allen was already standing just outside the half-open wooden door.

Here, the stench of blood was so strong it had completely overwhelmed the smells of formalin, alcohol, and ether.

"Put this on."

Allen casually pinned a green gem cufflink onto the inside of Danthe's sleeve.

"What is this?"

"An instant-cast gem. It's Quade's." Allen replied. "Don't bother refusing—I already have one."

He pointed to the obsidian gem at his collar.

The black-purple glow shimmered faintly. By comparison, the green light of the cufflink looked cheap and dull.

Danthe couldn't help but wonder where Allen got such a high-grade instant-cast gem.

No matter how much Lady Vera favored an apprentice, she'd never give something that valuable.

But thinking back to Allen's eerily familiar assassination technique from earlier—and taking in the atmosphere now—Danthe only glanced briefly at the priceless artifact, then withdrew his right hand and nodded.

"A chamber the size of the Great Hall in Fort Oldsea… narrow ventilation ducts… no windows…"

"Six mages. Three have gem cufflinks. The middle-aged one has at least two gems—one on each sleeve…"

Allen described the room's layout, the physical features of each mage, and gave his evaluation of their potential strength in remarkable detail.

In truth—

No matter how meticulous he was, there was no way Allen could accurately gauge a mage's true strength before the battle even began.

Not just because he'd only glanced inside quickly and didn't dare use Identify.

But because no one could.

A mage with multiple instant-cast gems, who appeared older, was generally assumed to be more powerful.

It made sense. A mage's wealth usually correlated with their strength. Unlike female sorceresses who cared for appearances, male mages often cultivated an air of maturity to seem more reliable once they attained certain ranks.

Yet even those who looked young and wore no gems at all—weren't to be underestimated. Many times, such assumptions had led to deadly mistakes.

After all, a low-tier spell, cast at just the right moment, could turn the tide—take something like a blinding flash spell.

Some mages might not have powerful spells at all, but wielded a mean quarterstaff and enhanced it with supporting magic.

It was all unpredictable… deeply unpredictable…

What made it worse—Bond was still inside. Once they rescued him, the Drakenborg guards would definitely be blocking the entrance. And with no windows in the lab, not only did they need to get the hostage out, but they also had to eliminate all the mages inside.

If even one escaped…

"What's your plan?"

Danthe, having heard everything, didn't ask how Allen could observe all that in such detail when mages were known for their sharp senses. He simply relinquished command.

Witchers are a profession built on discipline and expertise.

No matter where Allen had learned his techniques, when it came to assassination, he was clearly the more skilled of the two.

"I go in—five breaths later…"

Allen laid out his plan telepathically in Danthe's mind. Danthe nodded repeatedly, raising concerns where necessary, which Allen addressed immediately.

The discussion took a while.

Inside the lab, the thick, familiar scent of blood continued to intensify.

Bond's location being just outside their line of sight made every passing second feel torturously long for the two. But no matter how dire Bond's situation might be, charging in without preparation would only make things worse.

After a while…

"Quade's surprisingly patient today—not even arguing with Padrek," a man's voice from inside the inner chamber, identified as Elisha, drifted out.

Another voice teased, "Guess pulling strings to get a sponsor's relative into the pseudo-reptilian research division must really matter to him…"

"Don't mock," a more mature voice said, chuckling as well. "It's a good thing. Always being at odds with the funder's people isn't great for the department either… Elisha, how's the test subject doing?"

"Not bad. I think we can begin destructive—hm… Quade, you're back—"

Wearing a white lab coat, gripping a bone-handled scalpel with blood-stained hands, Elisha was halfway through his report when he caught a glimpse—Quade, still in his lab coat, head lowered, was walking back in.

As soon as he looked up, preparing to throw in another joke—

Before his pupils could even focus, "Quade" blurred like a specter and appeared right at his side.

Elisha felt a sudden lightness at his right wrist—and in the next instant, "Quade" was already walking away.

Before he could even process what just happened, another figure entered through the doorway. The overwhelming sense of danger made him instinctively shift his gaze.

A… a Witcher?!!

Wait—

A sudden realization struck Elisha. He whipped his head around and shouted: "You're not Quade!"

"Who are you?!!"

........

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