The creaking of wagon wheels, the wind at the break of dawn, and the relentless thumping of her heart.
The more Anmora focused, the louder the silence seemed.
She leaned against the pile of supplies, closed her eyes, and reached up to touch the collar around her neck. Her fingers recoiled as though she'd been shocked. The cold, pristine mithril material bore an elegant and ancient design—more an artifact than a simple collar. It was one of Mengel's "precious legacies," a masterpiece containing a magical system said to rival the Root System, the pinnacle of magical technology.
For the first time, Anmora yearned desperately for Mengel's strength.
Her hand returned to the collar, tracing its intricate patterns. Its icy texture seemed to ignite her entire body. If she could activate the magical system inside her consciousness, she could escape this deadly predicament in less than thirty minutes.
No need to fear the devastating radiation. No need to let her heartbeat race for a lurking assassin. She could construct those familiar magical formulas in her mind and resolve every obstacle in her path.
But the collar remained cold and unresponsive. The magnificent magical system refused to acknowledge her presence.
Mengel's cold, mocking gaze replayed endlessly in her mind.
A nightmare.
Even in death, Mengel's shadow loomed, leaving her trapped in the horrors he created.
Anmora curled up in the corner of the wagon, her knees drawn close to her chest. Her face hid in the shadows cast by her hair, head sinking lower and lower—
—until a small knife struck the wall just centimeters above her head.
Anmora felt the blade graze her scalp, and strands of hair floated to her lap. She caught the scent of blood on the knife's edge.
The dagger was thin, its blade matte, reflecting no light. It embedded itself in the wagon wall with a faint thud, leaving only the handle visible. From her position, Anmora couldn't see the thrower or the weapon's full form, but the energy it radiated was unmistakable. The cold, merciless aura matched the gaze of the hidden assailant she'd felt earlier.
Anmora had never considered herself a person with many enemies. Yet here she was, being hunted down and attacked on a moving wagon.
Now wasn't the time to ponder the "why." As soon as strands of her hair landed on her knees, Anmora leapt out of the wagon. She hit the ground hard, rolling against the momentum, only to crash into the remains of a wall on the roadside.
Though the wagon wasn't moving fast, the impact of hitting the wall was unexpected. Anmora hadn't accounted for the half-collapsed structure nearby.
The assailant had made his move. Before he could strike again, Anmora needed to disappear from his line of sight, and jumping off the wagon was the best choice. She didn't call for help—there wasn't enough time. A single shout to Old Bart would have given the assailant more than enough opportunity to skewer her.
Anmora's landing was disastrous. The impact left her feeling like her spine was shattered, and the searing pain rendered her momentarily immobile. She struggled to push herself up, intending to crawl behind the wall for cover, but the burns on her hands flared up, warm blood oozing out of her palms. Gasping for air, she looked up at the wagon and saw it had come to a halt a short distance away—Old Bart was quick to react.
Her jump had made a loud noise as she collided with the wall. Though Old Bart's hearing wasn't the best, even he could hear that. He turned back to see what Anmora was up to, only to be greeted by the sight of a pitch-black figure standing atop the wagon.
The man stood tall in the wind, his presence as fleeting as a shadow.
Through her pain, Anmora managed to glance up. That single look was enough to capture the assassin's appearance.
Black leather armor, a hood concealing his face, high boots, and a tattered cloak. His fingers gripped long, thin blades. At first, Anmora had assumed they were ordinary knives, but now she realized they were military-grade stilettos—sharp, durable, and coated with heavy metals to prevent wounds from healing.
Anmora was frustrated with herself. She should have guessed the truth when she first noticed the non-reflective blades, a hallmark of military weapons. Not that it would have made any difference—though individual strength didn't decide wars, a trained, armed soldier could easily dispatch a few defenseless people. Unfortunately, Anmora and Old Bart fit squarely into the "defenseless" category.
The assassin didn't budge when the wagon stopped, as if rooted to the spot. Anmora wished with all her heart that he would remain motionless forever.
Old Bart wasn't one to hesitate. He pulled the sharp hatchet from his coat and hurled it at the assassin with all his might. The axe sliced through the air with a menacing whistle, but the assassin tilted his body slightly, dodging it with ease. Then, as gracefully as a shadow, he leapt from the wagon and landed without a sound.
Old Bart quickly jumped down from the wagon too, positioning himself on the opposite side of the assailant. He rushed to retrieve his axe, but by the time he had it securely in his grasp, he realized too late that the assassin was heading straight for Anmora.
Seizing the moment while the axe throw distracted the attacker, Anmora rolled behind the wall. She gasped for breath, trying to let the cold wind cool her feverish blood. Yet the encroaching presence on the other side of the wall made it impossible to calm down. It was close—very close. Perhaps only a single barrier separated them.
"Stop right there!" Old Bart's furious voice boomed from behind.
Then came the sound of metal colliding, and Anmora saw the hatchet fly over the wall and land at her feet.
The blade of the axe bore a noticeable notch, perfectly matching the shape of a stiletto.
Anmora tried to reach for the axe but couldn't manage it. Every part of her body was in pain, and it felt as though she might have fractured something. Her earlier attempt to reposition herself had only worsened her injuries, leaving her utterly immobile.
She felt overwhelmingly tense, every faint sound triggering her heightened senses. Yet, despite the tension, the assassin hadn't come around the wall.
Holding her breath, Anmora leaned slightly to the side of the wall to peek out. What she saw made her pause—the assassin's hand lay on the ground, severed, along with the stiletto. The stump showed signs of "fiber-like" disintegration, not a clean cut from a blade but rather the result of excessive force causing the limb to fall off. It seemed that the assassin had sustained severe radiation damage, particularly to his hands, and Old Bart's thrown axe had delivered the final blow, sending the injured hand flying.
The assassin wasn't in perfect condition, which was good news for Anmora. But his calm demeanor in the face of such an injury was chilling—he didn't even flinch. His psychological resilience and pain tolerance were unnerving, which was the bad news.
"Who are you?" Old Bart stood near the wagon, pointing his whip at the dark-clad assassin. Despite his aged appearance, he projected an aura of fearlessness.
The assassin didn't respond. He bent down, attempting to pick up the stiletto with his remaining hand. Anmora, determined not to let him regain his weapon, grabbed a brick and hurled it with all her might… and missed.
Although she was only five meters from the assassin and barely three meters from the stiletto, her lack of strength caused the brick to miss its mark. However, by sheer luck, the brick landed squarely on the stiletto, pinning it down.
Now, every gaze, including that of the black horse, was fixed on the stiletto beneath the brick.
"…" Anmora clenched her fists, leaning against the wall, her eyes locked on the assassin. She spoke in a steady voice, "Heimer stiletto, Model 37. A classic killing weapon from the previous era, still in use today. Manufactured in the northern military factories of St. Lanskart. The boots are old too—the leather and rivets reflect St. Lanskart craftsmanship, but the adhesive used on the soles' anti-magic material is recent. Likely a product of Plonman innovations from the last few years."
"So, are you a mercenary? A member of the Thieves' Guild or the Assassins' Guild?" Such a mix of military equipment from different eras and regions could only be found on mercenaries. Judging by his appearance, he was clearly part of the gray zones of society.
Like mages, thieves and assassins had adapted to the times, reinventing themselves while preserving ancient skills and traditions. They now operated under new identities while continuing the age-old business of clandestine deeds. Becoming a mercenary or bounty hunter was one such path, and mercenaries often found themselves deeply intertwined with military and political affairs, far removed from ordinary life.
Yet Anmora couldn't fathom why this man wanted to kill her.
If the Emerald Lance had uncovered Mengel's experiments and tracked her down, it would at least be logical—there would be a trail. But for someone like this, who had no apparent connection to her, to suddenly appear with lethal intent felt inexplicable.
The assassin remained silent. Trained soldiers were often quiet and efficient, and this man was no exception.
The assassin locked eyes with Old Bart, swiftly tearing a strip from his tattered cloak to wrap around his severed arm. He moved cautiously toward the stiletto, assessing the situation. Losing his dominant hand had significantly weakened him, and he needed time to adapt to his new balance. On the other side, Anmora and Old Bart, along with the horse, posed a balanced threat—the old man looked tougher than most younger men, and the girl's quick wits gave their side an edge.
While the assassin's attention was elsewhere, Anmora grabbed another stone, intending to hurl it at his head. But just as she was about to throw, the assassin abandoned his attempt to retrieve the stiletto and lunged directly at her.
The assassin moved like a predator, his ragged cloak slicing through the air in a sharp arc. His leather-armored body radiated raw power, and the explosive leap closed the three-meter distance in an instant. Anmora didn't even have time to react.
Fortunately, the assassin stumbled slightly as he landed. The loss of his arm had disrupted his balance, and significant blood loss was beginning to sap his strength. Seizing the brief moment when he steadied himself, Anmora darted back behind the wall. Every ounce of energy she had left seemed to drain away. The searing pain from her injuries vanished as a single, primal instinct consumed her: run.
Anmora didn't know how she managed to get up despite her fractures. All she knew was that she had to run. She circled around the broken wall, heading for the other side. The assassin quickly followed, keeping close behind her, but Anmora used the wall as cover to make a break for the wagon.
Old Bart understood her plan. Climbing into the wagon, he flung open the doors and windows, steering the vehicle closer to Anmora. He extended his hand toward her. "Get in, quickly!"
The assassin was injured; on foot, he couldn't hope to catch the wagon. As long as Anmora made it back, Old Bart could drive away and leave the attacker in the dust.
Anmora heard the sickening crack of her bones breaking again as she stumbled and fell to the ground. Her auburn hair spread out in disarray around her. "Go!" she shouted, her voice raw.
Old Bart didn't need to stay. He was already on the wagon, and the assassin wasn't close enough to stop him. But Old Bart's eyes widened, veins bulging on his forehead as he desperately reached out for Anmora. Words failed him as he saw the assassin emerge from behind the wall.
The assassin bent down, wrapping his hand tightly around Anmora's neck. Old Bart felt his mind go blank.
But Anmora wasn't suffocating. The assassin wasn't strangling her throat—his crushing grip was aimed at the cold, unyielding metal of the collar around her neck, applying enough force to snap her spine.
At the same moment, the assassin realized what he had encountered. His hand pressed against the cold, unyielding metal, its durability so formidable that he could feel his remaining hand threatening to give way under the strain. After a brief flicker of surprise, he swiftly adjusted his grip, moving his hand upward until it met soft, delicate skin.
Anmora closed her eyes.
And she heard the voice of the heavens.
An endless multitude of souls sang in unison, a celestial hymn resonating from the most beautiful spirits and the purest hearts. This was not a sound produced by throats or voices; it was the true melody of the soul. The tune was indescribable, its timbre undefined, and it carried no lyrics. Yet as it resonated within her, Anmora saw an infinite light. The barren void within her was filled with this serene and pristine force. The imperfections of reality vanished, replaced by radiance.
Light bathed everything in sanctity. The myriad voices converged, blending into one unified harmony.
The light of divinity, the song of the heavens.
Anmora could only discern the final words of the chant, spoken in unison:
"You commanded there to be light, and so the eternal night was cast into the domain of death."
A gentle yet distant female voice followed, clear and composed.
"Initialization complete."
"Consciousness space detected… Detection passed."
"Goddess login in progress… First login successful."
"Database import complete. Consciousness platform constructed. Spellcasting system initial form confirmed."
"Greetings. Your divine realm is now operational. May all things be under your command."