Chapter Sixty-Two: I Like This Big Trouble

The three longswords that were about to stab Hans originally split off: one to engage the little skeleton who was fighting separately, another abruptly shifted mid-strike to intercept a crossbow bolt Hans had fired—leaving only a single blade still thrusting toward him.

Clutching Phoebe in his arms, Hans gave a forceful push, sending her rolling in the direction of Fubinen. Gripping the dagger in his right hand, Hans surged from the shattered remains of the round table, channeling demonic energy into his blade. It traced a faint violet arc through the air as he struck at the incoming sword.

A metallic clang rang out. Hans grunted; his dagger hand went numb and his forward momentum was halted, causing him to tumble back beneath the table. The assassin, too, shuddered from the impact and landed atop the broken table.

He had wielded his sword in his right hand, but the last clash had seemingly chilled him—Hans’ demonic ice had transferred through the blade. The assassin switched his sword to his left, his cold eyes flashing toward Hans. Suddenly, the sword jabbed forward again: a surge of fierce battle energy struck Hans in the chest as he struggled to steady himself.

Agonizing pain instantly swept through Hans’ body. As the dark blue energy flooded into his chest, his demonic power whirled madly, unraveling into countless threads that ensnared the hostile force, keeping it from spreading further.

Even so, Hans spat a mouthful of blood and staggered. The assassin, apparently confident in the lethality of his battle-qi-infused strike, turned away without another glance at Hans, intent on finishing Phoebe and Fubinen.

Little could he have imagined how resilient Hans’ body was after relentless tempering through demonic arts, nor how the mysterious power within him could stifle a blow that should have been fatal.

Just as the assassin turned to leave, Hans, who had collapsed, sprang up like a specter. A glint of icy light flashed from his dagger as he drove it fiercely toward the man's back.

The assassin truly deserved his reputation as an advanced swordsman. Even in this peril, he had not lost his vigilance; in a split-second, he spun around. The longsword in his left hand flared with dark blue energy, and with a clang, blocked Hans’ thrust.

But he could parry Hans’ dagger—he could not guard against Hans’ hidden bolt. From his left sleeve, a crossbow bolt shot out, piercing the assassin’s ruthless left eye. As the man howled and clutched his face, Hans’ dagger slashed, drawing a line of blood across his throat. The assassin collapsed lifelessly.

Hans wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth with his left hand, tightened his grip on his dagger, and calmly surveyed the room.

He saw the little skeleton, bone blade in hand, locked in combat with another assassin. Tempered by demonic arts, the skeleton was ferociously tough, evading and countering with unnatural speed. Even when struck by a sword, its blackened bones merely shook before it regained balance and pressed the attack, leaving its foe at a loss.

Across the room, the assassin who had shot down Hans’ bolt was now lunging at Phoebe. Fubinen, panicked, cried out, “Miss, look out! Brian, save us!”

Hans froze. A single glance told him it was too late to save Phoebe. With a sigh, he was about to call the skeleton and flee when something unexpected occurred.

Though Phoebe’s face showed fear, her eyes were calm and cold. As the assassin’s sword aura swept toward her, a slender dagger appeared in her hand. Milky-white battle energy blossomed from the blade, unfolding like a lotus, and a dazzling sword light enveloped the assassin.

A piercing scream echoed. When the glare faded, the assassin’s body was riddled with wounds, blood pouring from a thousand cuts.

Hans was not the only one stunned—Fubinen and even the assassin fighting the skeleton were struck dumb.

For Fubinen and Hans, the shock was brief, but the distracted assassin paid dearly—his left arm was hacked off by the skeleton. With a wail, he tried to flee, but Phoebe’s dagger flashed through the air, embedding itself in his side. The last assassin fell silent and collapsed.

“M-miss, you—you’re actually a Swordmaster?” Fubinen gaped, pointing at the impassive Phoebe in disbelief.

Swordsmen, like knights, were ranked: Apprentice Swordsman (light blue), Junior Swordsman (dark blue), Intermediate Swordsman (light green), Advanced Swordsman (dark green), Swordmaster (milky white), Great Swordmaster (silver), and Sword Saint (gold).

Hans had never expected Phoebe had hidden her strength so well—even Fubinen was unaware she was a Swordmaster, a rank above Advanced Swordsman. For someone her age to possess such power was astonishing.

“It seems I was meddling unnecessarily,” Hans said with a faint smile. He murmured a spell, and the little skeleton, standing dazed with its bone blade, instantly vanished.

“No, without your help, I could never have killed all three assassins from ‘Shadow Remnants’ alone. I could have held them off, but not prevented their escape. Your intervention was invaluable, and I am deeply grateful,” Phoebe said earnestly.

After a moment’s thought, she regarded Hans with curiosity. “Mr. Brian, when you fought, I sensed no battle energy from you. And if I’m not mistaken, you also practice necromancy. I’ve never heard of a skeleton warrior capable of holding its own against an Advanced Swordsman. You are quite a remarkable man.”

What a formidable woman, Hans thought, staring at her with a sardonic smile. “Miss Phoebe, you possess the strength of a Swordmaster at such a young age—that’s truly remarkable. Compared to you, I’m just a minor figure.”

“You’re too modest,” Phoebe replied, not pressing further. She glanced at the still-stunned Fubinen and said quietly, “Fubinen, tally up the supplies on the floor. Brian saved us—make sure he gets a fair price.”

Fubinen, snapping out of his daze, shot Phoebe and Hans an odd look before bending to inventory the goods.

“Phoebe, my dear niece, what happened?” A voice called out from afar, footsteps hurrying closer.

Phoebe’s usual indifference twisted into an expression of loathing, but she quickly masked it with a gentle smile. “Uncle Grover, I’m fine, but thank you for your concern.”

A group of five burst through the door, led by a gaunt, sharp-eyed old man in lavish clothing. He surveyed the room before fixing an anxious gaze on Phoebe. “I heard cries for help and saw two of your guards down outside, so I rushed over. Thank goodness you’re unharmed—your late father must have been watching over you.”

“I appreciate your worry, Uncle, but it wasn’t my late father who saved me—it was this brave warrior.” Phoebe put on a show of lingering fear, gesturing toward Hans.

Hans watched the exchange coldly, taking everything in. He had noticed Phoebe’s fleeting expression of hatred. Grover, too, had focused first on the assassins before feigning concern for Phoebe—clearly, their relationship was not as cordial as it appeared.

“Thank you, brave warrior! You deserve a reward!” Grover exclaimed, scrutinizing Hans as if to see through him.

“Uncle, thank you for your kindness, but I wish to thank him myself. I’m unharmed now, and you must be tired from managing the business. Please, rest,” Phoebe said, her tone turning formal.

“Very well, as long as you’re safe. I’ve been investigating these assassins for you; rest assured, I’ll find out who’s behind this. Be careful in the future, I’ll take my leave,” Grover declared, insincerely, before turning to go. At the door, he looked back at Hans. “Young man, what is your name?”

“Brian,” Hans replied politely.

“Brian—good name. I’ll remember you!” Grover said, finally leaving with his retinue.

With Grover gone, Hans’ smile vanished. He looked coldly at Phoebe. “It seems you’ve drawn me into serious trouble, Miss Phoebe. How do you intend to compensate me?”

“Beyond the payment for the supplies, I’ll give you an extra three thousand gold coins. That’s more than enough to buy several lives. What do you say?” Phoebe responded softly, her eyes bright with intelligence.

Hans’ heart skipped; a wide grin returned to his face. “I quite like this trouble.”