Dancing with the Devil

Sorry I'm late

The Countess also encountered some unexpected developments. Kalista had originally asked her to help conceal her identity and whereabouts from the Count to fully prepare for the assassination. What she hadn’t anticipated was that Kalista would suddenly change her mind and decide to act tonight.

The assassin's delay gave Kalista a moment to catch her breath. Before the door was broken down, she discarded her blood-soaked shoes and socks, grabbed her only weapon, and climbed out onto the small balcony connected to the room.

She still had one piece of parchment left from the followers of the divine, but she dared not use it recklessly.

Apart from Evelyn, who was on the outskirts of the city, she barely knew any other members of the House of Gods. Besides, thanks to the Countess’s network of informants, it was likely that all the House’s spies in the castle had already been purged. She didn’t understand the intricacies of communication magic; she only knew that using it now might attract assassins pretending to be divine followers.

Kalista’s bare feet pressed against the cold marble tiles, with her body heat gradually seeping away. She straightened her back and pressed herself tightly against the balcony railing, using the narrow strip of wall beside the window to hide her figure. She fashioned her apron into a makeshift mask, wrapping the ties around her head to keep her long hair from being blown wildly by the night wind and giving away her position.

“Boom—”

At that moment, the assassin broke down the door.

Kalista’s heart leaped into her throat. She held her breath, clutching a silver tray close to her chest.

The assassin strolled leisurely into the room. Judging by the footsteps, it seemed he was alone. The slow, dragging scrape of his sword tip against the floor betrayed his arrogance. Fortunately for Kalista, as a knight, he saw no reason to take a mere maid seriously.

He seemed certain that Kalista would soon fall to him, so he wasn’t in a hurry to search for her. Instead, he walked directly toward the Count’s corpse and knelt down to examine it for a moment.

The knight’s armor scraped against the carpet as he moved, as though he found it hard to believe that this decaying combination of skin and bone had once been the handsome Count of Vladimir. His astonishment didn’t last long; soon, he moved to the bedside, rummaging through the Count’s clothing.

As he tore through the garments, bits of expensive fabric scattered across the floor. The knight pried up one piece of cloth after another with his sword, but finding no key, he seemed momentarily disappointed.

Only then did he start searching for Kalista.

"Seems like you're hiding well, little mouse."

The assassin scoured the room aimlessly, his sword sweeping violently under the bed and through the wardrobe, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. He swung his rapier haphazardly, laughing all the while. "No need to be afraid, little mouse. Running barefoot is no fun. I’ll kill you quickly; there won’t be any pain."

He circled the room, then paused in confusion, muttering to himself, "Could she really not be here?"

Kalista clutched the silver tray in her arms, praying he would leave.

Suddenly, a gust of wind blew in from outside. The moon emerged from behind the clouds, casting a pale, silvery light that illuminated the silver tray Kalista was clutching. A faint glimmer appeared on the wall opposite her, different from the warm glow of the candlelight—this light was cold and distant.

The assassin let out a smug, cold chuckle, his footsteps growing ever closer. In an instant, his towering form loomed before Kalista.

"Hello there, little rat."

The balcony was cramped, and the assassin, clad head to toe in armor, stood just three paces away from her. His slender rapier, held loosely in his hand, could easily slip through the air and slit Kalista’s throat with the slightest movement.

As the chill spread from the palms of her feet touching the ground, Kalista shivered, her hands folded in front of her chest, clasping each end of the tray, and her knives clanked down behind the plate. Amused, the killer swiped the blade, and the knife spun away from Kalista's feet and landed behind him.

"Are you trying to kill me with that?" he asked.

"I killed the count with it," Kalista said, her "mask" covering her panic, suppressing the fear in her voice and pretending to be calm. "So I think luck must be on my side again."

"But luck is useless in the face of a huge power gap," the killer replied, taking a step closer to her and raising his thin sword.

"Wait!" Kalista snapped. "You came to get a key, didn't you? I suppose you did not find the key on the Count, and suspected that it was on me."

The killer stood still, the thin sword suspended in midair, poised to strike Kalista's head. Yet, she remained motionless, her gaze meeting his as he examined her.

"In fact," she began, her voice steady despite the gravity of the situation, "I possess some basic teleportation magic, and I've already sent it to a place only I know. Though I'm not particularly strong and haven't studied swordplay systematically, I've learned enough to save my own life."

"You belong to the Church?" the killer asked, his eyebrows rising in disbelief. "That's impossible. The slaves sold to the castle are thoroughly screened and should have no connection to the Holy See."

Kalista continued, "I do teleportation magic. I've been to the underground palace, and I know what's locked behind a certain door. The gate's complex construction, which is attached to the castle's foundation, makes it nearly impossible to remove it by brute force. Her ladyship is desperate to obtain the key, as she wishes to become the master of the devil."

Kalista didn't give him any more time. The corners of his mouth under the mask curled into a smile. "Guess where I hid the key?" she challenged. "I can tell everyone, but only I can retrieve it."

"You teleported it into the cell where the devil was kept," the killer stated.

"Yes," she confirmed, "kill me, and no one will ever get the key."

The killer hesitated, the thin sword hanging over her head seemed to waver. But he wasn't ready to give up. "Let me search you."

"Go ahead," Kalista said, holding the silver plate steady. "Collect your sword first."

With a deft twist of the killer's wrist, the blade spun back into his hand. He stepped closer to Kalista, his right hand gripping the hilt of his sword, his left reaching for the tray in her arms.

Suddenly, Kalista lunged forward, swerved to her left, and thrust the tray to block the incoming sword. Then, in a swift motion that looked like an uppercut, she raised her hand, aiming to open the killer's mouth and nose to deliver the powder.

The killer dodged, but inhaled some of the powder nonetheless. Despite the distraction, he still wielded his sword, now held sideways, ready for the next move.

The blade struck sideways against the silver tray, splitting it in half, numbing Kalista's jaws as well as his entire arm and slamming his body against the railing. Her eyes were almost dark, but her unwillingness to die made her quickly close the two halves of her plate and press them against her.

It's a good thing he's not using a foil, or there's no way a dinner plate and Kalista's slender arms could have stopped the blow.

The killer's gait was staggering, the powder seemed to have taken effect, but the sword was engraved in his bones and blood memory. Even if his mind was dizzy, he could use experience to swing his own sword.

The point of the sword drew a curved arc in the middle of the air, as if it were hindered by some powerful force, and could not advance half a minute further.

Two fingers clasped the thin sword, crossed so lightly that the blade broke like a biscuit. Then the hand picked up the killer's back collar and tossed him mercilessly into the corner.

The killer passed out.

A figure emerged from the darkness. First illuminated by the moonlight were a pair of horns.

Kalista's wounds began to howl. She saw a familiar face and smiled with relief. Then she collapsed into the arms of the man and lost consciousness.

"Sorry I'm late," said the devil.