The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Chapter 322 The Assassin's Emblem

"Well, aren't you sharp."

No response. Of course. They weren't here to chat.

The assassin pressed forward, their blade flashing in rapid, controlled thrusts—each one meant to force him into a disadvantageous position. He met them with equal speed, weaving through their strikes like water slipping through cracks. His knives flicked, redirecting their force just enough to keep the fight even.

Then he saw it.

A flicker in the dim light—a sigil on their shoulder.

Not just Technomancer insignia.

Something else. Something unfamiliar.

Mikhailis's smirk didn't falter, but inwardly, his mind spun. This wasn't a standard enforcer. Whoever sent this assassin wasn't just reacting to his meddling with the Technomancers. This was bigger.

The dance of steel continued, but now, Mikhailis wasn't just fighting—he was analyzing.

Every movement, every twitch of muscle, every shift in weight told a story. The assassin wasn't just skilled; they were precise, disciplined. This wasn't reckless aggression or brute force—it was cold efficiency. They moved like someone trained in both stealth and direct combat, never overextending, never wasting an ounce of energy. Their attacks were quick, calculated, striking at weak points without hesitation.

Mikhailis sidestepped a thrust aimed at his ribs, letting the blade pass close enough that he could feel the whisper of steel against fabric. He countered immediately, flicking his wrist to angle one of his knives toward their wrist, seeking to disable rather than kill. The assassin twisted away, responding faster than he expected. They were reading him just as much as he was reading them.

Rodion's voice cut through the fight, clinical and detached.

Technomancer training but mixed with something else? That was odd. The Technomancers were powerful, but their fighters weren't usually this fluid. They relied on technology to enhance their physical prowess, often making their movement a little too rigid, their attacks just a little too predictable. But this assassin? Their style was different.

Mikhailis parried another strike, rolling his wrist to guide the enemy's blade away rather than clashing against it. The assassin's grip on their weapon was impeccable—relaxed, but firm enough to maintain control. That was another clue. Only those with extensive live combat experience held their weapons like that. Someone who had killed before. Many times.

Rodion continued his analysis.

Mikhailis grinned. So, you're not just another one of their dogs. Who sent you?

His golden eyes flicked downward for half a second, tracking the assassin's stance. Low, balanced, favoring speed over power. Their center of gravity was positioned perfectly for quick redirections rather than brute-force clashes. That told him two things—first, they prioritized efficiency over spectacle, which meant they were an actual professional, not just some high-ranking enforcer. Second, they were built for endurance. This wasn't a fighter who won battles in the first exchange. They could outlast an opponent, wear them down, and then strike when the enemy's exhaustion set in.

That made things tricky.

Mikhailis adjusted his own stance, shifting his weight ever so slightly. His knives were lighter than the assassin's weapon, which meant he had the advantage in speed. But if this dragged on, he'd have to end it quickly before they could grind him down.

The assassin lunged again, blade seeking the narrow space between his ribs. Mikhailis twisted, pivoting just enough to let the strike glance off his coat. He felt the pressure of the attack, the sheer force behind it.

You're testing me now, aren't you?

Then, finally, he spotted it again.

A small insignia, barely visible in the dim light, pressed into the shoulder of their gear.

Not just the Technomancer sigil.

Something else.

Something unfamiliar.

Rodion immediately registered it.

Mikhailis's smirk widened. Oh? Now that's interesting.

Their muscles locked, their breath caught in their throat, and within seconds, their body went rigid.

Vyrelda cursed. "Poison?"

Rodion answered immediately.

Lira's hands clenched. "Damn it."

Mikhailis clicked his tongue in frustration. "Well, that's inconvenient."

He watched as the life drained from the assassin's body, their expression frozen in quiet defiance.

Lira knelt down, retrieving something from their clothing. A small data chip.

She held it up, her voice tight. "They didn't talk, but they left us something."

Rodion immediately scanned it.

Mikhailis leaned back, exhaling. "Looks like we have a long night ahead."

He glanced at the now-lifeless body before him, a curious smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"So... who the hell were you working for?"

Lira knelt down, retrieving the data chip. "If they were willing to die before talking, whatever's on here must be important."

Rodion's voice was sharp.

Mikhailis leaned back, exhaling. "Looks like we have a long night ahead."

_____

Morning brought a denser mist than usual. The streets murmured with unease, whispers of the growing fog spreading through the marketplace. Merchants complained of shortages—mist-resistant materials were suddenly in scarce supply.

Rodion processed their surroundings.

Mikhailis frowned. "So they're not just increasing the mist—they're making sure people can't fight against it."

A knock at their inn room interrupted his thoughts. Arvel stepped inside, his cloak damp from the morning air. "Laethor's arrival will be discreet. He doesn't want Technomancer attention. But there's a problem."

Mikhailis arched a brow. "There always is."

"The mist is heavier on the main routes. His entourage is delayed."

Lira's expression remained neutral. "They're forcing control on the roads, isolating movement."

Vyrelda crossed her arms. "So, what's our move?"

Mikhailis smirked. "Simple. We meet him, but we don't play all our cards yet."

Cerys nodded. "We still need more leverage."

Rodion interrupted.