Chapter 40: The Assassin of the Underground World

In a vast underground realm, a human assassin hurried anxiously along, frequently setting traps or erasing her tracks. At the ceiling of a narrow, unavoidable tunnel, she installed a array of hundreds of short needles coated with venom from subterranean blind snakes, finally allowing herself a moment to catch her breath.

Along the way, she used the “Illusory Step” technique, leaving footprints of various creatures—minotaurs, subterranean lizards, even Ross beasts—and deliberately scattered these prints radially at every fork. She then smeared her body with a mixture of cave sulfur, deep moss, and darkland fungi, completely masking her human scent until she smelled like an ordinary rock. Only after confirming no trace remained did she truly depart, climbing along the rock wall.

After sprinting a distance forward, she used “Stealth” to move further and assassinated a lone gray dwarf merchant, then disguised herself as him using illusions and potions, infiltrating a neutral underground town. Yet that peculiar assassin’s sense of danger never faded—it only intensified.

Intuition told her she was being watched—by someone she could not fight. All she could do was flee. As she ran, she recalled every enemy she had ever made, yet could not determine who wanted her dead. Just as she reached for her waterskin to drink, a lazy, sweet voice, laced with chilling amusement, emerged from the deepest shadow.

Drow Elf (voice like black silk sliding over a blade): “Tsk, tsk, tsk… Already tired? I thought someone who could fool me would have better stamina. Your performance is truly disappointing.”

The human assassin jolted violently, dropping the waterskin—but before it hit the ground, a shadow flashed, and a gloved hand gracefully caught it, then smiled as she offered it back to the stunned human. The Drow seemed to carry a faint, strange fragrance—not of the underground world—but sweet, crisp, like nightbloom flowers blooming under moonlight.

She snapped her head up, her pupils shrinking to needle points from sheer terror. The breathtakingly beautiful Drow Elf leaned silently against the rock wall like a poisonous midnight blossom. One hand idly twirled a pale, delicate flower—clearly just plucked—while the other held the fallen waterskin.

The Drow Elf brought the pale flower to her nose and inhaled delicately, her ruby eyes swirling with pure mockery: “Oh? You noticed? Seems you haven’t been completely blinded by your own stench. The underground has its little gifts—if you know where to look. Though clearly, you don’t. Am I right, little girl?”

The human assassin turned deathly pale, her hand slipping silently toward the dagger at her waist. “Impossible… I calculated every fork, erased every trace! You… how could you catch up so fast!”

The Drow Elf let out a crisp, utterly cold laugh. “Calculating? What a sweet little girl. You use a human mind to calculate. I, dear little girl, think with the power of darkness. You didn’t leave traces—you left a stench so thick it was an invitation. As for that little needle trap…?”

The Drow Elf extended her hand holding the flower, her fingertips pinching several venom-coated needles.

“See? I plucked them out one by one. I must say, your design is quite clever.”

The human assassin seemed to make a decision. “Drow Elf, tell me what you want. Anything I have, I’ll give you. I’m a high-ranking member of the Dragon Worship Cult. I know many secrets.”

The Drow Elf tilted her head, offering a pitying, mocking smile. “Oh, poor foolish thing. The only valuable thing you carry… is your life.”

The Drow Elf gently tossed the waterskin back to her. The instant the human instinctively caught it, the Drow moved like a ghost, pressing against her face, a cold dagger already pressed to her throat.

“Little girl, if you can’t give me something interesting, your life ends here.”

The human assassin completely broke down, sliding down the rock wall, surrendering all resistance. Weakly, she whispered: “You… you weren’t hunting me… you were just… playing with me… Can you tell me… why you want me dead?”

“Of course. Someone wanted you dead, so I came. But if you can give me something interesting, I might consider letting you live.”

The human assassin grasped the thread of hope. "Yes! I have something! Don't kill me! You... you carry the scent of dragons. If I'm right, you're a retainer of that one. Cardowen is being watched by devils. I know more—I—"

The Drow Elf’s wrist twitched slightly. “Sorry. You know too much. If you’ve told me everything, doesn’t that make me useless? And the first lesson for a Drow is learning to lie.”

The human assassin tried to roar—but only a horrifying gurgle of blood in her trachea escaped. She could not cry out, could not disrupt her foe. Every breath through nose or mouth drew more blood into her lungs, triggering violent, silent coughs.

Warm blood pumped rapidly from her carotid artery, forming a dark crimson mist in the dim underground glow. She clearly felt her strength and warmth draining away. All seemed over—yet life’s tenacity was not yet spent.

She lunged forward—not to strike precisely, but with her remaining strength, swinging her dagger in wild, chaotic slashes, hoping to force the Drow back, to gain space for healing or escape. But it was futile.

After dodging several erratic attacks, the human assassin collapsed into a pool of blood. Watching her still defiant eyes, the Drow Elf crouched down curiously. “What? Someone you can’t bear to leave behind? Tell me. I’ll go kill them for you.”

Though her lungs filled with blood and her vision blurred from oxygen loss, her master-level combat will still burned. Every movement no longer relied on sight, but on years of battle-forged muscle memory and instinct for killing intent. Now, at her limit, her vision narrowed, limbs cold. The Drow Elf believed the game was over—prepared to deliver the final blow.

But this was precisely what the human waited for—the moment of mutual destruction. As the Drow’s curved blade plunged down, the human assassin used her last strength—not to parry, but to roll forward, letting the blade pierce her vital points to lock the weapon in place. Her hand, hidden beneath her body, clutching a short sword, struck like a venomous snake.

Alas, the Drow Elf was faster. She sidestepped, disarmed the blade with effortless grace, and examined it thoughtfully as the human assassin convulsed beside her. “Not bad. You did give me a small surprise. But it’s not enough to save your life.”

…

“Kaela, why are you back so late?”

“I ran into a Drow Elf—probably sent by some enemy. She tracked me all the way. When I realized I couldn’t shake her, I dealt with her in a prepped hunting ground.”

“A woman? That’s rare! I thought it was a man.”

“Ivanet, what are you thinking? Kaela’s fifty-three. Which man would still chase her? Hahaha!”

Laughter erupted around the room.

Kaela: “Stop laughing. I have serious business. This Drow Elf mentioned Cardowen during the fight. I need details.”

Ivanet: “Really? Then shouldn’t you answer first—who are you? And where did Kaela die?”

Kaela: “Ivanet, this joke isn’t funny. Not at all.”

Ivanet: “I admit you’ve disguised yourself perfectly. But you missed one thing: Kaela hates jokes more than anything.”

A flash of cold light. Ivanet clutched his throat, blood spurting. Realizing he was under attack, a male master instantly overturned the nearest table, buying his companions half a second—and shattering the Drow’s rhythm!

“Scatter!”

With a shout, a master warrior sidestepped, shoving a nearby high-rank ally toward safety while his hand reached for his weapon. A nimble high-rank thief, farthest away, rolled backward without hesitation, crashing through the window—his scream echoed the moment he hit the ground.

The Drow Elf kicked the corpse toward the closest charging warrior and hurled a dark barrier spell, instantly stripping everyone’s vision. Her infrared sight gave her absolute advantage. A graceful arc sliced through the warrior’s neck—the Drow’s attacks were always elegant and lethal.

The two masters, blinded, immediately back-to-back, or locking onto the Drow’s approximate location by sound. The warrior master swung wide, slashing to force her out; the assassin master focused on defense, protecting allies, searching for escape or counterattack.

But it was all futile. The Drow Elf suddenly appeared from the Shadow Realm, severing half the assassin master’s neck. Before the warrior master’s thrown axe reached her, she vanished back into the Shadow Realm.

Seeing the worsening situation, the warrior master grew frantic—perhaps too young, too inexperienced, or perhaps the oppressive environment shattered his nerves. The last remaining high-rank warrior screamed like a madman and charged for the door—only to be pierced through the chest by a black crossbow bolt.

“Warrior, you’re the only one left. Do you really think you can stop me? How about a deal?”

“What do you want?”

“I want to know what happened between Cardowen and the devils. Answer, and I let you live. Deal?”

“Fine! Cardowen is being targeted by Baron Barrot from the Sixth Layer of Baator. He tried to recruit the Dragon Worship Cult to attack the realm—but the upper echelons refused.”

Suddenly, a dagger pierced his heart. In his disbelief, he seemed to glimpse the Drow Elf’s smile.

“Oh, sorry. Drow Elves are masters of deception. Remember next time: never believe them.”