Chapter 185 – Assassination Attempt

“To speak of "Demonic Blades" is to invoke a old fear—the idea of a pact with a malignant intelligence, trading one's soul for fleeting, bloody power. In this, the common understanding is correct, save for one terrible distinction: there is no demon. The evil is not a separate entity to bargain with; it is woven into the very steel. These blades are not possessed; they are the possessors. They offer immense power at a price paid in sanity and stability, drawing their wielders and all around them into a vortex of madness and tragedy. Yet, like a serpent whispering from the shadows of history, their allure remains irresistible to those who believe they can master them.

“Their origin lies in the scarred history of the Eastern Continent, in the final, desperate days of the Endless War Cult. It is widely held by arcane historians that these blades were the cult’s last, most terrible weapon—a project spearheaded by the infamous warlord, Wū the Artificer of Ruin (commonly known as Wū the Terrible). As the allied kingdoms closed in to eradicate the cult from the Eastern Continent once and for all, Wū enacted a ritual of unprecedented nihilism. Wū did not seek to save his followers or preserve their ideology, but to ensure their hatred outlasted civilizations. By binding not with demons, but with the very concepts of strife, ambition, and fear, and funneling them through a crucible of slaughtered innocents and shattered oaths, the Fourteen Demonic Blades were forged. Upon their completion, they cast them out into the world to curse all future ages with the tragedies they would inevitably birth before Wū and the Endless War Cult were erased. That was two millennia ago, and the blades have faithfully perpetuated Wū’s vendetta ever since.

“Each of the Fourteen is a masterpiece of malicious enchantment, unique in its expression of ruin. One, Voracious Heart, might cause heart attacks to those who look at the blade too long, while another, Lament of the Lost, could trap the screams of its victims within its blade, unleashing them as a psychic attack.

“Their common traits are what make them objects of both dread and fascination: their edges never dull, their forms resist all known forces of destruction, and their enchantments are so fundamentally fused with their substance that they defy every principle of disenchantment.

“The blades operate on a principle of sympathetic erosion. Each time their power is invoked, a piece of the wielder’s own emotional and psychological complexity is burned away, traded for the blade’s cold, singular purpose. Compassion, loyalty, love—are all discarded. What remains is a hardening core of obsession, typically mirroring cultists from the Endless War Cult: a hunger for slaughter, an obsession for dominance, a cold, calculating desire for battle. The weapon itself slowly replaces the person.

“While some have rashly compared them to lost magic from the Mythic Era, scholars of Gray Scale College vehemently correct this: the Blades' powers, however terrifying, are still anchored in the manipulation of Aether, making them a perversion of known magical laws.”

—“History of the 14 Demonic Blades” by Sam Cox

Anya: “What in the burning Abyss was that?!” Volkov’s voice was a whip-crack in the stunned silence, all former restraint shattered by the grotesque spectacle. Her hand was back on her sword, not to strike at Scarlett, but as if the very air had become an enemy.

Scarlett finally turned away from the smoldering remains, her expression one of grim satisfaction laced with profound unease.

Scarlett: “That,” she stated, her voice flat and precise, “was a deadly curse. In its physical form.”

Anya: “A deadly curse? I’ve heard of curses—bad luck, weakness, boils. Not… that.” she gestured violently at the charred lump.

Scarlett: “It’s a curse designed with one purpose: to kill. But ‘curse’ is too simple a word. This is something… older. More fundamental. Like all things of this nature, it traces its lineage back to the Mythic Era.” her tone was that of a lecturer discussing a dangerous specimen.

Anya: “Explain. From the beginning.”

Scarlett’s crimson eyes grew distant, looking into the past.

Scarlett: “Before I was the ‘Scarlet Witch,’ before I was even recognized as an Archmage, I was Professor Alexandria Scarlett of the Graheel University’s Department of Historical Arcana. An archaeologist. My team and I excavated sites across the continent, unearthing relics from ages past.” A ghost of her old, academic passion flickered in her voice, quickly extinguished by colder memory. “On two separate expeditions, in digs separated by a thousand miles, we uncovered objects that felt… wrong. A dagger in a sealed tomb in Obsidia. A child’s clay whistle in a buried forgotten village. My ‘Eyes of Truth,’ which I kept hidden even then, saw a kind of… clinging, intelligent rot woven into their very substance. I knew they were lethal. I couldn’t explain how I knew without exposing myself, so I took them. Declared them ‘ritually significant but inert,’ and had them locked in my private, warded vault outside the University for study.”

Anya: “So objects themselves can be carriers of this… curse?” she asked, the tactical implications dawning on her—a battlefield where any piece of loot could be a weaponized plague.

Scarlett: “Yes. And these deadly curses can cling to people as well. Transferring though a simple touch of bare skin,” Her gaze fell on the dark metal disk still on the table. “That coin. It was probably carrying that curse. I would stake my reputation—what’s left of it—that the moment Jak took that coin from the envelope, bare-handed, the curse left the metal and took root in him.”

Cid: “Are you saying Jak’s own sister sent him a cursed object?” he chimed in, his voice tentative.

He had been listening while assisting Steph, who was now channeling her power into a different, more miraculous task: not just sealing the wound, but coaxing the complex tissues of bone, muscle, and nerve at the stump to regrow, to knit a new arm.

Scarlett and Anya both turned to look at him, then at Steph’s focused, saintly labor. The sight seemed to settle something in Scarlett.

Scarlett: “No,” she stated flatly. “I highly doubt his sister had any part in this. The letter was almost certainly a forgery, the courier compromised or impersonated.”

Anya: “A delivery meant for one of my officers,” she concluded, her mind already racing through the list of warlords, imperial loyalists, and mercenary bands who would benefit from decapitating her command structure. “A way to cripple my leadership.”

Scarlett: “I suspect the target was you, Anya,” she corrected, her tone chillingly matter-of-fact. “My Eyes revealed the curse’s true name as it manifested a physical form: the Five Finger Death Curse. A relic of ancient, spiteful assassination magic. It is designed to chain through victims. It kills the first bearer, then lies dormant within the corpse until a second person touches the body, transferring to them. It repeats this, leaping from victim to victim, until five lives are consumed, at which point its energy is spent and it dissipates.”

She let the gruesome mechanics sink in.

Scarlett: “Sending that coin directly to you would be nearly impossible; your security is too tight. But sending it to Jak, your friend and trusted commander? That was likely easier. The assassin’s calculus was likely this: Jak handles the coin and is infected. He falls ill and dies. In his final moments, who would be most likely to clasp his hand, to offer comfort? You, Anya. The moment you touched his skin, the curse would have leaped from his dying flesh to yours.”

Anya closed her eyes, a wave of cold fury and guilt washing over her features. The strategy was diabolical in its psychological cruelty.

Anya: “If what you say is true… and you are almost certainly right… then this is my fault. My enemies, unable to reach me, are targeting the people around me. Using them as conduits for my destruction.”

Scarlett: “I wouldn’t waste energy on blame,” she said, the words coming out in an uncharacteristically—if brusquely—kind tone. “It is a weapon of cowards. Recognizing the pattern is your defense.”

Anya: “Thank you, Scarlett,” she said, opening her eyes, the general’s resolve hardening over the guilt. “But that leads to my next question. Why the theatrics? Why not tell us what you saw before you… amputated?” She couldn’t keep a slight edge from her voice, the image of the severing flash still raw.

Scarlett didn’t flinch under Anya’s questioning gaze. Her reasoning was as sharp and cold as the scalpel had been.

Scarlett: “From the limited research I was able to conduct on the two specimens I secured,” she explained, her tone that of a lecturer on a macabre subject, “deadly curses exhibit a form of semi-sentience. They are not intelligent in a human sense, but they possess a predatory awareness, an instinct for self-preservation and the fulfillment of their function. I needed to keep my intentions hidden because I could not risk alerting the Five Finger Death Curse to my perception of it. If it sensed I knew its location, it might have fled to a more… irremovable part of his anatomy.”

Anya: “These things are aware?!” Volkov breathed, staring with renewed horror at the pile of ash that had been part of her friend.

Scarlett: “I said semi-sentient,” she corrected. “Do not ascribe it motives or cunning. Think of it as a very sophisticated, magical landmine with a primitive nervous system. Its ‘mind’ is a single, burning imperative: kill in a specific, pre-ordained pattern. But it has enough awareness to hide, to misdirect, and to defend itself if discovered. I did not know the threshold of that awareness. Revealing my plan to amputate risked triggering a defensive response. And, if I am being perfectly honest, Anya…” She met the general’s eyes squarely, no apology in her gaze, only blunt fact. “…I was not entirely certain amputation would work. I have never done this before. It was the highest-probability solution based on my observations, but it was still an educated gamble.”

Anya’s jaw tightened, a muscle flickering in her cheek. The idea that Scarlett had gambled with Jak’s limb—and by extension, his life as a warrior—on a theory was a hard pill to swallow, even if it had proven correct.

Scarlett: “I knew the curse’s essence was concentrated in the arm,” Alexandria continued, undeterred. “My Eyes could see the dense, knotted core of it there, like a tumor. But the curse was emitting a powerful, deceptive signal—that swirling black mark on his chest—to draw attention away from its true location. Knowing how deliberately it was hiding, I had to catch it by surprise. If I had hesitated, or if it had sensed my focus, it could have migrated instantly to his spine, his brainstem, his heart… places where removal is impossible. The arm was the only viable surgical target. And we are fortunate,” she added, gesturing to where Steph’s hands were now shaping individual fingers with her power, “that our Saintess possesses the power to make such a gamble not a permanent loss. He will have his arm back, good as new, without the monster attached. That is a better outcome than you had any right to expect ten minutes ago.”

To emphasize Scarlett’s point, the grotesque, swirling black mark on Jak’s chest—the curse’s macabre decoy—began to fade. Like ink dissolving in clear water, the darkness lost its cohesion, the tendrils retreating inward before vanishing entirely, leaving behind only pale, unmarked skin. The oppressive, sickly aura that had filled the tent dissipated, replaced by the simple, clean scent of Steph’s healing magic and the damp canvas. The parasite was truly gone.

Steph, her task complete, gave the newly regenerated arm a final, meticulous inspection. The limb was whole, the skin a healthy, pink flush, the fingers flexing instinctively in unconscious response. Satisfied, she rose as she joined the somber conversation.

Steph: “The arm is fully restored, and his systemic health is rebounding rapidly,” she reported, her voice carrying a note of profound relief. “The necrotic decay has halted entirely. His organs are repairing themselves now that the cause is removed. Anya, with rest and nourishment, Jak will make a full recovery.”

Anya turned from Steph to Scarlett. The general’s stern face softened for a moment, not with sentimentality, but with the deep, unspoken gratitude of one soldier to another who has pulled a comrade from the abyss. She gave a formal, gracious bow, the kind offered between equals of high station.

Anya: “Thank you, Scarlett. I am forever in your debt for this.”

Scarlett accepted the bow with a slight, weary incline of her own head. “Just… don’t forget this favor when the time comes for you to return it.”

Anya: “You have my word,” Volkov replied without a moment’s hesitation. The debt was acknowledged, the ledger opened.

Cid: “Um, quick question,” Cook interjected, stepping closer, his brow furrowed in thought. “If Jak’s sister didn’t send the coin… who did? And how do we find them?”

Scarlett let out a short, humorless breath.

Scarlett: “That is a question likely to remain unanswered. The list of people who would see Anya dead—or her army crippled—is longer than even my list of enemies. Any one of her rivals, a disgruntled imperial loyalist, a mercenary company whose contract to take her out… the pool of suspects is an ocean.”

Steph: "But not just anyone would have access to magic like that,” she countered softly, her saintly insight cutting to the heart of the matter. “A Mythic Era artifact, imbued with a semi-sentient assassination curse… that is not a weapon you find on the black market.”

Scarlett made a complicated expression, a grudging agreement warring with her inherent suspicion of all groups. After a moment, she nodded.

Scarlett: “You’re right. It reeks of cult work. The only groups with access to obscure historical knowledge, the disregard for life, and the patience to wield such a subtle, cruel weapon are the cults of the Nameless Gods. And given that the Endless War Cult has a vested interest in perpetuating the conflict here, and Anya represents the single greatest threat to their goal of eternal strife… they are the prime suspects.”

Anya crossed her arms, considering this.

Anya: “I’ve fought the Endless War cult for years, Scarlett. On the battlefield, they are ferocious, relentless. Their combat magic is brutally efficient. But this…” She gestured to the space where the cursed arm had thrashed. “…this is different. It’s subtle, almost patient in its malice. It feels more like the work of the Rattle Bone cult, with their obsession with their twisted art, or the Blood Callers, with their schemes within schemes. Are you sure the Endless War cult has the… sophistication for something like this? They usually prefer the hammer and see every problem as a nail.”

Scarlett: “Your assessment of their battlefield tactics is correct,” she conceded, “but you’re thinking of them only as soldiers. The Endless War Cult’s true genius is logistical. Unlike the Blood Callers, who work alone, or the Rattle Bone cultists, who are…unreliable at the best of times, the Endless War cult operates as a… a conglomerate of cults. I learned this during my less savory dealings after my fall from grace. They actively cooperate with, and even subcontract, other cults—particularly those whose specialties don’t conflict with their core dogma of perpetuating conflict. They provide resources, intelligence, and safety to smaller, more niche cults, effectively employing them as specialized auxiliaries.”

She let that sink in, painting a picture of a far more organized and insidious network than simple battle-maniacs.

Anya: “This… isn't part of the intelligence that I have acquired about them. I had received the opposite information. Endless War Cultists don’t work with other cults at all. They will kill other cultists outside their specific cult.”

Scarlett shrugged.

Scarlett: “I don’t know what to tell you. When I was dealing with black market traders they were pretty adamant that was how they operate. Maybe I was lied too? Anyways, if we’re talking about a cult that specializes in assassination via obscure, esoteric means like Mythic Era curses… that points directly to the Knives In The Dark.”

A heavy, knowing silence fell over the tent. The name was a whisper of pure dread. The Knives In The Dark were the specter behind every unexplained political death, the shadow blamed for monarchs dying in their sleep and rivals vanishing from locked rooms. They were a cult dedicated to a nameless deity whose sole doctrine was the art and sacrament of murder itself. They were secretive to the point of myth; most of what was ‘known’ came from paranoid rumors and sensationalized movies where they served as the ultimate, faceless villains. The idea that the Endless War Cult had hired these legendary cult assassins to remove Anya was chillingly plausible.

Anya: “Well,” she said after a moment, breaking the silence with the unshakable resolve that had made her a legend. “That changes nothing. I was prepared to die on a spearpoint for this cause. Dying to a cursed coin or a shadow’s blade is merely a different method. But it does mean I need to reassess security protocols for my entire command staff.”

Scarlett: “A prudent move,” Alexandria acknowledged. “Now that your friend is out of immediate danger, unless you require further assistance, Cid and I should take our leave. We have our own… pressing concerns.”

Anya: “Before you go,” Volkov said, stopping her. She walked to a small, locked chest at the foot of her field cot, retrieved a key from around her neck, and opened it. From within, she pulled a single, plain envelope sealed with a blob of red wax imprinted with her personal sigil—a sword breaking a chain. “This was meant for you before all this trouble began. One of my deep reconnaissance teams, operating behind enemy lines near the Obsidian Ridge, reported a sighting. One of the people you’ve been searching for.”

Scarlett’s hand, usually so steady, hesitated for a fraction of a second before she took the envelope. She broke the seal and extracted a single sheet of coded script. Her crimson eyes scanned the lines, her expression hardening into something cold and utterly focused. The ambient temperature in the tent seemed to drop a few degrees.

Scarlett: “Are you certain this intelligence is reliable?” she asked, her voice a low hum of contained intensity.

Anya: “There are no absolutes in war, Scarlett,” Anya replied. “But I can vouch for the team. They have no reason to lie, and their survival depends on accurate reporting. According to them, your target is scheduled to arrive in the city of Unix in approximately three months. They are to meet with the city’s lord—who, incidentally, is an enemy of mine and a client of the Endless War cult. Consider that an added bonus. Do with the information and the opportunity as you see fit.”

Scarlett folded the paper with precise, deliberate motions and tucked it into an inner pocket of her robes. The gesture was final, like a hammer being cocked. She gave Anya a single, grave nod.

Scarlett: “Thank you. This settles an old account.” She turned towards the tent flap. “Come, Cid. We’re heading back. We have preparations to make.”

Without another word, the disgraced archmage swept out of the tent, resolve lingering in her wake. Cid offered a hurried, awkward bow to Anya and Steph before scrambling after his teacher to meet up with Fenny.