Asmodeus wished to do something more at that moment, but time was pressing, and it was important that it be executed in parallel with his investigations. That's why he had asked for my help. My repertoire of skills where I was considered outstanding was limited, especially when compared to an adventurer like Asmodeus, but I felt fortunate to be up to his task.
I didn't know his motives, but I complied with his request just as he had formulated it to me. My power of persuasion was not remarkable, but my extensive network of friendships allowed me to proceed as Asmodeus expected. First, I got a friend and her little sister to declare that they had been attacked by Joinich in the past, then I invented a horror story with the help of Marcos, who exaggerated his testimony by claiming to have seen Joinich murdering someone in his office. That—along with other alarming and repulsive rumors that Asmodeus instructed me to spread—was enough to incite a furious crowd.
I was among all those people, just as he had also asked me to be, carefully investigating every significant detail I could perceive of that suspicious place. For some reason, Asmodeus wanted any scrutiny against Joinich to be diluted in the fury of the crowd. It was as if he feared that someone could directly relate us to such a man and wanted to take that precaution, which seemed paranoid and foreign to a man as imperturbable as he was.
Although I pride myself on my observational skills, I admit with embarrassment that I could glean little from my foray into Joinich's office. My passion for both reading and writing has allowed me to access knowledge with which I could point out the craftsmanship of his furniture, the origin of his materials, and even Joinich's nervous personality reflected in his tremulous handwriting, but there was little of interest in that data. It was the passion of a concerned father that led us to discover a strange hollow sound under Joinich's desk. Upon probing the area, a young man concluded that it was some kind of passage being manipulated through restructuring. None of those present could remove the concrete covering the entrance, nor did I want to reveal my identity by trying, so someone went to get a couple of hammers with which we accessed the strange hole. Joinich also used restructuring to create stairs, so we had to manage to descend with some ropes.
Once down, a large room awaited us. Some luminescent seals on the ceiling allowed us to appreciate the site with some clarity. It was a very large room with several bookshelves and mirrors scattered along the walls. In the middle were armchairs surrounding a large wooden table. Upon inspecting under the table, I noticed a vision symbol similar to the originals that King Svólkus used to teleport his armies. The place didn't seem much different from the office above, but a more meticulous scrutiny made me realize there were vases from pre-Great Awakening eras. We checked the books on the shelves, all about history and geography, but nothing very interesting could be seen in them. We found several wooden chests adorning the back wall, but they were already empty, without any trace of Joinich's past, present, or future.
We knew nothing more about the mysterious man nor were we able to conclusively link him to the crime against Pocuán. Although I consider myself a fairly even-tempered man, I couldn't help but be swept up by the fervor of the furious citizens in Joinich's office.
While I was concluding my fruitless mission, the lieutenant and Asmodeus were fighting for their lives in an isolated corner of the Elker forest.
It was Miss Abigail who cleverly managed to obtain the lieutenant's testimony, as her master had been very unwilling to share his adventure with her when she asked about it.
The scene that followed the sudden force that pushed the lieutenant was so confusing for him that he had trouble describing it accurately.
First, intense pain shot through his stomach as the image of his friend being stabbed faded into darkness. He felt his head explode against a wall of rocks, then he was buried under a pile of rubble. His combat experience made him react as he fell, allowing him to absorb much of the impact with his gifts. He quickly identified the dimensions of the place he had arrived at, then understood what had attacked him and where he was.
He stood up as soon as he could, but a dagger had been buried in his stomach. He tried to break his attacker's hand with a quick hand movement, but ended up breaking the base of the blade that was buried. That instilled a fear in him that froze his skin, for it could only mean one thing. He looked down to confirm his fears and saw a purplish liquid oozing from his abdomen. Hecrolina was what he smelled at that moment, a debilitating poison that would make him succumb to a deep sleep that would hinder his movements until it paralyzed him. That would make him an easy target for any further attack. The worst part was that he had very little time to counteract its effects. He needed to accelerate his regeneration so that the poison would dilute in his body, but that would prevent him from fighting at his full potential.
His attacker was a hooded figure without a uniform. He wore a square-cut battle nolet very similar to the military uniform of the northern kingdom, possibly from the capital itself. Around his neck, he had a collar of romular stones, and on his chin, there was a deep cut that had grotesquely scarred. The lieutenant tried to scrutinize his face to identify him in the future, if he couldn't catch him at that moment, but he shuddered when his gaze clashed with a face that could hardly be related to the human species. The lieutenant didn't explain what he meant; he simply said that there was no trace of humanity in his eyes: no fear of attacking an authority, no remorse for attempting to take another human's life. That perpetrator was anatomically identical to any other man, but the harmony of his gestures emanated a horrifying aura that not even the most ruthless criminals usually emitted.
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The mysterious attacker dodged the lieutenant's first punch while infusing himself with shpabisshys. His muscles and tendons were accentuated as his strength increased with every second.
That man and his companion had managed to hide their energy footprint from the lieutenant's perception and even from Asmodeus's keen senses. They were well-trained Orkarus. Their agility was the greatest threat and would soon reach critical levels. The lieutenant's only hope was to end the fight as soon as possible to focus on countering the effects of the hecrolina.
The lieutenant threw two punches that his attacker evaded. Had he connected, he would have been able to crush his skull, but the criminal was too fast. The lieutenant had to improvise. He threw several punches to distract and managed to kick his abdomen in a moment of carelessness. The villain groaned in pain as he slammed against a wall, but then he cynically laughed as he straightened up. He absorbed energy from one of the stones on his collar and returned to his battle stance. That was a problem.
The lieutenant had little time, both to save himself and to help his friend. He tried to concentrate. He infused his body with shpabisshys, enveloping himself in a crimson aura as his blood began to boil in his entrails. He only needed a few seconds to complete his task, but a sharp pain attacked him on the side of his neck.
He didn't know what happened at that moment and could only guess that his attacker had thrown a dagger at him that cut his skin. The assassin was agile, though not strong. Speed was the only skill in which he surpassed the lieutenant. The criminal was sure he couldn't win a fair fight, so he was limiting himself to containing him while the poison took effect. The mocking gesture on his face only accentuated the repulsion one could feel towards him.
The lieutenant infused himself with shpabisshys to enhance his body. Strength was not important; he had to focus on increasing his own speed. He delivered several successive punches. The attacker quickly dodged, moving his torso, twisting his neck, and coordinating his feet like in a dance.
The lieutenant stepped back to try to counteract the effects of the hecrolina, but the attacker made several cuts on his arms. With each passing second, the lieutenant's chances dwindled. It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to follow his opponent's movements or defend himself against them. He needed to kill him as soon as possible.
He began to fight fiercely while clinging to what little energy he had left. He struck as quickly as possible at his opponent's face, chest, and shoulders. One blow was enough. Once he broke a bone, it would be easier to control him. That's all he needed. However, the enemy remained very fast. The lieutenant had already reached his maximum potential under those circumstances, so he had to rely on cunning to survive.
He remembered how the disgusting criminal had tackled him at the beginning. He had used his right shoulder to hit his abdomen. Then he had buried the dagger with his right hand. Now he was also using the knife with his right hand. He was right-handed. The lieutenant paid attention to his fighting style while still trying to land a blow. What he had imagined was true. The criminal's movements pivoted on his right leg. His preferred direction to dodge was also to the right. The lieutenant began to attack based on those thoughts.
The hooded figure moved as the lieutenant expected. Now he could predict what he would do, but he was still unable to reach the necessary speed to touch him. It wasn't possible, especially as his vitality decreased with each moment. He just needed an opportunity; he had to create it.
He continued to attack, waiting for his best moment. His own style consisted of punches. His feet slid with him as he moved, but very rarely did he use them as weapons. He had been taught how dangerous it was to use his legs, and he had the wisdom to understand that advice. Losing balance for a few seconds could be fatal in any battle. He had never liked using his legs, but it was a good final resource for desperate situations like those. None of his opponents expected a kick after a long battle of punches.
He advanced his left leg and tried to strike with his right fist. The hooded figure dodged it and tore a good part of his forearm with the knife. The lieutenant turned his hip, using his injured arm as the criminal's blind spot, and grabbed him by the belt with his left arm. He pulled him while elbowing him in the face, then used both hands to tilt his body. The consecutive knee strike was accompanied by the sound of the criminal's spine and a guttural grunt composed of the air from his shattered lungs.
The criminal tried to stab him back, but the lieutenant grabbed his wrist. He then tried to consume the romular stones from his collar to regenerate, but the lieutenant grabbed his other arm. Then he squeezed all the strength of his fingers, pulverizing his bones.
The guy screamed horribly as he writhed and his hood fell to one side. It was a woman. Brunette, young, nothing like a criminal. She was so desperate to get away from the lieutenant that the skin of her wrists began to tear. The lieutenant grabbed her by the neck and raised a fist. The woman tried to say something, but the pain she felt broke her voice into babbling accompanied by teary eyes. Under other circumstances, he would have been merciful, especially considering she was a woman. The problem was that he no longer had time for mercy or the desire to seek it. Both he and his friend were in danger, and he was sure their lives were worth more than hers.
His hand trembled, but he clenched his fist anyway. He threw a strong punch at her face. He felt his knuckles sink into the woman's nose, then heard her neck break from the impact of the attack. A quick death, that was all the mercy he could offer her.
The woman's corpse convulsed as the air escaped from her lungs with a guttural and bubbling sound from her throat, amidst the blood flowing from her nose.
The lieutenant immediately stepped back. He removed the blade buried in his abdomen and placed both hands on the wound. His vision had already worsened, and his movements were beginning to slow down.
He focused his shpabisshys on the wound. A reddish light enveloped him, another white one covered the wound, and a warm sensation invaded him. The wound healed, the poison receded, and his senses sharpened again. He still needed to regain his energy. He took the woman's collar to replenish himself. It wasn't enough to fully compose himself, but he didn't hesitate to run immediately to see his friend.