My King

The snake-like stab never made it to Richard’s body. As the saint assassin finally revealed himself, looking no different from an ordinary local soldier, all he saw was the cold face of a girl in white leather armour, looking like a wounded lone wolf that was eyeing its prey.

A stunned expression crossed the man’s eyes. He had barely noticed the young woman getting in the way of his strike, but there had been no way to shift his blade in time. Looking at that blunt expression that revealed neither anger nor pain, he felt a shiver run down his spine. This was someone of the same kind as him, but far more cruel and brutal.

The saint tried to retract his sword by instinct, but it just wouldn’t move. The girl had grabbed the weapon with her left hand, blood staining the blade.

What, then, was her right hand doing? This question barely bubbled up in the man’s...