System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 129
Salvatore held his sword, his gaze flickering as he avoided meeting the Witcher’s eyes.
“Witcher, I don’t know what nonsense you’re spouting.”
“Caught red-handed, and you still want to argue?”
“Caught red-handed? Where’s your proof? What I did came purely from hatred. You freaks, you mutants, you don’t deserve to exist in this world!”
Roy shook his head. “Very well. I’ll take that as a compliment. Admit it or not, I’ll still give you one chance. Tell me where Letho is, and I’ll let you die with a knight’s honor intact. Otherwise...”
...
Roy let out a low, threatening snort. “How do you feel about being paraded naked through the streets?”
“Heh heh...” Salvatore crouched like a panther, gripping his sword until his knuckles went white, then burst into hysterical laughter. “In your dreams, freak!”
The instant the words left his mouth, he lunged for the window at the side.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Three long strides carried him forward. The window was right there. His hand slammed onto the sill. One push, and he would be out.
Then came a sharp hiss of something tearing through the air. A flash of white streaked past like lightning, followed by a shrill scream. An unseen crossbow bolt punched clean through the back of Salvatore’s right hand, pinning his palm to the wall without a sound.
Salvatore squealed like a stuck pig. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Witcher approaching, slow and deliberate. Gritting his teeth, he swallowed the pain and used his uninjured left hand to grasp the bolt, inch by inch wrenching it free from his hand.
“Aah ... ah ... ah...” His face twisted in agony. When he finally wrapped the wound with his underclothes, he looked like a man dragged out of water, pale, shaking, and drained. He collapsed onto the floor.
“Does it hurt?” The Witcher stepped close, whispering like a demon. “Sorry. It’s going to hurt more in a moment.”
The knight tucked his injured hand against his chest like a claw, bracing himself on his sword hilt with the other as he struggled upright. He barked, fierce but hollow, “Witcher, you dare touch a member of the Order of the White Rose? My brothers will see justice done.”
“Only now you remember who you are?” the Witcher scoffed. “Do you really think they’ll protect you once they know what you’ve done? Don’t kid yourself. They’d never imagine that the killer the Order spent three months hunting was right under their noses.”
“Then again, it makes sense. Only an insider could commit so many crimes under heavy guard without anyone noticing. You can guard against enemies day and night, but it’s the thief in the house that’s hardest to stop.”
“Don’t smear my actions!” Salvatore roared. “You have no understanding of the ritual’s true significance!”
“I don’t understand it. What I do understand is this. Once your deeds are exposed, they’ll stain the Order of the White Rose. Your comrades will spit on you, your family will be shamed, and you’ll become a joke for the people of Ellander to laugh over after dinner.”
The Witcher stared hard at Salvatore’s face, his words cutting sharper.
“Let me guess. When the noble Sir Patrick-Laddin was enjoying himself in bed with the even nobler Princess Emilia, were you standing guard outside, loyal as ever? Did you applaud while you watched their little performance?”
“Shut up!”
Madness flared in Salvatore’s eyes. He seemed to forget the searing pain entirely. Like a rabid tiger, he charged, knight’s sword raised.
Slash, slash, slash. Steel honed by countless hours of training struck straight for the Witcher’s throat.
The Witcher moved as if he were back in the temple courtyard, drilling swordsmanship day after day. His body was taut and agile, like a hunting mongoose, spine snapping alive, bending low as a drawn bow.
He stepped back in a blur.
The knight’s blade passed within a hair’s breadth. The Witcher felt the wind kiss his sensitive skin, a jolt like electricity racing through his limbs.
He shuddered, then thrilled.
Whoosh. The instant Salvatore’s old force was spent and new force had yet to rise, the Witcher dragged his sword forward, like a basilisk lashing its tail.
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