xymnovel Chapter 17 Night Talk
Chapter 17 Night Talk
When Lyon and Accord escaped from the bathhouse, mingling among the crowd and making sure they had no tails, they finally returned to the inn by the city gate. By then, the sky was as dark as ink.
The hotel wasn't just a place to stay with guest rooms. The guest rooms were concentrated on the second and third floors, while the ground floor, both in front of the entrance and inside, was lined with long wooden tables and chairs. At this moment, it was bustling with noise, crowded with drunken patrons. Dice clattered in wooden bowls, ceramic cups clinked, and a cacophony of various languages blended together.
Accord found the owner, and amidst the owner's ingratiating smile and Leon's silent disdain, prepaid for the room. He then dragged Leon to an empty seat in a corner on the first floor. He practically snatched the wine bottle from the waitress's tray, uncorked it, and started chugging it down his throat.
"Father, you promised the Count..."
"Sorry, Lyon..." Jacob wiped the wine stains from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, his voice hoarse, "I need to clear my head... otherwise all I can see is that guy pulling out his hidden blade."
The two fell into a long silence, the casual and ruthless flash of the Assassin's hidden blade in the bathhouse and the almost invisible wounds on the man's corpse still vivid in their minds.
Just then, the drunken chatter of a group of patrons at a corner table drifted over.
"I heard someone died at the bathhouse?"
"People at the scene said they drowned."
"Drowning? That shallow pool, how could anyone drown?"
"What else? The patrolling guards didn't even lift an eyelid; only the bathhouse's own people were there to collect the bodies."
"Ha, a few unlucky guys die every year, what's so strange about that?"
Lyon and Jacob exchanged glances, then felt a chill run down their spines. Hakim's death was not merely an assassination in Alexandria, nor a bloody transaction in the Cairo baths, but rather a fog that permeated all of Egypt, or perhaps a vast net laid out by a powerful figure behind the scenes, slowly tightening throughout the country.
Accord paused, the bottle in his hand stilling. He abruptly stood up and pulled Leon up, saying, "Let's go back to the room."
The two fled into the second-floor room. Yage bolted the door shut and leaned against the wooden plank, panting heavily.
“Father, I think we shouldn’t go out from now on, and you shouldn’t even think about going downstairs for a drink,” Lyon sighed. “It’s best to stay in the room until the Count finishes his work, and then we can go home together, isn’t it?”
Ya Ge's drunkenness turned into cold sweat as he muttered, "Yes... let's stay here, and... let's not get involved outside anymore."
Exhaustion and lingering fear washed over them, and the two collapsed heavily onto the bed. Not long after, Accord's snoring began to wail like a bellows.
Leon covered his ears, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, the emerald still lingering in his mind.
It's just an emerald. Although it's still incredibly expensive for ordinary people, compared to the simultaneous deployment of two Assassins, the murder of a tax collector, the destruction of a stronghold, and the extremely reckless and arbitrary assassination in the baths of Cairo, this emerald seems... far too cheap.
Could it be a magical artifact? Is it similar in function to the Apple of Eden in the Assassin's Creed game?
Leon shook his head. The idea was too absurd. How could something so surreal be possible?
Just then, with a soft creak, the window was blown open by the night breeze. Moonlight streamed in, and a white figure nimbly vaulted over the windowsill like a ghost, silently landing inside.
Lyon's breath hitched until he could see clearly in the moonlight the familiar, simple white robe and the slightly youthful face belonging to Atariro under the hood.
"Atraro?" He instinctively reached out to wake the snoring Accord, but Atraro raised his hand and made a simple yet firm gesture to stop him.
"We," Arrilo's voice was low and hoarse, his gaze fixed on Lyon's face, "need to talk privately."
Leon disregarded his original purpose and hurriedly lowered his voice to recount everything he had seen and heard in the bathhouse—the richly dressed Assassin, the emerald, and the guard who had been swiftly and decisively silenced.
Arrilo listened quietly, his body initially frozen like a stone statue. But when he heard the words "hidden blade," "throat," and "emerald," Lyon saw him suddenly clench the hem of his robe with his hands on his knees.
He murmured, "Is...that my mentor?"
"Your mentor? That makes sense, his assassinations are quite... simple yet profound."
Arrilo's gaze dimmed rapidly, as if it had lost its luster. A mixture of self-mockery and extreme loneliness appeared on his face. His fingers trembled as he stroked the hidden blade on his left wrist, touching it again and again, as if confirming its existence.
"I see."
When he looked up at Leon again, the young man's face was expressionless, devoid of joy or sorrow. Leon could not read anger or sadness on that calm face, only the chill of a faith that had been utterly severed.
"What's so special about that gemstone?" Leon couldn't help but ask.
Arriel shook his head, his voice dry: "I don't know. If I did, Hakim's name wouldn't be the only one on the mission list." He paused for a moment, as if forced to examine the enormous deception, "Now that I think about it, he put me in charge of the assassination precisely to draw all the attention to an easily discarded apprentice."
"Okay," Leon said, a hint of disappointment in his voice. He'd thought there really was such a thing as the Apple of Eden; it seemed he'd been overthinking it. "So, what were you originally going to talk to me about?"
"A dream. And your identity." Arrilo's thoughts seemed to be pulled back. He looked at Lyon, his eyes holding something else. "A dream is a connection, a prophecy, a vision. Nearly a hundred years ago, someone had a dream like yours. His name was Abu Tahir Alani, the organization's first mentor. Under his guidance, we found Alamut and established our base."
He shifted his tone slightly: "As for your identity... I already know the general idea. I once thought you were that Roman prince, a magnificent mistake. But now it seems," he scrutinized Lyon, "that a Komnenos bloodline, a person with a claim to the throne of Jerusalem, means more to me than a distant Roman, and... that vague dream."
His tone remained flat, but what he said next sent a jolt through Leon.
“You need to return to Jerusalem and reclaim what is rightfully yours. And I need a new foothold and… a new goal.” Artyrus’s gaze sharpened, as if he had finally untangled a tangled mess. “We can cooperate. I will clear the obstacles in your path, and in exchange—after you become King of Jerusalem, I need your protection so that I can have the power to purge the traitors from the organization.”
"After all, we know each other inside and out... don't we?"