Chapter Fifty-Four: Preparing to Strike Back

Rumors of the serial killings in South City had recently grown increasingly rampant, stirring widespread panic among the populace.

At its core, these murders were not just random attacks on wandering courtesans but rather targeted home invasions and killings, causing every housewife who worked from home to live in constant fear.

Cleavers, pitchforks, and even pot lids that could serve as shields became so sought-after at the market that they sold out instantly. No one trusted the Imperial Guard of the capital to protect the citizens’ safety; people chose to defend themselves.

Seizing the opportunity, the Amazon Association launched a recruitment campaign, offering free lessons in their so-called “Amazon self-defense techniques.” Within days, membership soared past a thousand, astonishing Bessalia.

“Better to learn magic or poison,” the Dark Elf queen remarked wryly.

In this Western fantasy world, women’s self-defense certainly existed—magic and poisons could bridge the physical gap between genders, granting women real power to protect themselves.

However, magic required strong affinity, and poisons were strictly regulated by law. Neither path could be freely pursued, so the association stuck to Amazonian fighting techniques, teaching registered members how to fight unarmed against assailants. They even hired several men as sparring partners.

Their task was to fall dramatically and howl in pain the moment they were struck by the women’s fists or kicks.

Successfully knocking down a man during training gave Amazon members a profound sense of achievement and pride; even when returning home at night and meeting their husbands, their voices would involuntarily rise with newfound confidence.

Upon hearing this, Raine guessed that Her Majesty the Queen intended to exploit the panic caused by the serial killings to recruit more members for her Amazon club.

That was unacceptable: the longer the murders dragged on, the more it made Raine, commander of the Imperial Guard, appear weak and incompetent, while the Queen reaped all the benefits. How could that be allowed?

Raine was fiercely loyal to the Imperial family. Being dismissed for poor performance would mean the end of his service to the throne—a clear betrayal.

Therefore, he resolved to swiftly return the favor for Duke Dakros’s previous banquet and, in the process, completely resolve this incident.

Accompanied by Bessalia, Raine ventured into the capital’s black market.

The black market was, as the name implied, an illegal marketplace filled with stolen goods, contraband banned by law, and even slaves—in short, anything could be bought as long as one had the money.

Built within an abandoned reservoir, a relic of the ancient Elven Empire, the black market had become a rat-infested den of thieves.

At the sewer entrance, a burly figure blocked Raine and Bessalia’s path.

“Unauthorized persons not allowed in,” he grunted.

“Bessalia?” Raine said calmly.

Bessalia smiled faintly, preparing to employ her secret poison, but then someone called out from behind the big man:

“Let the honored guest in. He’s the commander in the golden robe, you blind oaf.”

The bulky man fell silent and stepped aside.

Raine and Bessalia entered the sewer, where an old man approached, bowing with a smile:

“Lord Fahrel.”

“Golden robe?” Raine asked.

“It’s our term of respect for the Imperial Guards under your command,” the old man said.

“Shouldn’t that be an insult?”

“No, no. Thieves and guards have a mutually beneficial relationship,” the old man smiled. “Without us criminals causing cases, the Imperial Guard would have no way to prove their worth at court.”

“Conversely, loyal guards effectively suppress the flow of illegal goods, raising the value of the merchandise we handle. So the black market always welcomes you, esteemed Lord Fahrel.”

“Look at that,” Raine whispered to Bessalia, “the man who became the Rat King certainly isn’t stupid.”

“Former Rat King,” the old man corrected. “I stepped down last month… But of course, I won’t waste your precious time with my story. What are you looking for today?”

“I heard you have beast-fighting shows?” Raine asked.

“Indeed,” the old man smiled. “Dog fights, cat fights, cockfights, bullfights. Human gladiator matches too, but only on Sundays.”

“You have human gladiators?” Bessalia asked, intrigued.

She was curious about the bloody spectacles.

“Unlimited deathmatches have long been a black market tradition,” the old man said solemnly. “We’ve been doing this for centuries, since the First Human Empire.”

“Enough about the blood sports,” Raine waved a hand, cutting off Bessalia’s questions. “You have fighting cats? I want to buy some.”

“Since you’ve come here, I imagine you’re not looking for ordinary cats,” the old man mused. “We have many trained war cats—arched backs, hissing, pouncing, grappling—fully skilled. What sort do you prefer?”

“I want the ones that have lost and died,” Raine said.

The old man’s expression froze in shock. His gaze shifted to Bessalia, who was equally stunned.

Whether dog fights, cat fights, cockfights, bullfights, or human gladiators, defeat was inevitable. No one could win forever.

Defeat meant death.

For humans, families might collect the bodies, but animals had no such luxury. Especially carnivores like dogs and cats—the black market traders collected and reused their corpses by any means to cut costs.

Why would the commander in the golden robe want dead cats?

The old man wondered silently, but Bessalia quickly guessed.

As a necromancer, he must be collecting cat corpses to resurrect them. That was no mystery.

The real question: what was the purpose of resurrecting them?

Raine clearly wasn’t the type to pity small animals, saying, “Oh, you poor things, let me bring you back to life.” Necromantic cats depended on the sorcerer’s undead magic to survive; it would be easier just to buy a kitten from the market and hand it over to a servant.

So what was his true plan?

Bessalia’s mind raced, her dark elf penchant for intrigue fully awakened.

Raine gave no explanation but calmly paid the old man, purchasing thirty cat corpses.

“We’ll deliver them promptly to your specified location,” the old man said with a forced smile. “Though these bodies may not be in the best condition.”

“Condition?” Bessalia asked.

“They may be missing limbs or blind in one eye—that’s normal,” the old man explained. “In fighting, even humans rarely remain intact; animals fare worse.”

“No matter,” Raine waved dismissively. “Just get them here quickly.”

On the way back, Bessalia kept shaking Raine’s arm, pouting:

“Why are you buying those dead cats? Tell me, please! Just tell me!”

“Use your imagination,” Raine snapped.

“I can’t figure it out,” Bessalia feigned innocence.

“Something so simple and you can’t guess?” Raine sneered coldly. “I’m beginning to doubt if your blood is truly that of a dark elf.”

Bessalia’s face darkened. Though her caramel skin was naturally dark, her beautiful features twisted into a look of offended anger.

“Cats can’t talk,” Raine explained dryly. “They’ll help us pin the crimes on Duke Dakros, leaving him speechless and helpless.”

“I understand,” Bessalia said solemnly. “You plan to resurrect these cats, then deliberately smear them with blood to make it look like they just escaped from a crime scene at the Duke’s mansion, where passersby witness them fleeing—sparking public suspicion that the Duke is the murderer!”

“Not a bad guess,” Raine replied.

“But why cats?” Bessalia countered. “You could just resurrect a dead person, disguise them as a victim attacked by the Duke, publicly accuse him, and then fake dying from their injuries… But that wouldn’t be enough for conviction. Without physical evidence, testimony alone can’t bring down a Duke.”

“Good. At least it shows I didn’t damage your brain when reshaping your body,” Raine said darkly. “Legal convictions require hard proof, but some things can ruin a person without it.”

“The kindhearted and beautiful Queen won’t stoop to such measures, so she needs loyal agents to do the dirty work.”

“If you’re so loyal to the Queen, then all of us dark elves would be virtuous and kind,” Bessalia scoffed. “No, I think you’re even more wicked than we are.”

“Nonsense. Can a necromancer ever be kind?” Raine scoffed.

Bessalia fell silent, her eyes gleaming with excitement and bloodlust.

She could hardly wait to see Raine weave his webs of intrigue and frame Duke Dakros to death… Just imagining it sent shivers crawling over her skin, making her feel as if little snakes wriggled within—an ecstatic thrill that seemed to lift her toward heaven itself.