Throughout history, assassination has always offered a very high cost-performance ratio.
Especially during wartime, using a few assassins to eliminate an enemy commander and dismantle their command structure is often a remarkably effective tactic. For example, Space Marine boarding actions and decapitation strikes are also forms of tactical assassination, yielding enormous benefits if successful.
Regardless of who orchestrated this assassination attempt against the Lochos royal family, their strategic intent was quite clear.
If successful, the death of Dammekos and his direct bloodline would inevitably create a power vacuum. Lochos would be leaderless, its cadet branches would descend into endless bloody infighting for the throne, and other city-states could take advantage.
However, these assassins made a fatal mistake; they overlooked Caelan.
They focused all their attention on the conspicuous giant, Perturabo, completely ignoring Caelan, who had always remained behind the scenes. He was merely the Primarch's tutor, holding no significant position in the Lochos government.
His official status was very low. In the eyes of outsiders, he was only qualified to serve in the palace because he had gained the Primarch's favor. Although Caelan had publicly demonstrated his psychic powers years ago, those rumors had long been dismissed by most as nonsense. If he truly possessed such power, why would he be just a teacher?
Yet, when the assassins' bullets froze in mid-air like insects trapped in amber, the assassins continued to pull their triggers futilely, producing empty clicking sounds. These assassins, disguised as actors, couldn't bring large rifles on stage.
The pistols hidden in their clothes were already empty from the initial burst. They had come for a single, decisive blow; the first attempt had the highest chance of success, so naturally, no one had reserved extra ammunition.
The assassins acted decisively, immediately lunging towards the Tyrant's family.
Even if they escaped the theater, Lochos would conduct a city-wide manhunt. They weren't locals; they couldn't hide. Moreover, these were suicide operatives; as long as they were alive, the mission wasn't over!
Caelan said, "A-Bo, catch them!"
Perturabo sprang at the assassins like a sleek leopard. The force of his leap was such that the marble floor cracked under his feet.
"Protect the Tyrant!"
The captain of the guard's roar exploded through the chaotic theater. A dozen guards in gold and white armor formed a human wall around the Tyrant.
The crowd was already in chaos, panicked. Nobles and commoners shoved each other towards the exits. Gilded goblets rolled from overturned couches, soaking the expensive rugs.
Ennan, one of the Twelve Wise Men, was being escorted away by guards, his purple robe torn in the scrum. Mondak, however, was loyal, ordering his own guards to join the outer perimeter. But with danger everywhere, he dared not approach the Tyrant himself, lest he be mistaken for an accomplice of the assassins.
Dammekos shouted, "I don't need your protection! Go help my son!"
Once the element of surprise was lost, the assassins had no chance in close-quarters combat against the battle-hardened royal guards.
Seeing their mission on the verge of failure, the assassins quickly adjusted their tactics, pinning all their hopes on killing Perturabo, who was now actively engaging them.
"Kill the blasphemer!"
The lead assassin barked. In their eyes, assassinating Perturabo was a higher priority than killing the Tyrant.
The assassins swarmed Perturabo, trying to overwhelm him with numbers and drag him down. But the Primarch's counter-attack was even fiercer than their assault. He shattered one assassin's skull with a single punch, bone fragments and blood spraying. With a backhanded slap, he crushed the ribs of another, whose chest instantly caved in, sending him flying several meters like a broken doll onto the stage, his spine twisted, collapsing in a heap.
The deaths of their comrades didn't deter these fanatics. They surged towards Perturabo one after another, shouting war cries of "Death to the blasphemer!" looking very much like fearless cultists.
However, they were facing a Primarch.
One assassin tried to flank, stabbing a gleaming dagger at Perturabo's lower back. But Perturabo's reaction was faster than lightning. He had formulated a complete tactical plan within a nanosecond, the ambush already anticipated. He spun around, seized the assassin's wrist, and crushed the bones with a gentle squeeze, blood trickling down.
But Perturabo didn't deliver a killing blow; he needed to keep some alive to question. Amidst the assassin's agonized screams, Perturabo casually threw him towards the Tyrant's guards.
Smack!
Perturabo grabbed another assassin's head, swung him like a flail to knock down two more attackers, then hurled the assassin as a blunt projectile, taking down another.
The throw was precisely calculated by the Primarch, enough to dislocate the assassin's spine but not kill him instantly. Perturabo wouldn't let them die easily; that would be too merciful.
"Blasphemer, I curse you! The gods will spit upon you!"
The last assassin roared, lunging at Perturabo, who simply grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off the ground.
The assassin's legs kicked uselessly in the air, fanatical flames burning in his eyes.
Crack!
Perturabo crushed his right wrist bone. The dagger clattered to the floor with a clear ring as the assassin screamed.
"A curse?" The Primarch's voice was icy. "Then let your god come find me personally!"
The guards swarmed forward, subduing all the assassins.
These assassins were disguised as the murder cultists of Tanatoi from the play, wearing dramatic, grotesque masks. Perturabo tore off the mask of one, revealing a face covered in tattoos, the distinctive facial markings of a Delleconian, symbolizing their devout faith in the god of murder.
These were genuine murder cult assassins.
Delleconia, a city-state infamous for its assassins, where the murder cult was revered like nobility. These shadow-stalkers were notorious elsewhere, but in Delleconia, their assassinations were considered sacred judgments.
But their tattoos didn't prove Delleconia was the mastermind. Like the temples that provided sexual services for money, the murder cult would assassinate anyone for a sufficient fee.
While their assassination attempt on him might indeed be due to his 'blasphemy,' he had been blaspheming for a long time. Why hadn't they acted sooner?
He traveled daily from the palace to the Anvil Camp without any guards, a habit known throughout the city. If he were the only target, they had plenty of opportunities and would have struck long ago.
The assassins, disguised as actors, had infiltrated a well-known troupe well in advance, specifically choosing the theater for the attack. It was clearly a calculated plan. Entertainment for Olympians was quite limited, banquets, plays, art, and hunting. But Perturabo didn't like plays; their target was Dammekos, whose passion for theater was well-known in Lochos.
The performance on stage provided perfect cover for the assassination, and the theatrical setting itself made the assassins' actions seem unremarkable. They timed it perfectly, striking during the most intense fourth act of Antaram.
It should have been a flawless assassination, drawing weapons, firing all bullets, all within seconds. Once the Tyrant was dead, they could have escaped in the ensuing shock and chaos, right under everyone's noses.
Perturabo casually threw the assassin aside. He flew like a kite with a cut string, crashing into a couch, curling up and convulsing in pain.
"father, who suggested we come to the play?" Perturabo asked the Tyrant, turning his head.
The assassins' target was the Tyrant, but they seemed to have anticipated that the Tyrant's family would also attend. This was no coincidence.
The assassins had clearly been lurking within the troupe, patiently waiting for the Tyrant to walk into their trap. This family gathering was the Tyrant's own whim, only mentioned to Perturabo yesterday. How did the assassins know?
The Tyrant, clearly suspecting collusion, darkened. "Mondak, where is the Ninth Wise Man?"
"My Lord." Mondak lowered his head. "He pleaded illness today and did not come to the theater."
"Send men immediately to seal the city gates and arrest the Ninth Wise Man!"
It was the Ninth Wise Man who had suggested he bring his family to the theater to mend their relationships. He had even praised the idea. Now he just wanted to tear the Ninth Wise Man apart! Without Caelan and Perturabo, he would be a corpse right now!
Few knew he was coming to the theater today. Besides their own people, the Ninth Wise Man was the prime suspect. Even if the palace servants wanted to betray the Tyrant, they had no means; they had no opportunity to contact assassins.
Unless they had been planted long ago. But that was unlikely. The palace servants were household servants, generations serving the royal family. Their betrayal was far less likely than that of the nobles. If the Tyrant died, the servants might get some money, possibly be silenced, but nobles could rise in the ensuing chaos.
Although the Twelve Wise Men held high status, some undoubtedly harbored ambitions of usurpation. Dammekos was convinced the Ninth Wise Man was treacherous. He had suggested the Tyrant bring his family to the play, yet stayed away himself, clearly aware of the danger!
"father, that's not advisable." Perturabo was very cautious. "Military officers are nobles. Acting rashly might alert the conspirators. Those who planned this assassination certainly have a backup plan. We don't know who else is involved."
The assassination was long-planned; a rebellion likely was too.
Dammekos frowned. "But if we don't mobilize the military, how do we suppress a rebellion?"
While only an assassination had occurred, and no direct evidence linked the Ninth Wise Man, Dammekos, was determined to treat it as a rebellion. Even if it wasn't before, it was now.
Perturabo reminded, "We can use our own people."
He had trained the Anvil Camp for years. Now was the time to use them.
...
"If Dammekos can sit on the tyrant's throne, why can't I?"
Claude Waltz, the Ninth Wise Man, reclined on a couch in his mansion, a cold sneer on his lips. The assassins weren't targeting only the Tyrant; all the Wise Men present were targets. He had stayed home specifically to avoid being caught in the crossfire. He hadn't hired those assassins, and they didn't know he was on their side. It would be terribly unlucky if he got shot by mistake.
"Once that old fool Dammekos and those troublesome Wise Men are dead, Lochos will be mine for the taking!"
Just thinking about it made Claude's breathing quicken. As one of the Twelve Wise Men, he was fully qualified to compete for the Tyrant's throne once a power vacuum appeared. A little maneuvering, securing a few key nobles, plus the support of the temple priests, who could compete with him? Eliminate the blasphemer Perturabo and seize power in Lochos, a huge win-win!
"Father, I have a bad feeling about this." Claude's eldest son, Connal, asked worriedly. "What if the assassins fail?"
The Ninth Wise Man was confident. "These are the murder cult's finest assassins. They cannot fail."
Connal was still uneasy. "But I've heard Perturabo's mentor can use magic..."
"Magic?" Claude scoffed dismissively. "You actually believe those street rumors?"
"If he had the gods' blessing, I might believe in his magic. But his student is a blasphemer. Why would the gods bless him? It's just a lie the royal family fabricated to enhance the blasphemer's prodigy status!"
"Who has ever seen him use magic?"
"Many nobles were there that day. They all claim to have seen it."
"Did they tell you personally?"
"Their sons told me."
Claude frowned. "Stop associating with those friends of yours. You believe whatever they say? If you're so gullible, how will you ever inherit my throne?"
Now Connal didn't know what to say. His father was already acting like the Tyrant before even seizing power. He was far too arrogant.
If the Tyrant did die in the assassination, his father would benefit greatly. But if they failed... they'd be hunted like rats, with no place left in Lochos.
Connal warned anxiously, "Father, we should prepare for failure as well as success. Regardless of the outcome, we need an escape route. If the assassination fails, we should flee Lochos immediately. Even if you're not at the theater, you should have someone watching it. If things go wrong, we can retreat to the countryside in time."
Claude was full of confidence. "My son, don't worry. My plan is flawless. It cannot fail!"
Connal felt helpless but had no choice. His blood tie to Claude meant they rose and fell together, which was why Claude had confided the assassination plan. But the eldest son was genuinely scared; his father seemed a bit dim.
'Not preparing an escape route, were you going all in? How did you even become a Wise Man? By flattery? Preparing an escape route doesn't mean you have to run; just having a backup plan, is that so hard?'
"About time."
Claude murmured, his voice trembling with suppressed excitement. "Dammekos is dead. Once his death is confirmed, I'll have men seize the palace and the city gates."
So many assassins, so many guns, even if Dammekos was made of iron, he'd be riddled with holes. He was surely dead! Then Claude would be stabilizing the situation by seizing the gates, not usurping power. Claude cared deeply about his reputation; if it was tarnished, other nobles wouldn't support him, and how could he rise to power then?
"Father, but what if..."
"No what ifs!" Claude raised a hand, cutting off his eldest son. "We're committed now. My plan is seamless. Even if the assassination fails, they can't trace it back to me. Why worry?"
"You're my eldest son, but you're so indecisive. How will you follow me in great undertakings?"
Connal looked miserable. Forget great undertakings; he'd be lucky not to be ruined by his father. Claude hadn't arranged the assassination; the assassins had merely approached him with a proposal and promised him a share. His father had eagerly jumped at the chance, afraid of missing out on the promised benefits. But a promise is just a drawing of a pie; you can't eat it.
Claude criticized him for being indecisive, yet Claude lacked self-awareness. Why did he believe other city-states would support him instead of taking the opportunity to annex Lochos? Had his father not considered this at all? Or was he simply blinded by greed?
Bang!
The sudden loud noise startled them.
Connal's heart clenched. Claude just frowned impatiently. "What was that?"
Claude barely opened the door when Connal heard shouts and screams. He instantly realized what was happening, his expression growing even more pained.
"It's over. All over."
The Tyrant certainly wasn't dead, otherwise, the reaction wouldn't have been this fast. His father's grand dream was over before it even began!
In the courtyard, guards in gold and white armor were pulling bloody swords from the chests of household servants, spraying crimson blood. The sound of Claude opening the door drew the guards' eyes. They turned in unison, staring directly at the Wise Man.
"Over there! Catch him!" The optio leading the group barked.
Through the gaps on either side of Claude, Connal saw guards surging forward like a tide. Their breastplates were stained with fresh blood; they had clearly already eliminated the outer defenses.
Claude also barked, "Miltiades, I am one of the Twelve Wise Men of Lochos! What do you think you're doing?"
Miltiades stared at him coldly, his voice harder than steel, "By order of the Tyrant, execute the traitors! Any who resist, kill without mercy!"
He slowly raised his right hand. The soldiers raised their rifles in unison, their dark barrels aimed directly at the father and son.
"I surrender! I had nothing to do with this! It was all his plan!" Connal immediately raised his hands.
Claude looked at him with utter disbelief. 'You are my son! Are you betraying me?'
Connal inwardly lamented. If he had a different father, even if the plan failed, they could have run. How did they end up trapped at home?
....
15 chap [email protected]/DaoistJinzu