Antoine's heart turned to ice. Standing at the doorway was none other than the young Count Anthony himself. The family's trademark golden hair glimmered faintly in the dim light, making the boy's pale complexion appear almost ghostly.
"It's time," said the young count coldly, his voice as frigid as the air in Antoine's chest. "The glory of the Anthony family has faded for far too long."
Antoine's left hand pressed hard against the escape button hidden beneath his chair—but nothing happened. No response. Beads of cold sweat gathered on his fat face, trickling down like melting wax. His small, darting eyes flicked from the shadow assassin to the young count, then to the door, frantically calculating how quickly his guards could possibly react.
"Colin!" he shouted, panic creeping into his tone. "What's the meaning of this? Are you breaking our contract? I signed a formal employment agreement with the Shadow Assassins! You can't kill me!"
"I've no intention of killing you," Colin replied lazily, toying with a small metal part in his hand. "I'm a professional, you see. I have a code. But as an assassin, I'm always curious about strange and clever little things. Yesterday I noticed the device on your chair—it caught my eye. So, I took a look. Unfortunately, when I put it back together, I… accidentally added one extra piece. Sorry about that. I did my best."
He flicked the small metal component onto the desk with an indifferent smile, then turned and bowed elegantly to the young count.
"My lord, the stage is yours now. Everything you instructed has been carried out. Those two witchers won't be interfering with your plans anymore. Everything will proceed just as you desired."
"Well done," the young count said coldly. "The reputation of the Shadow Assassins is indeed well deserved. Here—the key to the lord's treasury. Take whatever you wish. None of it matters to me anymore."
He drew a key from his belt and tossed it to Colin. Then, without hesitation, he pulled out a dagger, slashed open his own forearm, and soaked a white handkerchief with his blood before handing it to the assassin.
It was as though he hadn't even cut himself. Without looking back, he strode forward.
"The vault door recognizes only the blood willingly offered by the family heir," he said flatly. "That blood will reveal the seal. It's all yours now."
The assassin's voice trembled slightly with excitement.
"Your generosity honors me, my lord! If we ever have the chance to work together again, I'll give you a very large discount!"
"There will be no next time!" the young count snapped, his eyes glinting with hatred. "All of this—all of it—will be buried in history! Everyone will turn to dust and bone in agony!"
As he spoke, he raised his arm and chanted a short incantation.
Antoine suddenly felt his entire body tighten; invisible ropes bound him to the chair, freezing him in place.
"Antoine!" the young count's voice thundered, his eyes blazing with madness. "This desk—this study—everything here is mine! I've waited for this day for so long! If I didn't need you to drag this entire city into hell with me, I would have torn you limb from limb long ago!"
"You've gone insane!" Antoine roared, struggling desperately against the invisible restraints. His fat body shook and quivered, but he could not move.
His voice rose in a frantic scream, hoping to be heard by someone—anyone—else in the castle. "The treasures in that vault are your father's lifelong savings! And you're handing them over to some backstabbing killer-for-hire who makes his living on murder and deceit?!"
The young lord sneered, his expression twisted with contempt.
"What, should I have left it to you, dear Uncle Antoine? I hate you—I hate every noble in this city! Every last one of you! You were all supposed to be loyal to my father, to our family! It was my father who built this city from nothing! If the Anthony family can no longer rule this place, then it should no longer need to exist!"
Antoine's eyes went wide. For the first time, he realized that killing him was only the first step in the young count's plan. There were others involved—helpers, conspirators—and his true target wasn't just Antoine. It was the entire city.
"Anthony!" he screamed. "You really are mad! Those Chaos cultists—the reason they've evaded capture again and again—it's because you've been protecting them! You're the one helping them from the shadows!"
The young count's pale face showed no emotion, no flicker of guilt. Antoine knew then that reasoning with him was impossible. This wasn't a noble heir anymore—it was a child consumed entirely by hatred.
Heaven help him, Antoine thought bitterly. He had already been merciful enough. Apart from trying to claim the old count's title for himself, he hadn't wronged the Anthony family at all!
He hadn't even taken a coin from their family wealth. Had he succeeded in inheriting the count's title and officially become the lord of the city, he would have ensured that the Anthonys lived in prosperity forever! Just as he had treated the young count so far—granting every request, no matter how excessive, signing off on every expense without hesitation.
Compared to himself, the old count had been nothing more than a brutish warlord, a mindless beast obsessed with battle! What did he understand besides bloodshed and conquest?
Everything the city had become—every bit of its wealth, its trade, its influence—was Antoine's work. He had recruited refugees, pacified pirates, expanded the harbor, issued tax reforms, invited merchants with generous incentives, established contact with the New World, and negotiated with countless trade guilds across the Old World. All of it had been his doing!
Without him, there would be no Port Anthony!
Without him, half the trade routes would collapse!
Without him, the greenskins outside the city walls would have already begun their siege!
Without him, pirates would still rule the seas, sinking half the merchant ships that dared to approach!
That was why he had become the acting lord—the de facto ruler of Port Anthony —the true power behind the throne. Even the late count's muscle-headed knights had all accepted massive compensation and quietly left to "pioneer" other territories.
He was the uncrowned king of this city!
Antoine had reminded himself of this truth countless times. With the Church's tacit approval, he believed his conscience was spotless. Even standing before the young count, he felt not an ounce of guilt.
Most of what he had done was merely to appease the other nobles—to keep up appearances. They might tolerate his ambition as long as he left the Anthony bloodline alive. But if he ever dared to end that bloodline completely, the noble council would certainly send investigators—and that was one of the reasons he had feared the witcher in the first place.
"Colin!" Antoine cried desperately, his small eyes darting about as his mind raced. "I'm your employer! Look, our disagreement is just about payment—nothing more! I can pay double, triple—whatever you want! Everything in the Anthony vault—I'll match it! Just get me out of here! I'll never breathe a word about this, I swear!
"And you heard him, didn't you? Those cultists plan to destroy the entire city! Even your Shadow Assassins wouldn't just sit back and let that happen, right?"
He clung to that last shred of hope, his wide, trembling eyes fixed on the assassin's face, searching for the faintest hint of mercy—trying, with every word, to change his fate.
(End of Chapter)