The assassin's hair was a tangled mess, strands falling across her face as she tilted her head slightly, alert to every creak of the wooden floor. The faint sound of the door opening drew her attention instantly. Her sharp, ice-cold gaze swept across the room, scanning for threats. When she finally saw Richard standing there, nothing in her posture changed, only a short, disdainful snort escaped her lips.
Richard, however, did not waste time staring. He stepped forward calmly, his voice cutting through the tense silence. "I wonder if you heard just now, outside the door—a girl came on your behalf. She pleaded with me to spare you, the assassin who tried to take my life."
The assassin's eyes narrowed slightly, but her tone remained icy and sharp. "And what of it? What are you trying to say?"
Richard shrugged lightly, an almost imperceptible smile touching the corner of his lips. "It's nothing particularly important. I merely believe that intelligence is rare. Not everyone possesses it. And right now, I sincerely hope you are not completely devoid of it."
Her brow arched in disbelief. "And what does that have to do with you?"
"Everything," Richard replied evenly, his eyes never leaving hers. "If you were clever enough, perhaps you could have told me certain things before I took action. That way, you might have spared yourself some suffering."
"Hmph!" The assassin spat, the thick glob of saliva landing a few inches from Richard's boot. "You won't intimidate me! I am not afraid of you, not one bit!"
Richard's eyebrow lifted at her boldness. "Very well, it seems you truly do not wish to cooperate. Then I suppose there is no choice. You leave me no alternative."
"Do what you will!" Her voice was defiant, carrying the weight of someone willing to embrace death itself.
A faint, almost amused smile tugged at Richard's lips. He took a measured step forward, then another, closing the distance between them. Once he stood directly in front of her, he bent slightly, his fingers reaching for the hem of her coarse linen skirt. He lifted it slowly, deliberately. One hand glided to her ankle, tracing upward with a precision born of habit, each movement meticulous and measured.
The assassin's body tensed as an unwelcome awareness prickled along her skin. Her voice quivered with irritation, half demand, half panic. "What… what are you trying to do?"
"You may guess," Richard replied calmly. Then, without a word, he withdrew a tiny surgical knife from his coat pocket, letting the glint of steel catch the dim light.
Seeing the blade, the assassin felt a strange, fleeting relief, followed by a trace of contemptuous amusement. "What is this? A toy to torment me?" she asked, her voice dripping with scorn.
Richard did not deny it. "That too," he said quietly, then leaned closer, his tone shifting to a measured question. "Are you afraid of pain?"
Her lips curled in disdain. "Only the weak and pampered, like you noble children, scream when they face a blade," she sneered, her words laced with personal insult.
Richard ignored her last remark as though it had never been said. "Very well. You do not fear pain. Excellent, truly excellent. It saves me the trouble of gagging you. Now… we shall begin in earnest."
The assassin froze, momentarily perplexed. Begin? Begin what? Torture?
Richard's hand descended, the blade pressing lightly against the pale skin of her leg. A faint shiver traveled through her, goosebumps rising under the cold touch of steel. He applied pressure, cutting slowly, deliberately.
A shallow line appeared, the skin opening to reveal a thin red seam. Blood seeped out immediately, pooling on the floor beneath her. Yet, to her, it was almost laughable—this slight cut could hardly be called an injury. This feigned assault, she reasoned, would not cause her any true harm.
But the illusion shattered almost instantly. The blade moved again, a thin red trail snaking down her calf, staining the wooden floor.
Richard's voice, calm and precise, filled the space, a strange juxtaposition of serenity and menace. The words reminded her of her training days, of the instructors who had taught her to kill with efficiency and precision.
"In general, the skin of humans and higher animals is composed of three layers: the epidermis, dermis, and subcutaneous tissue," he explained without emotion.
He slid the knife again, gently lifting a thin layer of skin. "This is the epidermis. Biologically, it is merely a layer of cells constantly renewing themselves. Any damage here is temporary; the regenerative capacity ensures recovery."
He lifted another layer, his expression neutral, as he continued. "This is the dermis. Comprised of collagen, elastic fibers, and connective tissue, it is far more critical. The dermis contains a dense array of sensory receptors, designed to alert the body instantly when damaged. When I probed your epidermis, you barely reacted. Now, with just a light touch of the dermis, you frown—this is the natural response. You are not screaming, which tells me you do indeed possess remarkable resilience to pain. Keep that in mind."
Next, he lifted the pale yellow layer beneath. "This is the subcutaneous tissue. Comprised of loose connective tissue and fat, it prevents heat loss and cushions against external forces. Without it, a human's survival capability would decrease dramatically."
Richard paused for a moment, his hands steady. The assassin exhaled slowly, strangely relieved that these gestures caused her no serious harm. Yet, the words, the clinical descriptions, the meticulous examination—all exerted a pressure on her mind far heavier than any blade could inflict.
And yet, before she could process this strange reprieve, Richard's voice returned. Calm, deliberate, terrifyingly precise.
"Having covered the skin, we now move to muscles. You are familiar with them, of course—they control your skeleton. Once damaged, strength and mobility are compromised."
He indicated a thick muscle on her leg. "This is the tibialis anterior. It is robust because it controls the extension and flexion of the foot. It also stabilizes the arch. You may not understand this yet, so let me explain simply: the arch distributes weight from the ankle through the heel to the toes. Should I lightly sever this muscle, the arch would collapse. Standing upright would be unsteady, walking impossible, even remaining motionless a challenge."
Richard's knife traced the muscle, a cool brush against her skin. Instantly, her right leg weakened, a sharp, intolerable sensation flooding her limbs. The pain was not just physical; it stemmed from the sudden loss of control, the realization that her body could betray her, and the mindless fear that surged in response.
For the first time, the assassin felt a deep, shivering dread. This was no ordinary boy or noble; there was an authority here that eclipsed any of the cruel instructors she had endured. Richard's eyes, cold and calculating, were not just observing—they judged, analyzed, and anticipated.
When the knife moved again, slicing with deliberate care, she could no longer suppress a strangled cry. "Ah!"