Chapter 21 Chapter 21 You became an assassin. ...

They all had things to do, so the night snack proposal was postponed. Nightwing disappeared into the night with the evidence, and the assassin returned to the Continental Hotel with a heavy heart. But their goals were clear.

Nightwing found Dean Neumann's attendance at a dinner three days later on his calendar, and once the assassin learned of this, his death was sealed. The sun and moon reversed three times in the sky obscured by the tall buildings of Blüdhaven, and Elio completed his first true assassination plan.

7pm, Melville District, Private Club.

This was a small-scale dinner, and only those who received an invitation could attend... at least, that was the case at the main entrance. And in a corner where no one was paying attention, the assassin's clothes slipped through the window and sneaked into the club.

With a soft click, he smoothly pulled up the window he had come in through and cautiously opened his eagle eye to observe the surroundings. Just as he had been informed beforehand, the security at the banquet was lax, and no one noticed the assassin's arrival; only a few guards suddenly lost consciousness around the corner and were found sleeping in a cupboard the next day.

At the moment, the Templars were completely clueless about what was happening. Perhaps they simply hadn't imagined that the new assassin they were looking for, far from struggling to be hunted down, had the audacity to infiltrate their private gathering and had already put his plan into action.

Like the other Templars, Dean Neumann was caught off guard. Amidst the clinking of glasses, he suddenly felt a stomachache, his expression darkening. Waves of uncontrollable urge to vomit surged up his esophagus and into his throat. Dean Neumann tried to hold it in, but he burped.

The Templar he was speaking with looked puzzled. Under the scrutiny of those around him, Dean Neumann put on a fake smile and was about to offer some formality when a second burp erupted. Silence. In this awkward atmosphere, he had no choice but to excuse himself, claiming to be unwell.

The moonlight sonata flowed gently through the banquet hall. Amidst the chatter and laughter, the silence behind Dean Neumann was striking. The Templar named Galahad gripped his wine glass, his gaze lowered. A glass of golden champagne touched his lips, concealing a faint smile.

He didn't deliberately display a mocking smile, but he didn't bother to hide it either. Galahad's attitude wasn't uncommon, and many more exchanged glances with smiles, engaging in silent socializing. Only the younger Templar, Mitchell, looked back with confusion and worry, toward the direction Dean Neumann had left.

Dean Neumann, leaving, was fully aware of the turbulent situation behind him. He hurried to the restroom as respectfully as possible, but he could still feel the speculative gazes piercing his back.

Neumann was not unaware of what they were secretly discussing. The research project with Hydra had seemingly been blown up by assassins, with all the funding and manpower lost; and he happened to be the unlucky person in charge of this project.

Will he be criticized by his superiors for this?

Without a doubt.

But will this ruin his future?

Of course not.

Because their research has achieved successful results, but that sweet fruit, that handy weapon, is still a secret.

When they know all this, what surprised and ridiculous expressions will they show?

With this secret hope, along with the promise of recognition from his superiors and a promotion and salary increase, Dean Neumann hurried into the restroom with his head held high. The moment the door closed, he immediately hunched over, his forced dignity thrown aside. He rushed into the stall and began vomiting violently.

He vaguely heard the sound of a window opening, but he paid no attention to it.

There was a rustling sound coming from the cubicle next to him, but he didn't pay any attention to it.

When a shadow loomed over him, blocking out the overhead light, Dean Neumann, who had emptied his stomach, finally began to take notice.

But when he looked up to see what was casting the shadow, it was too late.

The assassin, with his arms crossed, leaning against the ceiling of the cubicle, smiled at him and raised his left hand. The muzzle of the gun, hidden by his sleeve, was exposed, followed by a soft, "bang" sound.

It was no louder than the vomiting sound just now, nor was it louder than the door slamming just now.

Nor could it be louder than the cries for mercy—whether from those who suffered directly, or from those who were cruelly crushed by power. Without exception, all had been mercilessly thrown into the burning inferno of Dean Neumann's experiments.

Under the assassin's gaze, Dean Neumann, who had just opened his mouth, shuddered and slowly lowered his head. He saw blood rapidly spreading across his chest, eventually transforming into a pitch-black curtain that enveloped him head and face.

Boom.

Dean Neumann collapsed.

Elio landed lightly, stepping over the twitching body. The Assassin drew his Hidden Blade and expertly read the Templar's memories. It didn't take him long, and by the time he'd pulled it back, Elio had already found more targets within the image.

More than one Templar had a hand in this. More than one Templar figure was behind this. The skies of Blüdhaven were darkened by Abstergo's power, and there was only one way to pierce the clouds.

As luck would have it, the assassin had glimpsed them at the banquet just now; with any luck, he could send more Templars packing tonight. If he had known, he would have brought bombs, Elio thought, but a private club in Melville wasn't like an island in the ocean; a fire could potentially harm innocent people.

Elio pondered the feasibility of continuing the assassination as he pushed open the door and exited the compartment. As if possessed by magic, a pool of blood flowed out with his steps. The assassin, oblivious to this, walked to the mirror and rinsed his hidden blade.

In the white water, the blood-stained silver metal regained its luster, reflecting his deep green irises.

Footsteps approached. It wasn't likely anyone would have realized Dean Neumann's death so quickly, so when Elio glanced and saw a lone green figure, he didn't take it seriously.

"I thought you weren't going to participate," he said casually.

But the green target didn't respond immediately and even gasped.

That soft exclamation sounded familiar. Elio realized something and turned his head. After taking in the young man's pale face, the assassin's shoulders trembled, and he took a few steps back, his eyes wide with surprise.

That...that's actually Leopold!

A terrifying silence descended upon them like a dark cloud. If they had met elsewhere, they might have exchanged hugs in surprise, remembering the lost time; but here, everything had quietly changed.

After a brief moment of doubt, the newly born assassin's gaze slowly shifted to the red cross brooch on Leopold's chest; and the young Templar could not immediately blind himself and pretend not to notice the obvious pool of blood on the ground.

It didn't take that long to recognize each other's identities. But when their eyes met again, neither the assassin nor the Templar spoke or moved immediately.

It's hard to tell, but for a moment, they all went back to a month ago -

At least, that was how it seemed to Leopold. A month ago, in his Bludhaven University apartment, Elio lay helplessly leaning against the bedside table, a gun in his hand, his eyes filled with desperate fear; like a stray beast cornered in a corner, its fur erupting in frustration, hoping to hide the fear trembling in its body.

However, his tearful eyes still revealed a desire for trust.

He was not a killer. Leopold knew this better than anyone, believed it better than anyone—his friend, the reserved and gentle Elliot Smith, was definitely not an assassin.

He will definitely not be a thug who destroys law and order in the name of "freedom".

But no matter how reluctant he was to accept reality, no matter how much he hoped it was just a ridiculous dream, Leopold could still clearly see Elio, standing in a pool of blood, staring at him, his eyes gradually changing. His eyes were still as calm as before, but they were no longer the eyes of a friend.

Instead, he assessed his enemy's gaze.

Leopold came to this conclusion, and it felt as if an electric current had pierced through his body, causing his fingers to tremble.

"So..." he said softly, "you became an assassin."

"…and you're a Templar," Elio said.

"Who is the owner of that pool of blood?"

In the sad and condemning eyes of his old friend, the assassin also laughed softly.

"A man who deserved it," Elio said. "If you want to see his remains, I won't stop you."

Sadness moistened Leopold's brow. "Who convicted him then? You?"

"Not me," Elio said briefly. "It's 'we.'"

They were enemies. No one had said it explicitly, but their glances had already revealed their mutual feelings. There was no point in continuing this conversation. Elio stared into the Templar's eyes, slowly backing away until his hand, behind his back, touched the window switch.

Leopold didn't speak. He just kept staring at Elio until his thin tears were blocked by his eyes, until his sad expression gradually faded, replaced by a firm gaze.

But from beginning to end, until Elio climbed out the window and left, the Templar did not say a word, let alone shout loudly to attract the attention of the guards.

Elio followed his planned escape route and slipped out of the private club. He ran more frantically than usual. If he had run at this pace against Alvin, he would have probably beaten his mentor long ago. But it wasn't until he was five blocks away that Elio heard the sirens of police cars wailing towards him.

"No, I didn't see the murderer." Little Michel replied palely, "When I came in, I saw a pool of blood. Sorry, I feel dizzy now..."

His father, the chairman of Mitchell Biopharmaceuticals, sullenly deflected further questions. Amidst the reporters' barrage of cameras, the driver opened the car door, and Mitchell ducked his head as he got in. From behind the darkened windows, the young Templar raised his eyes, his expression unreadable as he glanced at the distant rooftops.

At the same time, Elio stopped on the roof and looked back.

They were silent for a moment. The hood of his trench coat hid the Assassin's flickering eagle eyes, just as darkened car windows obscured the Templar's blue. The distance between the two enemies was beyond visual reach, but they stared in silence, as if, under the witness of the moonlight, they could still see each other's eyes.

Soon, the car carrying the Templars started smoothly and moved forward. As his father climbed into the car, Leopold withdrew his gaze from the distance. The assassin on the roof also pulled up his hood and resumed his pace, starting on his journey.

The author has something to say:

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Leopold: I wanted to poke my own eyes out and pretend that nothing had happened (collapse)

Oreo: How could he be a Templar? Was everything in the past fake? (collapse)