Absolute Cheater-Chapter 269: Fantasy Dungeon VIII

Asher cleaned his sword meticulously, not from blood, but as a ritual — a silent promise.

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"They're desperate," he said. "Desperation makes men clumsy."

She laughed softly — a beautiful, dangerous sound."And soon... I will make them afraid."

He finished cleaning the blade, sheathing it with a decisive click."They already are."

Valeris crossed the room, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind, resting her forehead between his shoulder blades.

"They want to tear my kingdom from me," she whispered. "Let them try."

Asher turned, cupping her jaw gently, making her meet his eyes.

"We'll tear them down first," he said. "Brick by brick."

And outside, beyond the Palace walls, the city of Mimir held its breath — waiting for the first true strike of the war that would decide its fate.

Later That Night — Moonlit Corridors

The Palace of Mimir, for all its beauty, was a cage in the dark.

The grand hallways gleamed under silver moonlight, the mosaics on the floors whispering tales of old kings and vanquished gods. Yet behind every door and tapestry, Asher felt it—the watching eyes. Servants who lingered too long. Shadows that moved just a little too late.

He didn't sleep.

Neither did Valeris.

She stayed in the war room with her stewards, drawing new battle lines across the map of her enemies. Meanwhile, Asher took to the halls — silent, armor left behind, moving like a ghost with only his sword and instincts for company.

Tonight felt wrong.

Too still.

Too staged.

As he turned into a narrower passage near the Queen's private gardens, he caught it — a glint of steel.

Finally.

The first assassin was clever — blending into the shadows, his blade coated in black glass poison meant to paralyze instantly.

But clever was not enough.

Asher moved, faster than sight.

Steel whispered against steel, and the would-be killer found himself disarmed, disemboweled, and left bleeding onto the marble in the space of three heartbeats.

Asher wiped the blood clean on the man's cloak without breaking stride.

But he didn't miss the second attacker waiting ahead — perched high above the archway, crossbow loaded, poisoned bolt glinting.

The bolt fired.

Asher caught it with his fingers.

Too slow, he thought grimly.

The second assassin fell with a sharp gasp as Asher hurled the bolt back, embedding it straight into the man's throat.

Two down.

He kept walking.

The closer he got to the garden doors, the heavier the air became. Something was wrong there — deeper than assassins.

He stepped into the moonlit gardens.

And stopped.

Standing in the clearing, by the Queen's fountain, was someone he recognized — Sir Caldrin.

A knight of the royal guard.

One of Valeris's own sworn men.

And Caldrin was not alone.

Six others stood with him — all bearing the mark of House Faelen on hidden rings. Traitors.

"You should have stayed in the Queen's chamber, knight," Caldrin said, drawing his sword. His face was hard, but there was a flicker of regret there, almost... apology. "Would've made this easier."

Asher smiled grimly, tilting his head.

"I don't like easy."

Caldrin's grip tightened. "Orders are orders."

"And dead men don't give them," Asher said—and moved.

The garden erupted into a sudden, brutal storm.

Moonlight Battle — Blood on Marble

Asher struck first.

One knight fell instantly, his sword arm severed, screaming as he dropped.

The others hesitated — just a second — but that was enough.

Enough for Asher to break their formation, enough for him to carve into their hesitation.

Steel flashed under the pale light.

Asher moved like a living tempest — low, brutal, efficient. Every strike intended to kill or cripple in a single heartbeat. His footwork was relentless, dancing over the mosaics, turning their numbers against them.

Two more fell.

One gurgling as Asher crushed his throat with a booted heel.

But Caldrin was no fool.

While the others fought, Caldrin circled — and with a silent gesture, he threw a knife aimed straight for Asher's back.

Valeris's dagger.

Asher caught it without turning, feeling its weight — heavy with betrayal — and used it in the same motion to gut another traitor lunging toward him.

Only two left now.

Caldrin and one trembling boy who couldn't have been more than twenty, green eyes wide with terror.

Asher pointed the bloodstained dagger at the younger knight.

"Run."

The boy didn't hesitate.

He dropped his sword and fled into the dark.

Wise choice.

Now only Caldrin remained.

They circled each other under the moonlight, breathing hard, steel glinting, blood pooling between the stones.

"You served her once," Asher said quietly. "And you chose this?"

Caldrin's face twisted. "You don't understand. She's not—she's not the Melina we were sworn to. She's something else now."

Asher smiled without warmth.

"You're right."

He struck.

The duel was savage — no elegance, no chivalry — just survival.

Caldrin was good. Years of service had honed him into a lethal weapon.

But Asher was better.

Faster.

Colder.

He battered aside Caldrin's defense, broke his guard, and drove Valeris's dagger up under the man's ribs—twisting cruelly.

Caldrin gasped, blood bubbling from his lips.

He fell against the fountain, sliding down into a crimson puddle.

Asher stood over him, heart hammering in his chest, breathing slow and steady.

"You're right," he said again, voice a whisper. "She's not your Melina anymore."