Long before the sun had fully set, the faceless ones had stealthily crossed the canal and moved to flank the mercenary camp from behind.
Her true name was not the Faceless One, but Aphra—given to her by Bishop Heather of the Holy City of Hermes, meaning 'dust.' She cherished this name, for dust is simple and unadorned; once it settles on the ground, it becomes indistinguishable from others, just like herself.
Only in Hether's presence does Afla reveal her true self.
As a member of the arbitration tribunal, she assisted Bishop in handling numerous fallen individuals, including witches who had defected from the Church and secularized believers. Sent to the royal capital, her mission was to convert a devout judge into Graycastle the King. Arresting fallen witches was merely a side activity. She relished mimicking the suffering of these witches, reliving their torment from start to finish. Sharing their pain deepened her understanding of her actions' significance and served as atonement for her possession of Devil power.
The enemy camp was ingeniously set up in the raised fields along the shore, making them hard to spot from low ground. The Witch's aerial presence also kept her from getting too close. Afra had no choice but to hide in a farm warehouse, waiting until nightfall to make her move.
As night fell, she was surprised to find that things had changed.
The mercenaries had already withdrawn from the dock area and retreated to their camp. Yet those foolish Dreamwater men, sparsely gathered along the riverbank with torches, formed a tight circle—a formation that seemed to be signaling, 'Someone's coming to attack the camp. 'Even without the Flying Witch, anyone who wasn't completely blind in the mercenary group could spot the oddity at a glance.
"Damn," she muttered, sensing trouble. If the enemy realized the rats were outnumbered and had no chance of victory, they'd surely retreat eastward. Though night was the worst time for marches, survival was the priority—each fleeing in different directions. The encirclement had vanished without a trace. Dreamwater had just taken control of the dock and was still crossing the river slowly with a few rafts on the shore. By the time they closed in, the enemy would likely have scattered. Chasing the enemy at night was impossible. Where would she find those damned witches then?
Afra hurried toward the camp, hoping to slip into the group before they retreated.
But when she arrived near the mercenary gathering place, the scene before her was completely unexpected.
People were still patrolling the campsite, the bonfire blazing fiercely, and the shadows moving in an orderly manner, not chaotic at all.
They didn't even choose to retreat?
After a careful observation, Afra confirmed her suspicions and felt a quiet satisfaction. Though she couldn't fathom why the other party had chosen to stay rather than flee, the outcome was already sealed. She drew a dagger from her waist, scanned the sentry's movements, and moved toward the weakest spot.
Beyond imparting the meaning of survival, Lady Heather also taught her combat and assassination techniques. Her opponents were not seasoned elite mercenaries, as evident from the strategic placement of the sentry posts. Seizing the moment when a mercenary was distracted, she swiftly crouched from the blind spot, lunged behind him, covered his mouth with one hand, and thrust the dagger into his neck with the other.
After silently eliminating the mercenary, Afra pressed one hand against the target and the other against her own chest, activating her transformation ability—a process that could either extend or shorten. When replacing the King, she had nearly depleted all her Magic Power to ensure the effect lasted, taking nearly half an hour to complete. Now, with less effort, she instantly transformed into the mercenary's form in the blink of an eye. Though the effect lasted only half a day, it was more than enough for the assassination.
Before the patrol team could turn back, she swiftly stripped off the enemy's clothes, donned them, and dragged the corpse into the wheat field. Yet when facing the mercenary's weapon, she felt disoriented—the iron-barred gun had a wooden grip, but its barrel bore no tip, only a small, dark hole.
What kind of weapon is this?
After a long time of thinking, she couldn't find the answer. As the patrol team was about to pass by, Afra had no choice but to carry the object on her back as she remembered, pretending to be on alert.
As with countless previous assassination attempts, the patrol passed her by without noticing anything unusual.
Afra wasn't in a hurry to return to the camp to track down the Witch. After all, the substitution spell could only mimic appearances but couldn't read minds, and encountering acquaintances might easily expose her. Once these people were thrown into disarray, she'd have countless opportunities to act.
When the moon hung high in the night sky, the foolish dreamers of the water finally crossed the canal and approached. Behind her, a whistle sounded, and the patrolling and watchkeeping mercenaries began to withdraw to camp—her chance had arrived.
As Afra followed the group into the camp, she was astonished to find that the enemy numbers far exceeded a hundred. They formed a long encirclement around the entire hilltop, some crouching, others standing, brandishing strange weapons with their perforated ends aimed at the foes.
Without time to look closely, she bent down and slipped into the nearest tent, taking advantage of the absence of others nearby.
Soon, shouts of battle erupted outside, only to be interrupted by a more intense explosion. Afra was startled—the sounds were so relentless, with hardly any pause.
What exactly had happened? She suppressed the urge to peer and instead waited with calm composure.
As time passed, the camp grew increasingly busy, with footsteps and commands echoing everywhere—likely adjusting defensive forces according to the enemy's attack numbers. What frustrated Afra was that they hadn't reached the hilltop yet after all this time!
After a while, the clattering of ping-pong balls gradually faded, and she could no longer hear the rats 'battle cries—Afra's heart sank. Could it be... had the remnants of Dreamwater retreated? Even if the mercenaries had doubled in number, they were merely two or three hundred. Yet the over a thousand rats surrounding them from all sides failed to reach the hilltop.
Opportunities seem to be slipping away from her.
Afra made a quick decision to drill out of the tent and head toward the camp center. When the battle ended and they counted the troops, she would find it hard to avoid everyone's gaze. This wasn't a well-prepared infiltration—she knew nothing about the mercenary group's personnel or codes, so they had to act fast.
Afra edged past the two tents, peering toward the camp's center. Four women were gathered around the bonfire—likely the witches mentioned in the intelligence. Though the numbers didn't add up, the damned intelligence had been inaccurate from the start. Killing two or four was hardly different; any suspected fallen one deserved interrogation. If interrogation failed, they should all be killed. Even if wrong, it was a necessary sacrifice.
After scanning the area and mapping out the retreat route, she rose from behind the tent and walked toward the campfire, feigning no particular concern.
As Afra stepped onto the central open space, she felt a cold, hard object press against the back of her head.
"Don't move," a woman's voice said. "Who are you?"