Though Lancer was indeed a Teigu user, he rarely relied upon his Teigu. After all, his was primarily a defensive and regenerative type, and despite wielding a heavy weapon like a lance, he wasn't fond of reckless charges or exchanging injury for injury. Thus, his Teigu mostly served as insurance.
Others might have questioned such an approach, but Lancer's resolve had never wavered.
No matter how powerful a Teigu was, it remained merely a tool. Rather than rely on external power, Lancer always chose to hone his own skills.
Yet, even he would activate it when necessary—such as right now.
"Did you really think this pathetic ambush could kill me?"
The cloak usually draped casually across Lancer's back now stood beside him like an impenetrable steel wall. Facing him was a bronze-skinned girl, her expression ugly as she stared back defiantly.
Yet Lancer barely acknowledged her presence, sweeping his gaze around instead.
Initially, the Imperial Guards had assumed the temple's top experts would rush straight down the mountain and attempt to break their siege head-on. Had these elites spearheaded the charge, the tables might have turned, forcing Lancer and his reserve forces to step in.
But surprisingly, the enemy had decisively abandoned their own comrades, launching a direct strike aimed at assassination instead.
The essence of a decapitation strike lay in its lethal precision—unfortunately for them, they'd chosen the wrong target.
The current Four Rakshasa Demons, forming the Imperial Fist Temple's assassination squad, rarely failed their missions. Even a few Teigu users had fallen to their bizarre methods. With bodies trained by the temple's secret arts, their uncanny flexibility, unnatural strength, and unpredictable attack angles made them deadly adversaries.
Their strength lay in strangeness and unpredictability.
Against such foes, there were usually two options: match aggression with aggression, or fall back into cautious defense. The former invited chaos and risk, while the latter, although safer, grew increasingly disadvantageous over time.
Of course, all this applied only when both sides were evenly matched.
The cloak, impervious to even their combined might, swung aside effortlessly as Lancer whipped his lance forward in a brutal counterattack!
Instinctively, the Rakshasa squad moved to intercept—after all, that was their usual strategy.
First neutralize or seize the enemy's weapon, then strike a fatal blow!
Simple in theory, this required absurd precision. Whether disarming blades barehanded or dislocating joints to dodge strikes, the slightest miscalculation meant instant death.
Yet this time, before they could even react, the terrifying gust from Lancer's swing told them one critical fact: this enemy was nothing like the foes they'd faced before!
"Fall back, now!!"
A middle-aged man standing at the rear shouted in desperation, his warning prompting his comrades to scatter instantly—but the woman at the front reacted a heartbeat too late.
With a deafening crash, she flew through the air, slamming violently into a tree before sliding limply to the ground, her condition unknown.
"Mezu!"
Lancer didn't bother looking at the woman he'd just knocked away. The audible snap of bone told him all he needed to know. Whatever bizarre methods the Imperial Fist Temple fighters had to control their muscles or nerves, with bones shattered like that, she'd be lucky if she ever stood again, much less fought.
"Damn it!" cursed the flower-patterned man bitterly. "Rookies always screw things up! Shuten, Suzuka, stay sharp! This man is different—his strength is genuine, not like those half-baked Teigu wielders we've handled before!"
The floral tattoos crisscrossing his face and body made him look crazed, but his sharp eyes betrayed a calculating mind. A single glance at Lancer's stance and power told him they stood no chance head-on. With blunt pragmatism, he immediately abandoned their assassination plan.
Lancer hadn't charged forward as they regrouped—not out of mercy, but because he wanted to test something.
He hadn't recognized them at first, but now he remembered clearly: these were the famous Four Rakshasa Demons of the Imperial Fist Temple.
Not exactly formidable foes, perhaps—but certainly not cannon fodder, either. Ideal opponents to test new techniques.
Truth be told, he had never particularly liked using a shield. But wielding a lance while charging headlong without one usually ended disastrously, forcing him to bear with it despite the awkwardness. Yet now, thanks to his Teigu, he no longer needed such compromises. He could freely wield his lance with both hands while maintaining solid defense.
It was a good theory—yet he'd never found the chance to put it to the test.
His allies were strong enough for sparring, but if he fought them seriously, holding back might prove impossible, and the guilt of accidentally killing an ally would haunt him. These opponents, however, were Honest's killers. Dispatching them would weigh nothing on his conscience.
Lancer stepped forward sharply, sinking into a ready stance. Both hands gripped the lance firmly, holding it steady beside his face.
"Come on, then!" he taunted coldly. "Show me what the Imperial Fist Temple is really made of!"
Glancing briefly at the burning temple behind them, where the remaining monks were steadily being overrun, the three assassins exchanged a grim look and charged toward Lancer together.
Outsiders saw them merely as Honest's hired blades—but to the temple's own disciples, these three were revered as legendary masters, paragons worthy of admiration. Their actions now were a final answer to their disciples' expectations.
No matter the cost, we must ensure our seeds survive!
No one knew better than they the Imperial Fist Temple's central role in this assassination attempt. With their plans exposed, none of them could possibly escape—not when the Imperial Guard had surrounded their mountain stronghold so completely.
That was why the Elder had abandoned any talk of negotiation, resolving instead to fight to the death. Even if they failed, their sole wish was for the remaining disciples to reach Honest's side…
Determination filled the assassins' eyes. Yet Lancer met their resolve without hesitation, thrusting his lance straight at the leader's chest.
Their fates were already sealed.
Nothing awaited them now—but death.
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