The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort Chapter 322 The Assassin's Emblem

"Well, aren't you sharp."

No response. Of course. They weren't here to chat.

The assassin pressed forward, their blade flashing in rapid, controlled thrusts—each one ant to force him into a disadvantageous position. He t them with equal speed, weaving through their strikes like water slipping through cracks. His knives flicked, redirecting their force just enough to keep the fight even.

Then he saw it.

A flicker in the dim light—a sigil on their shoulder.

Not just Technomancer insignia.

Sothing else. Sothing unfamiliar.

Mikhailis's smirk didn't falter, but inwardly, his mind spun. This wasn't a standard enforcer. Whoever sent this assassin wasn't just reacting to his ddling with the Technomancers. This was bigger.

The dance of steel continued, but now, Mikhailis wasn't just fighting—he was analyzing.

Every movent, every twitch of muscle, every shift in weight told a story. The assassin wasn't just skilled; they were precise, disciplined. This wasn't reckless aggression or brute force—it was cold efficiency. They moved like soone trained in both stealth and direct combat, never overextending, never wasting an ounce of energy. Their attacks were quick, calculated, striking at weak points without hesitation.

Mikhailis sidestepped a thrust aid at his ribs, letting the blade pass close enough that he could feel the whisper of steel against fabric. He countered imdiately, flicking his wrist to angle one of his knives toward their wrist, seeking to disable rather than kill. The assassin twisted away, responding faster than he expected. They were reading him just as much as he was reading them.

Rodion's voice cut through the fight, clinical and detached.

Technomancer training but mixed with sothing else? That was odd. The Technomancers were powerful, but their fighters weren't usually this fluid. They relied on technology to enhance their physical prowess, often making their movent a little too rigid, their attacks just a little too predictable. But this assassin? Their style was different.

Mikhailis parried another strike, rolling his wrist to guide the enemy's blade away rather than clashing against it. The assassin's grip on their weapon was impeccable—relaxed, but firm enough to maintain control. That was another clue. Only those with extensive live combat experience held their weapons like that. Soone who had killed before. Many tis.

Rodion continued his analysis.

Mikhailis leaned back, exhaling. "Looks like we have a long night ahead."

_____

Morning brought a denser mist than usual. The streets murmured with unease, whispers of the growing fog spreading through the marketplace. rchants complained of shortages—mist-resistant materials were suddenly in scarce supply.

Rodion processed their surroundings.

Mikhailis frowned. "So they're not just increasing the mist—they're making sure people can't fight against it."

A knock at their inn room interrupted his thoughts. Arvel stepped inside, his cloak damp from the morning air. "Laethor's arrival will be discreet. He doesn't want Technomancer attention. But there's a problem."

Mikhailis arched a brow. "There always is."

"The mist is heavier on the main routes. His entourage is delayed."

Lira's expression remained neutral. "They're forcing control on the roads, isolating movent."

Vyrelda crossed her arms. "So, what's our move?"

Mikhailis smirked. "Simple. We et him, but we don't play all our cards yet."

Cerys nodded. "We still need more leverage."

Rodion interrupted.