Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

The items had been secured; now the remaining task was how to leave.

Three minutes later, at the second-floor entrance to Bozuhof's separate compound, the watchful servant courteously opened the door for Winters, who nodded his head in acknowledgment and stepped out.

This was the part of the plan that most tested luck and audacity. Field had determined that such gatekeepers only paid attention to people entering, not those leaving. As long as Winters maintained a calm and natural demeanor, he could walk out openly and unhindered.

Winters, emerging from the door, turned into the garden and picked up a bundle of documents from the bushes. He took all the related documents with him, but the stack was too thick to conceal on his person, and carrying it in his hands was too conspicuous.

In a stroke of ingenuity, he tied the documents into a bundle and threw them through the window into the shrubs of the garden.

Everything had gone according to plan perfectly. Winters slipped quietly into the stable, where the Coachman was nodding off at the entrance and didn't notice him. He found Strong Run; he placed the documents into the saddlebag and even gave Strong Run a piece of sugar as a treat.

Now all Winters had to do was return to the ground floor hall with a casual demeanor, and explain his lengthy time away as having "popped by to check whether the horses were tied up," linger a bit longer with his two companions and then leave, thus taking the documents away without anyone being the wiser.

Just as he whistled and left the stable, a man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and brown hunting attire entered the stable. The man kicked the Coachman's leg to wake him up as if he was there to retrieve a horse.

Winters sized up the man almost instinctively. The person was shorter than Winters and the hat concealed the upper part of his face, allowing Winters to only see the part below his nose.

The man's beard on his lower jaw was unkempt, not the kind that was intentionally grown out and trimmed, but rather looked as if it had been left unshaven for seven or eight days.

Winters found the chin peculiar, but it wasn't until he had walked about twenty paces away that he realized what was wrong: the color didn't match.

The front part of the man's lower jaw was an abnormal color, not because of dim lighting or because it was unshaven. It was a color all too familiar to Winters, having seen it many times on his own body; it was the purplish hue of a bruise from a powerful blow.

Swiftly, Winters turned around and went back to the stable, striding up to the man in the hunting attire. He patted his shoulder and asked with a smile, "Friend, how's your chin. Healing up?"

A normal person being patted on the shoulder would turn around to look, but that man simply shuddered, silent without acknowledging Winters or turning to look at him. Stay connected through empire

Winters continued with a smile, "Your sword and gun are with me, do you want me to bring them over to you?"

Winters kept a close eye on the man's hands, and after he finished speaking, the man clenched his fists.

Initially, Winters couldn't be sure of the man's identity and was merely probing, but seeing his reaction, he understood everything.

Without further words, Winters swung his long arm and landed a heavy punch on the back of the man's head, now certain that this person was the assassin whom he had kicked in the chin.

The assassin hadn't expected Winters' sudden aggression; struck hard in the back of the head, he was instantly dizzy. However, he had his own countermove; he turned around and hurled what was in his hand at Winters' face with force.

Winters, about to follow up on his advantage, was hit with a face full of chaff and straw fragments. Foreign objects got into his eyes, and tears streamed down, blinding him instantly.

While Winters was speaking, the assassin had quietly picked up a handful of debris from the manger, pulling a fast one on Winters.

The Coachman watched in horror as the two gentlemen went from speaking barely a word to grappling with each other.

Now unable to open his eyes from the intense pain and with tears flooding out, Winters' blood was up. He lunged towards the assassin, hoping to grapple at close quarters, but came up empty.

Someone grabbed his arm, and Winters immediately pushed them down and threw a punch.

"Ouch, I'm the Coachman, the Coachman," cried the person being hit, pleading for mercy.

Winters had heard the assassin's voice before, which was different from the one pleading. Breathing heavily, he asked, "Where's the other man?"

"That gentleman left."

"Where did he go?"

"I don't know where he went... You better blow your eyes out, don't rub them, else it could be serious."

The Coachman ran to fetch water, helping Winters rinse his eyes while babbling, "No bleeding, no serious trouble as long as there's no blood. You absolutely must not rub your eyes if there's straw in them, the small sharp edges are like knives once you rub... it's over..."

Once the foreign objects were washed out, Winters' vision finally returned. With his eyes still red, he asked the Coachman, "Which way did that man run?"

The Coachman spread his hands, "I just saw that gent running out of the stable."

"Did he ride a horse?"

"No."

Upon hearing this, Winters dashed out of the stable without another word, heading straight for the hall.

Bozuhof's compound was in the suburbs; without a mount, one couldn't get far. The man was still inside the compound.

Kongtai'er and Andre looked on in surprise as Winters came back from supposedly visiting the restroom, now with wet hair and reddened eyes.

"What happened to you?" Andre asked bluntly; "Did you fall into a manure pit?"

"I...," Winters nearly died of irritation, "I..."

A loud bang interrupted him; the main door to the hall was violently burst open, and a man rushed in, shouting frantically, "We're under attack!"