Cameraman Never Dies

Lester stumbled back, eyes wide as the bloodied clown mask tilted ever so slightly in his direction. Around him, the other workers screamed as their hands were severed cleanly, each appendage thudding to the floor in syncopated horror. Judge's grin behind the mask mirrored the painted, eerie smile on the mask itself, creating a dual expression of joy and malice that chilled Lester to his core.

A hulking assassin rushed forward with a snarl, daggers flashing as he lunged, only for Judge to pivot gracefully, sidestepping and swinging his arm in a sharp, decisive arc. The assassin's torso split open, blood spraying across the bar's stained wooden walls.

The man choked, falling to his knees before collapsing in a heap, his weapon slipping from his fingers. Another assassin, visibly shaking yet driven by desperate fury, charged Judge from behind with a hidden blade aimed for his spine. Judge laughed— a sound that resonated high and mocking— as he spun around, catching his attacker's wrist mid-air. With a sickening crack, he twisted it, forcing the man to scream as his bone shattered, splintering through his skin.

"Is this all the renowned assassins of this establishment can manage?" Judge taunted, his tone chilling, his fingers dancing in a fluid motion as he maneuvered through the swarm of panicked attackers.

The remaining assassins hesitated, their breaths ragged, eyes darting from one another to the corpse-littered floor. Judge's mask, spattered with blood, watched them intently, his figure was an eerie stillness amid the chaos. An assassin staggered back, eyes filling with dread as Judge marked him with a single pointed finger. The man tried to flee, but before he could take a second step, his knees buckled, and his legs detached at the thighs, severed cleanly with Judge's "Mark" principle. He screamed, clawing at the floor, leaving crimson streaks behind him as Judge calmly walked past.

Desperation filled the air as the assassins regrouped, forming a tight circle around Judge, their weapons drawn in trembling hands. Lester watched them, breathless, heart pounding so loudly he thought it might betray his hiding spot behind a toppled table, he was not a coward, but the death of his friend had shaken his frail mind fortification. The room reeked of blood and sweat, and every glint of light seemed to bounce off Judge's eerie mask, amplifying the terror radiating from the battered killers.

Two assassins broke from the circle, thinking they'd flank Judge and catch him unawares. Judge smirked, shifting his stance, his gaze flickering between the two as though weighing his options. With a swift movement, he pointed at one— his Mark— and in a heartbeat, the man's arm dropped to the ground, blood spurting from the wound. Before his scream could even echo, Judge's hand shot out, grabbing the other man by the throat, squeezing as the assassin struggled, his eyes bulging in terror.

"You thought your numbers could make a difference?" Judge sneered, his voice cold and dripping with scorn. "It's almost endearing."

With a flick of his wrist, he snapped the assassin's neck, letting his limp body drop to the floor.

Lester's pulse hammered as he watched the remaining assassins finally break, the thin veil of courage ripped away. They scrambled for the stairs, fighting each other in blind panic, their only instinct now to escape. Judge moved with a calm demeanor, marking each one he saw fleeing, and in an instant, their limbs fell or bodies collapsed, lifeless, before they could even reach the first step.
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And then, silence. The bar was filled with bodies, the once bustling hideout now a blood-soaked burial. Only Lester remained, breathing heavily, his back pressed against the wall, hands shaking as he clutched his blood-soaked dagger— his only remaining defense. He looked up as Judge turned toward him, his dark silhouette looming, the painted, sinister grin on his mask more terrifying up close. Lester's breath hitched as the bloodied clown mask inched closer, Judge's aura exuding an overwhelming, deathly calm.

"W-Who… who are you?" Lester stammered, his voice breaking, desperation thick in his tone.

Judge paused, his gaze cool as ice beneath the smiling mask. He leaned in close, his voice a mere whisper that chilled Lester to his core.

"I am... The Clown of Sinister Smirk."

A tremor ran through Lester as the final words sank in, a name that he realized would haunt his last living moments. He let his grip on the dagger go as he realized it would be of no use, but he still had to live, he had a family... something— something that would let him live... suddenly he remembered something.

"I... I know who commissioned the killing of the young lady of the Drakonis house!"

Judge paused, "You should have said that sooner, see..." He waved his hand at the dead corpses, "All of them died for the information that you withheld, they died because of you."

———

Amber fiddled with a dagger that her father had given her. It had a crimson handle and sheath with a black catalyst embedded at the back. He said that it was for her own safety. It was a powerful artifact with a serious side effect that would render one immobile after prolonged use, so she had to be careful with how she used it.

Her father had told her about something she and her siblings could have long known but had never been told to, it was a secret in their house in the Wistmere city, the capital of the wyverns, but mostly without wyverns (Children) of course.

Inside the Wistmere house, there were substitutes for each of the family members who were in the main house. And if they leave the house in the land of the dragons, except for their trip towards the Wistmere house, their substitutes may or may not vanish.

Now that her substitute had been killed, the next process should have been to create another substitute. But considering their arrival in a few days, that was deemed unnecessary because of the complex process involved in creating a substitute.