The so-called premonition of death was not some sort of mystical nonsense, but rather a hyper-sensitive awareness of danger honed through countless life-and-death crises.

It was akin to how a spider could perceive the movements of prey at the farthest edge of its web through the faintest vibrations.

Yet when such vibrations were entirely absent—no battle energy, no magic, not even a trace of killing intent—and what appeared in front of Moen was merely an ordinary person seemingly tripping and falling, his premonition of death gave no warning whatsoever.

Thus, it wasn’t until razor-sharp claws shot out from the swollen fingers of the man’s hand like daggers that Moen finally reacted, engaging the alchemical core within him in an instant.

But it was already too late. The deadly claws were mere inches from his chest, and the time dilation couldn’t help him teleport away from danger in a flash.

A professional assassin.

A glimmer of sharpness flashed in Moen’s eyes as his mind raced furiously.

Without long-term specialized training, it would’ve been impossible to achieve such perfect concealment coupled with such explosive ferocity.

This was a meticulously planned assassination.

During those fleeting slowed moments, Moen could even see the outburst of savage ruthlessness, malicious cunning, and murderous intent erupting from the assassin’s eyes like a volcanic eruption.

However…

It was as if the assassin had brought a plastic knife through the security check.

It was concealed well enough, but—a plastic knife—could that kill anyone?

“Trying to assassinate me without even using magic or battle energy… Who do you think you’re underestimating?”

A trace of fierceness flashed across Moen's face. In that instant, he didn’t retreat; instead, he advanced, voluntarily colliding with the assassin’s claws!

Blood splattered!

The front of Moen’s clothing tore open as the claws plunged viciously into his flesh.

Yet those claws, aimed directly at his heart, were suddenly halted midway, locked firmly in place by Moen’s incredibly well-trained and battle-energy-reinforced pectoral muscles.

For the first time, a flicker of panic flashed in the assassin’s eyes. Looking at Moen in disbelief, he said:

“H-How… How is this possible? The intel said nothing about you being this strong!”

“Oh, I see now. Trying to kill me with outdated intel, huh? You people are really something,” Moen sneered coldly. He leaned forward, grabbing the assassin’s swollen arm in one swift motion.

Then—Thunder!

A shockwave rippled through the air, and the assassin’s grotesquely altered body contorted instantly.

Without battle energy reinforcement, even a beast-transformed body was no more than ordinary flesh and blood.

And so, blood splattered once again.

This time, it was the assassin’s blood.

Dark crimson blood was forcibly squeezed out from beneath his skin and muscle tissue. The shockwave, now wielded with ease under Moen’s control, shredded its way through the assassin’s vulnerable internal organs.

“Ugh…”

The assassin coughed up fragments of his own ruined innards, the vitality within him instantly drained away.

His eyes grew dim and unfocused.

He knew he had failed. A flicker of despair surfaced in his gaze, but that despair quickly morphed into something else—malice!

His teeth clenched tightly as he attempted to bite down on something hidden within his jaw.

But—

The figure in front of him, this so-called son of a duke, described in the intel as "second-tier strength, with swift and precise dual-blade techniques," hadn't even drawn his blades. Instead, his form blurred momentarily…

In an instant, a powerful hand clamped onto the assassin’s jaw and, with a crisp crack, snapped his lower mandible cleanly.

“In stories, movies, or real life, why is it that you people always like hiding suicide pills in your mouths?” Moen asked with a wry grin. Ignoring the blood seeping from his chest, he gripped the assassin's neck and held him aloft, his tone laced with both sarcasm and bemusement.

“And by the way, couldn’t whoever hired you at least splurge a little? Not even willing to slap a curse on you or something?”

The assassin writhed feebly in Moen’s grasp. His limbs were shattered, his internal organs ruined; he was entirely powerless at this point.

Not even capable of taking his own life, the mere thought of being captured by his intended target—failing the mission and now facing inevitable interrogation and torture—filled his bloodied, trembling face with deep despair.

As it should have.

Yet Moen did not see that despair. Instead, what he saw was the assassin’s bloodied lips curl into a haunting, sinister smile.

He was smiling?

Why?

Could it be…

“Watch out!”

“Young Master Moen!”

Two cries of alarm rang out, perfectly synchronized with the sharp sting of death’s warning pricking at Moen’s nerves once again.

Moen’s pupils darted rapidly, and then he saw it—the figure beside him.

The one he had overlooked.

That servant.

The same servant whom Moen had sensed as nothing more than an ordinary person. But now, with a crisp cracking sound, an unassuming bracelet around the servant’s wrist shattered apart.

In the next instant, an oppressive aura erupted forth, as though it had been long restrained—mighty and fierce!

Third-tier strength!

Unlike the first assassin, who crudely burned through all his magic and battle energy at once, this servant had relied on an expensive magical artifact to conceal his true power, a level higher than Moen’s own.

In other words, the initial attack was merely a diversion.

The true threat was this servant—the one who had pulled out Moen’s chair, poured him wine, busied himself at Moen’s side, moving back and forth so many times without arousing any suspicion. He waited patiently, biding his time until Moen's attention was fully diverted, until Moen’s guard was at its lowest…

Only then did he strike!

And when he struck, he was as swift and fierce as a lightning bolt.

The razor-sharp dagger in his hand closed the distance to Moen’s chest in an instant, once again targeting his heart with lethal precision!

There was no escaping it.

“Damn it!”

Moen cursed under his breath as the furnace-like heat of the alchemical core on his back surged wildly, pushing the time dilation effect to its absolute limit—sixty times.

He resolved to fight with everything he had.

But just then, a barely audible humming sound reverberated through the air.

It froze Moen’s desperate movements in place.

A faint, holy golden light suddenly materialized, standing between the servant and Moen, halting the former’s attack for just a fraction of a second.

A fraction of a second was all Moen needed.

With a twisted expression of fury, Moen’s silhouette blurred.

Like a fast-forwarded video, his movements seemed almost comical.

But in this critical moment, he managed to sidestep the deadly strike aimed at his vitals, turning what should’ve been a fatal thrust into a glancing slash across his chest.

The blade still left a deep wound.

Enraged, Moen shouted, “Goddammit! What’s with you people and my pecs?!”

The dagger-like arc of pure white in the candlelight gleamed brightly as Elizabeth appeared firmly in Moen’s hand, plunging unerringly into the dumbfounded servant’s chest.

…

The servant collapsed lifelessly to the ground, his energy entirely dispersed.

This time, no third assassin emerged.

Shawn reacted promptly, summoning reinforcements to seal off the restaurant with decisive order.

A harrowing assassination attempt had finally come to an end.

Moen slumped into his chair, breathing heavily.

Looking down at his chest, he couldn’t help but smile bitterly.

What kind of mess was this?

All he wanted was to have a quiet meal. Instead, he encountered an assassination attempt—and oddly enough, while he himself was fine, his pecs had nearly been ripped apart.

Were they really so envious of his chest muscles that even Her Highness couldn’t help appreciating?

“You… You’re injured!”

Amid his breathless complaints, a hurried, panicked voice suddenly broke through, abandoning any attempt at pretense and delicate as a bird’s song.

Moen lifted his head, dazed, to see the violinist standing before him, her gaze fixed anxiously on his bloodied chest.

“Don’t move! I’ll heal you right away!” she blurted out in earnest.

“Wait, it’s not necessary…” Moen began to protest. Though the injuries looked severe, for someone like him, they were hardly anything to worry about.

But the violinist gave him no chance to refuse. She knelt swiftly in front of him, extending her hands as a radiant, pure holy light streamed from her delicate fingers.

“This level of holy light…”

Watching his wounds close visibly before his eyes, feeling the serene peace the light imbued, Moen lowered his gaze to the mysterious veil that still covered her face.

Unable to suppress a sigh, he murmured softly:

“So it really is you, Lea.”