The Restoration of Rome: In the Name of Augustus

Chapter 106 "Almorin"

As the setting sun painted Golden Horn Bay blood red, Almorin had already taken advantage of the brief opening created by the diversionary tactic to infiltrate the naval factory prison area located upstream of Golden Horn Bay.

This prison was actually an amphibious fortress. During the day, prisoners of war were forced to work like slaves in the outer docks and factories, while at night they were locked in the old dock hold near the shore. The hold was damp, crowded, and filled with despair and decay.

Almorin used shadows and ventilation ducts to move silently, taking out several guards.

With each guard he dealt with, Almorin searched their bodies for prison keys and internal maps, eventually finding a special set of iron keys and a token representing the prison warden on an officer who appeared to be a minor leader.

At midnight, all was quiet except for the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore. Almorin's shadow appeared at the door of the largest hold where Venetian prisoners of war were imprisoned. He did not open the door immediately, but instead extended a hidden blade and rhythmically knocked on the iron door a few times.

A suppressed commotion immediately rose within the cabin. Then, a voice with a Venetian Latin accent rang out: "Who?!"

"Your embassy's consul—sent by Enrico Dandolo," Almorin whispered through the crack in the door, "Those who want to go home, remain absolutely silent and follow my instructions."

Almorin took out the key and unlocked the chains that secured the iron gate.

Inside the cabin, the Venetians heard the sound of chains falling, and the door opened a crack, revealing dozens of pairs of eyes shining brightly in the darkness, staring intently at the figure behind the door.

Almorin slipped inside, raising a token in his left hand and a small oil lamp he'd taken from a guard in his right, the beam flashing quickly across the token: "Most of the guards outside are 'asleep.' Now, those who can move, follow me. Our target is the two small galleys on the dock. Remember, we only have less than an hour."

Under Almolin's leadership, the previously listless prisoners of war suddenly displayed remarkable efficiency. They silently eliminated the scattered guards and quickly took control of two relatively well-maintained light galleys in the dock area.

Under the expectant gazes of the prisoners, a respected captain stepped forward from the crowd and called to Almorin, who was about to leave the dock.

The captain said gratefully, "Thank you so much, sir. Although we do not know your face, please allow us to give you our utmost respect. You have rescued us from the Greeks; may God bless you."

"No need to thank me. You should be thanking Consul Dandolo. I'm just following the contract." Almorin said expressionlessly. "Now, immediately—set sail!"

The Venetians bowed again to Almorin in thanks, softly reciting the Bible, giving thanks for God's grace, and praising Enrico Dandolo's virtues, as they orderly maneuvered their sails and headed toward Venice.

Almorin strode away from Golden Horn Bay from the pier, his footsteps echoing softly in the maze-like alleyways.

He has faithfully fulfilled his contractual obligations; it's time to go back and report to that old man.

Suddenly, a chill ran down his spine from the intuition that he was being watched by a predator.

He stopped abruptly, turning sideways into a shady spot. There were no footsteps around, only the sound of the wind rushing through the narrow alley.

However, the flow of air changed, and something was skillfully erasing its own traces, heading in his direction.

Another Assassin?! And his tracking skills are superb, his familiarity with the city's layout seems to surpass even his own.

He began to change tactics, using the debris left behind by early market vendors, clothes drying in the sun, and even stray cats that occasionally darted out as cover, trying to disrupt the pursuers' rhythm.

He made two sharp turns, passed through an archway, and with a sudden burst of strength, pushed off the wall and climbed onto a low roof. He crouched behind the tiles, his eyes scanning the path below with keen intensity.

The streets were deserted, but the feeling of being stared at did not disappear; instead, it became even stronger.

Almorin realized that the other party was not only following him, but also driving him towards a predetermined location.

He decided to stop avoiding it and quickened his pace, heading towards an abandoned warehouse area downstream of Golden Horn Bay.

He stopped in the middle of a relatively open space and slowly turned around.

Show yourself.

Altaïr silently slid out from behind the huge pile of barrels and slowly walked up to Almorin.

The moment his gaze fell upon Almorin's face, his pupils involuntarily contracted.

"Almorin?!" Altaïr exclaimed in disbelief. "You still haven't given up!"

Countless thoughts flashed through Almorin's mind like lightning, and then he suddenly realized—it seemed that the other party had mistaken him for another substitute of the Holy One.

He lowered his voice, a hint of amusement in his tone: "This world is both vast and small, isn't it? It seems the loom of fate hasn't severed the threads between us."

Altaïr paced cautiously, looking for an opportunity to strike.

Seeing this, Almorin also began to pace around.

Looking at Almorin's steady steps, Altaïr had a slight doubt in his heart.

A thought struck him, and he suddenly darted out, aiming for Almorin's injured right shoulder in Beitshean.

Almorin moved with lightning speed, deftly shifting his right shoulder to the back while his left hand drew a hidden blade and thrust it at the oncoming Altaïr.

However, Altaïr was merely testing the waters. He quickly withdrew his attack, his brow furrowed as he examined Almorin's right shoulder: "Bethsheen's injury has healed far too quickly."

"Time can wear down rocks, but it can also heal many seemingly irreversible wounds," Almorin said vaguely, while his muscles subtly tensed. "Perhaps you underestimated my resilience and overestimated the marks you left behind."

"No," Altaïr's voice was as cold as iron, "that's not regeneration. It's that there's no... injury at all!"

Before he finished speaking, Altaïr launched another attack, this time deliberately using the same moves as Beitshean and those he had used during his training in Egypt.

Almorin remained calm and composed, responding to each move with a counter-strategy.

Altaïr's expression grew increasingly grave. The person before him was not his mentor at all, yet his appearance and fighting style were almost identical to his mentor's!

Almorin keenly noticed Altaïr's expression and realized that he had aroused suspicion. Without further hesitation, he turned and darted towards the darkest part of the shadows.

However, he had barely taken ten steps when dozens of figures silently appeared behind the roofs, windows, and dilapidated pillars of the surrounding warehouses.

They wore white or dark robes similar to Altaïr's, and brandished hidden blades, surrounding him.

He then realized that the man's earlier drive away was intended to force him into this desperate situation. He had underestimated his opponent, and also underestimated the depth of his opponent's influence in Constantinople.

Almorin charged left and right, slashing one of the Assassins in the throat with his hidden blade, and fled.

Just as he was about to burst through a gap and leap toward the taller building next to him, Altaïr descended from the sky and landed on his back.

Altaïr lowered his body first and touched Almorin's throat, then pressed his entire weight onto Almorin's drooping, limp shoulders.

Almorin lay on the ground, blood gushing from his throat, staining his silver beard, hair, and white robe.