The Restoration of Rome: In the Name of Augustus

Chapter 90 Master-Disciple Competition

The stone walls of Beitshean Castle cast long shadows in the silvery moonlight, and Almorin leaped among them, his white robes fluttering in the night wind.

Just now, he triggered some kind of unprecedented alarm device in the grain warehouse area. He racked his brains but couldn't figure out how the device worked.

"Guillaume..." Almorin murmured the name, a shadow crossing his eyes. "No, it can't be him. A project of this scale couldn't possibly be completed by a mere baron..."

The sound of guards running and dogs barking came from the courtyard below. Almorin took a deep breath, leaped backward, spread his arms, his white robe billowing in the wind, and glided like a bat in the night towards the haystack on the lower roof opposite.

His leap of faith was still perfect, but when he landed, a sharp pain shot through his knee.

Almolin shakily climbed out of the haystack, looking in surprise at the pitchfork peeking out from the haystack.

What sane person would put pitchforks in a haystack?!

With the torches and shouts of the patrolling soldiers closing in behind him, Almorin didn't have time to think about the strange pitchfork and continued hurrying along the sloping tiled roof.

Below was the castle's inner courtyard, where torchlight cast dappled shadows, and soldiers' shouts echoed from all directions. He needed to reach the abandoned drain near the north wall, the escape route he had scouted beforehand.

Ahead was a gap between two buildings. Almorin accelerated, pushed off the edge of the roof, his body leaped into the air, his arms outstretched to grab the protruding wooden beam of the opposite building, and with a swift swing, landed steadily on a rooftop further away.

The entire sequence of movements was fluid and effortless, as if gravity had lost its effect on him. This was the free-running skill honed over decades of assassination, an instinct ingrained in his very bones.

However, just as he landed and prepared to exert his strength again, he caught a glimpse of a rapidly moving dark shadow on the roof of the main castle in the distance.

That figure... seemed familiar—another Assassin?

So the Assassins in Jerusalem have already sided with the Franks...

Almorin felt a chill run down his spine, but he didn't slow down. He ran along the roof ridge, occasionally using the protruding chimneys and walls to conceal himself.

The soldiers below seemed to be led in the wrong direction, but the pursuer on the rooftop remained close by, never leaving their side.

It was Altaïr who was chasing Almorin.

A year ago, the mentor at the Jerusalem outpost died at the hands of another Assassin master who used blowguns. According to Malik, that mentor had just returned from Damascus.

Saladin's expedition also started from Damascus, and Altaïr reasonably suspected that Saladin would definitely send the Assassins on this expedition.

Lyon, anticipating potential attacks, designed alarm systems for the castle to prevent Assassins from attacking. He also placed Assassins' favorite haystacks in various corners of the castle and put pitchforks in some of the haystacks.

Altaïr looked at the Assassin's figure, who was still incredibly agile but was vaguely limping, and found himself wanting to laugh.

He rushed out of the tower and climbed directly onto the roof. Almorin disappeared very quickly, leaving only a blur.

Under the moonlight, he quickly spotted the white figure again. The way the figure moved, though slightly limping, carried a feeling he knew all too well.

"Could it be..." Altaïr muttered to himself, his heart pounding. He quickened his pace, leaving the guards' clamor behind. Compared to the Assassins ahead, his body seemed younger and lighter. Using his familiarity with the castle, he took shorter routes and leaped more daringly, constantly closing the distance.

He could now clearly see the white robe and the slightly hunched yet still agile back, and a complex emotion welled up in his heart.

Almorin also sensed the Assassins closing in from behind. The young man's speed was astonishing, even surpassing his own when he was younger.

He changed his strategy, no longer trying to escape in a straight line, but instead began to take advantage of the complex environment of the rooftop. He stomped on the walls, changed direction in a zigzag pattern, used the clothesline to change height instantly, and even deliberately kicked off loose tiles to create obstacles.

The chase stretched from the open rooftops of houses to the narrow city wall walkways, and then climbed to the towering spires of the church. Two figures pursued each other under the moonlight.

Finally, at the top of a narrow stone arcade connecting the main castle to the outer wall, Altaïr caught up with Almorin.

"Almorin!" Altaïr's voice was gasping and trembling uncontrollably. "Stop!"

Almorin turned around at the end of the arcade, his feet hovering over the void dozens of meters above him. He finally looked at the face of the young man who had once been his most prized disciple, hidden beneath his hood.

"Atalo... I should have guessed it was you." Almorin called him by his real name and laughed, "Or should I call you Altaïr? How does it feel to serve the infidels while wearing a white robe woven by the Franks?"

"You've betrayed us!" Altaïr accused sharply, his hidden blade flashing from his left hand. "You've sided with Saladin! Saladin isn't a heretic to you anymore? Why? For power? Like the rumors say?"

Almorin let out a low, cold laugh: "Betrayal? Child, you are too young. Everything I have done is to find a way out for our Brotherhood in the coming storm. Saladin is the future ruler from Egypt to Mesopotamia, while these Frankish Christians will eventually be buried by the sands along with their Latin kingdom."

"So you betrayed the stronghold? You betrayed your brothers in Egypt?" Altaïr shouted.

"Nothingness, everything permitted." Almorin slowly recited the Assassins' creed, his gaze sharp as a knife. "It seems you've only remembered the words, but never understood their true weight. For a greater purpose, the means are irrelevant."

Before he finished speaking, Almorin swung his arm, sending several throwing knives hurtling towards Altaïr. Altaïr reacted quickly, dodging to the side, the knives clanging against the wall behind him and sending sparks flying.

Almost simultaneously with the throwing knife, Almorin pounced like a ghost, his left-hand hidden blade aimed straight for Altaïr's throat. Altaïr drew his sword to parry, the clashing of metal echoing shrilly through the night.

The master and apprentice engaged in a fierce battle atop the narrow arcade, their swords flashing and figures clashing. Almorin, with his seasoned experience, used ruthless techniques, each strike aimed at a vital point. Altaïr, on the other hand, relied on his youth, strength, and quick reflexes to parry each move.

Soon, the disadvantage of age began to show. Almorin's breathing became heavy, and his movements slowed by a beat. Altaïr seized an opening, and the blade grazed Almorin's shoulder, instantly causing a splash of blood to bloom on his white robe.

Almorin grunted, used the momentum to flip backward, and landed on a lower rooftop. He didn't linger, got up and ran, but his steps were already unsteady.

Just as Altaïr was about to give chase, a commotion erupted from the courtyard below.

A squad of soldiers, drawn by the sounds of fighting on the rooftop, was heading in that direction. They didn't recognize Altaïr, but saw two strange figures on the roof, so they raised their crossbows and fired arrows at the two men.

Altaïr instinctively stepped back to dodge the crossbow bolts. In that split second, Almorin threw a smoke grenade, and thick, grayish-white smoke instantly enveloped the area.

As the smoke dissipated in the night wind, the white figure vanished, leaving only a few bloodstains on the roof and a faint smell of gunpowder in the air.

Altaïr stood atop the arcade, gazing in the direction Almorin had disappeared, his chest heaving. He stared intently into the distant night before vanishing into the shadows.

Berthesian soldiers clamored as they climbed onto the roof to check the situation, only to find it empty; the two figures had vanished without a trace.