Dragon Slaying

Since the event is held outdoors, there are opportunities for assassination. There are two options for assassination: one is close-range, using a revolver or even Grenade. The main advantage of this method is its high success rate. If the first shot misses, there is still time to follow up with a shot.

However, the drawbacks of doing this are also very obvious. The possibility of carrying out an assassination in a crowded environment and escaping unscathed is extremely small.

"There will definitely be a lot of police at the venue. Although they won't search everyone to see what they're carrying, you won't have any problem bringing in two revolvers. But after you open fire, I think the chances of you escaping in a place with so many police are extremely slim. You might even implicate me. So, the close-range assassination plan is out of the question." Mr. Pidul immediately rejected the plan.

"If not this, what other options are there?" Martin asked.

"I've heard you're a good shot?" Pidul asked.

"It's alright," Martin replied.

"If you had a good gun, a good gun that uses smokeless powder, how far could you hit a target?" Pidul asked.

The so-called good rifle using smokeless powder naturally refers to the new France rifle. It is said that because smokeless powder was too expensive, even the French Army did not widely equip itself with this rifle, and only a small number of elite scouts were equipped with it.

However, in the civilian rifle market, you can buy one if you're willing to pay, though the price is quite high. Even before the war in North America ended, Martin saw one of these rifles from a comrade. That comrade was a wealthy man who owned hundreds of slaves, so his possessions were all top-of-the-line. Compared to ordinary rifles, this rifle had a much smaller caliber, only about 0.3 inches. With a smaller caliber, the bullet was naturally smaller. But because the propellant was more powerful, this rifle's effective range far exceeded that of ordinary rifles; in the hands of skilled operators, it could even accurately hit targets three or four hundred meters away.

Martin, who was into guns at the time, asked about the price and then forced himself to forget about it. But now, as soon as Pidul brought it up, Martin immediately remembered that rifle.

"You mean the Chris Hunting Rifle? Ah, that's a really good thing, but it's too expensive. One Chris Hunting Rifle can buy twenty ordinary shotguns, and if it's the collector's edition with the ivory handle, it's even more ridiculously expensive. And what's worse is the price of the bullets. Each bullet is enough to buy twenty ordinary bullets. Bullets are consumables; who can afford to play with them if they're not rich?" Martin said.

"Yeah, it's a bit pricey, but it's definitely a good gun. Only the wealthy can afford it. I mean, if I had a rifle like this, would you be confident you could hit a target at 300 meters?"

"I don't know, I've never used this thing. But it probably won't work. You know, even the best marksman won't shoot well if he's using a gun he's not familiar with," Martin replied.

"Alright, according to the information, there's still some time. Hmm, I'll lend you the gun these few days, you can practice on your own. Bullets will be charged at market price."

"Then I'd rather assassinate at close range," Martin said.

"What the hell? Is your life worth less than a few bullets?" Pidul said.

"I'm poor now, and the lives of the poor are worthless!" Martin replied without hesitation.

"Damn it! How come I... Okay, I'll give you a 40% discount."

"30% off!"

"Then go and assassinate him at close range! Hmm, do you want me to prepare poison for your suicide?"

"How about a 40% discount?"

"At most half price, and I'll be with you, watching you fight—otherwise, what if you submit false expense reports and then sell my bullets on the black market?"

How could you suspect me like that? There's no basic trust between people!

"Don't talk about trust, talking about trust will cost you money! If you're willing to pay the original price for bullets, I guarantee I'll trust you!"

In the following days, Pidul took Martin hunting in the forest outside the city, and also to practice his shooting. Martin's basic marksmanship was indeed excellent; after only ten or so bullets, he was already able to hit distant targets quite accurately. So, three days later, Martin suggested to Pidul that he felt the training was almost complete, and the rest could be done with blank shots to familiarize himself with the gun—those damn bullets were just too expensive, even at half price.

"These are practically the legendary silver bullets used to fight vampires," Martin remarked.

Then I have a few more days to visit Harvard University and familiarize myself with the environment.

Another week passed, and finally I saw the news in the newspaper that Professor Boblon had arrived in Boston this morning and would be giving a speech to Harvard students at Harvard University's stadium the day after tomorrow.

Martin quickly started working with Pidul to analyze the situation.

Pidul spread out a map on the table—it was drawn by them from memory, not particularly accurate, but basically usable.

Look, this is the stadium, and the rostrum is in this direction. I reckon our target will appear on the rostrum. Regarding target identification, well, we saw him once before in Newton, but he was quite far away, and he quickly went inside. Hmm, if he's on the rostrum, can you recognize him?

"No problem, his build makes it hard to mistake him. Also, his shoulders are uneven, which is a very noticeable feature," Martin said.

"Alright, now we need a relatively concealed location where we can launch an attack and then quickly retreat," Pidul said.

"Look, this is a sports equipment warehouse at Harvard, where they usually store sports equipment. There aren't many people here normally, and probably even fewer now. Go there the evening before, open the door, and hide inside. Since the sports field will be occupied the next morning, don't worry about anyone coming here," Pidul said. "After you fire, immediately drop your weapon, come out here, and then turn this way along this road. I'll leave you a horse here. Mount it there and ride away in this direction—we've observed the fewest police in this direction these past few days. Then, head north to the forest where we practiced shooting together. I'll meet you there with another horse. Then we'll turn east all the way to the sea, where a boat will be waiting for us."

Clearly, Pidul's arrangements were quite meticulous. Martin thought about it and, finding no loopholes, nodded and said, "Thank you, you're a really good person."

Although Pidul was stingy, he was indeed a great help.

The following evening, Martin packed Pidul's rifle into a cello case, disguised himself as a college student, and went to the sports equipment warehouse near the sports field. Taking advantage of the quiet surroundings, Martin easily opened the padlock on the warehouse door using a set of prepared tools. He then entered the warehouse, opened a window, came out through the window, locked the door from the outside, climbed back in through the window, and closed the window again. From the outside, it was impossible to tell that anyone had entered the warehouse.

Martin spent the entire night in the warehouse being bitten by mosquitoes, his body covered in dozens of welts. Even his eyelids were bitten, causing both pain and itching.

However, things improved a lot after the sun came out. Many of the silly mosquitoes had sucked too much blood at night, their bellies were so swollen that they could barely fly, and they clung to the walls, panting. Martin, with a sense of vengeful pleasure, slapped them one after another, and soon his hands were covered with his own blood.

After swatting the mosquitoes, people started moving around on the sports field. Martin quickly hid and quietly observed the field from behind the curtains.

More and more students arrived, and people gradually took their seats on the platform. Martin kept his eyes fixed on the platform. After a while, even more people arrived, but Fafnir still hadn't appeared. Martin was worried; was the guy not coming? If so, he'd just been bitten by mosquitoes for nothing.

After a while, perhaps a century, Martin finally saw a tall man with uneven shoulders walk up to the platform and sit down behind a table.

"He's here, it's him!" Martin suppressed his excitement and gently picked up the gun. The bullet was already loaded, but Pidul had only given him one.

"You won't have time to reload. If the first shot misses, you're done for. So don't waste time. After firing, whether you hit or not, turn and run immediately, don't hesitate."

Because he only had one chance to fire, Martin was a little nervous. The distance from the warehouse to the platform was less than two hundred meters, a distance at which Martin was actually quite confident. So he calmed himself, aimed, and muttered to himself, "Lord, you are my fortress..."

Martin spent about four or five minutes aiming, during which time his breathing and heartbeat gradually calmed down, even becoming a little slow. He finally got his aim right, and the gun fired.

The bullet struck Fafnir directly in the chest. Martin initially intended to aim for his head, but to be on the safe side, he chose the larger target, the chest. After all, given the medical capabilities of the time, the chances of surviving a chest wound were extremely slim.

Fafnir was shot; he reached out and grabbed at the air as if trying to grasp something, then collapsed. Martin, however, didn't have time to see this. He dropped his gun, opened the window on the other side, and leaped out, then began running along his planned route.