Transmigration: The Tyrant General Can Hear My Thoughts-Chapter 33 - Thirty Three

Time passed. The bright sun moved across the sky and slowly set behind the tall mountains. The sky turned dark, filled with twinkling stars.

Camilla could hear voices. They sounded far away, like people talking underwater. She tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids were much too heavy. Her entire body felt like it was made of solid lead. She felt soft silk sheets beneath her, and a warm blanket covering her body. Someone had found her on the balcony and moved her to her bed.

"Her body took a strange shock," a familiar older voice said gently. It was Doctor Aris. Camilla recognized his tone. "But her heart is beating steadily. She was just exhausted and needs to eat a lot. When she wakes up, please make sure she drinks plenty of warm broth."

Then, another voice spoke. It was a deep, rough, commanding voice. It was Damon.

"Thank you so much, Doctor," Damon said.

His voice sounded strangely polite, completely different from his usual angry tone. "I will take care of her personally. She is my wife. I will ensure she rests. Let me walk you out to the hallway."

Camilla lay completely still. She heard the sound of wheelchair and soft shoes walking across the wooden floor. She heard the heavy door open, and then she heard it close with a soft click. The room became perfectly silent.

Damon had left the room to walk the doctor out. She was alone.

Camilla slowly, carefully opened her eyes just a tiny bit. She did not move her head. She just looked through her eyelashes.

The room was dark. The candles were not lit. However, bright, silvery moonlight was filtering into her room through the large glass doors of the balcony. The moonlight created long, strange shadows across the wooden floor.

Camilla felt much better. The sleep had restored her energy. The numbness from the lightning strike was completely gone. She could feel her fingers and toes again. She took a slow, quiet breath.

She was just about to push the heavy blankets off her body and sit up. She wanted to find a mirror to see if her hair was still pointing to the sky.

But suddenly, she saw something move in the corner of her eye.

Camilla froze instantly. Her breathing became incredibly slow and shallow. Her instincts, which had been resting, suddenly woke up screaming.

She kept her eyes narrowed to tiny slits. She looked toward the source of the movement.

She saw someone trying to enter her room from the balcony.

It was a tall figure dressed entirely in tight, black clothing. The person wore a dark cloth wrapped around their face, covering everything except their cold, focused eyes.

They moved with absolute silence. Their soft shoes made no sound against the stone of the balcony or the wood of the bedroom floor. They moved like a deadly shadow sliding through the moonlight.

"An assassin," Camilla thought to herself. Her internal voice was no longer funny, loud, or complaining. Her mind became a cold, calculating machine.

She did not panic. She did not scream for help. And why would she? She was the apex predator in her own world. She had killed dozens of highly trained men who thought they could sneak up on her. This intruder was stepping into the wrong room.

Camilla relaxed all the muscles in her face. She let her mouth fall open just a tiny bit. She made her chest rise and fall in a slow, steady rhythm. She pretended to be in a deep, peaceful sleep.

The assassin crept fully into the room. He stood in the moonlight for a second, looking at the bed. He saw the small lump of Camilla’s body under the thick blankets. He saw her hair resting on the white pillows.

The assassin did not pull out a sword or a knife. A bloody wound would leave too much evidence. A bloody wound would launch a massive investigation by the Tyrant General.

Instead, the assassin moved silently toward a small, plush couch sitting near the balcony doors. He reached down and grabbed a thick, velvet pillow. He gripped it tightly with both of his strong hands.

He turned back toward the bed. He began to walk toward Camilla.

His steps were slow and measured.

Step. Pause. Step. Pause.

He was making sure the floorboards did not creak.

Camilla tracked his movements through the tiny slits of her eyes. She calculated the distance. Ten feet. Eight feet. Five feet.

The assassin reached the side of the large wooden bed. He stood right over her. He looked down at her sleeping face. He raised the heavy velvet pillow high into the air, holding it directly over her face. He prepared to slam it down over her mouth and nose, planning to use his full body weight to hold it there until she stopped breathing.

He held his breath. He tensed his arm muscles to strike.

He attempted to put the pillow over Camilla’s head.

In that exact fraction of a second, Camilla’s eyes snapped wide open.They were cold, dead, and utterly terrifying. They were the eyes of a killer looking at her prey.

She moved with speed. She was much faster than the assassin expected.

Before the heavy pillow could even touch her nose, Camilla threw her right arm upward. Her hand shot out like a striking snake. She grabbed the assassin’s left wrist with a strong grip. Her fingers dug deep into his pressure points, sending a shock of blinding pain up his arm.

The assassin gasped in shock. His eyes widened above his dark mask. He tried to pull his arm back, but her grip was impossible to break.

Camilla did not stop moving. She used his own downward momentum against him.

She pulled his trapped arm hard toward her chest. At the same time, she kicked her legs upward, throwing the heavy blankets completely off her body.

Because she pulled him so hard, the assassin lost his balance. He fell forward, tumbling over the side of the bed.

As he fell toward her, Camilla rolled her body to the side. She slipped out from underneath him.

The assassin crashed face-first onto the empty mattress where Camilla had just been lying. The velvet pillow muffled his grunt of surprise.

He tried to push himself up immediately. He was a trained killer. He knew he had lost the element of surprise. He needed to recover and fight.

But Camilla was already behind him.

She did not give him a single second to breathe. She did not give him a chance to pull a hidden weapon. She was absolutely ruthless.

Camilla dropped her knee hard into the center of his upper back, pinning him flat against the mattress. The force drove the air completely out of his lungs.

At the exact same moment, her hands moved fast.

Her left hand grabbed a thick fistful of his black hair, pulling his head sharply backward. Her right hand shot under his chin, grabbing the front of his neck.

She applied immense pressure, locking his head and neck into a terrible, deadly angle.

The assassin’s eyes bulged in pure terror. He realized, in his final moment, that he had made a fatal mistake. The woman on the bed was not a weak target. She was a monster.

He opened his mouth to scream, to beg, to alert the guards.

Camilla’s face was an emotionless mask. She did not hesitate. She did not feel pity. She simply applied her deadly technique.

With a vicious, powerful twist of her arms, she wrenched his head sharply to the side.

CRACK.

It was a loud terrible sound. It was much louder than the sound of Isabel’s breaking leg.

The assassin’s body instantly went completely limp. All the tension left his muscles. His arms flopped uselessly against the silk sheets. His open, lifeless eyes stared blankly toward the balcony doors.

Camilla let go of his head. It fell onto the mattress with a soft thud.

She slowly stood up from the bed. She stood in the moonlight, looking down at the dead body of the assassin. She calmly dusted off the front of her nightgown.

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes looking at the dead man with pure, cold annoyance.

"You ruined my rest," Camilla whispered softly into the dark room. Her voice was incredibly calm, and absolutely terrifying. "And I was having a very nice dream about my Winston."