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"What do we do?"
Allen tilted his head toward Sylphiette.
She stared blankly at his foot planted on the windowsill.
Isolte, meanwhile, simply watched him with a faint, exasperated smile—one that carried an almost imperceptible fondness.
—Shishou has changed in some ways… and in others, not at all.
Allen rested a hand on his sword. His voice, calm and measured, carried over the wind as he leaned forward.
"The assassin guild dares act this boldly because the bounty's allure outweighs the risk in their minds. Their underlings? Some chase wealth, others fame, some even hope to curry favor with nobles for a cushy retainer position. Motives vary, but the result is the same."
"If we retreat now, they'll take this as weakness. Targeted bounties will keep coming—second, third, fourth time—like sewer rats nipping at our heels."
As his intent became clearer, Sylphiette's eyes widened. Before she could react, Isolte ruffled her hair affectionately, as if amused by her bewilderment.
Allen stood framed by the window, moonlight gilding his lashes as he gazed downward.
"So, the question remains—what's the solution?"
A breeze swept in, scattering the room's metallic stench. Yet Sylphiette swore the scent of blood grew thicker.
Allen's body tipped forward.
His eyes flicked back—a glint of mirth trailing like comet's tail in the moonlight.
His sleeves fluttered.
His voice lingered.
"Kill them all."
"That's the answer."
Two Minutes Earlier – Inn Courtyard
"Where'd that dwarf 'Vi Ta' come from?"
"The war-torn lands, they say."
"Backwater trash. How'd he afford to 'clear out' this place? Even a dump like this costs hundreds of gold to rent."
"It's privately owned by the guild's higher-ups. Chosen for… discretion."
Two figures lurked in the shadows—one staring up at the third-floor window, the other idly scuffing his boot against the cobblestones.
Had Allen's group been present, they'd have recognized them: the two men from the bridge who'd openly admired the catgirl and elf assassins.
—A professional's respect. Those two women were among the top three female killers in Roa, their skills universally acknowledged.
"'Cat's Eye' and 'Elf' hit the jackpot. A thousand gold? That dwarf's ugly, but his coin's pretty. Damn, I'm jealous. Why can't I catch Lord 'Filthblade's' eye? He even tailored their assassination plan himself."
The boot-scuffer sighed.
His companion smirked. "Because Lord Filthblade doesn't pay for 'company' on pleasure boats."
A pause. Then—
"...Worth it."
The scuffer shot a furtive glance toward the inn's darkest corner, where a towering figure stood motionless—more statue than man.
His companion chuckled. "Think 'Cat' and 'Elf' can pull it off? Why'd the guild open the bounty to the top hundred? Even dragged Lord Filthblade here as overseer. Overkill, no?"
"Puppeteer's dead. Rank 17."
"That fraud? His 'doll tricks' only worked with intel gaps. You're Rank 42 now, I'm 98—plus Lord Filthblade, actual Rank 1. Who can't we kill?"
Above them, the window's light winked out. Neither noticed.
"Allen Boreas Greyrat. Twelve. Confirmed intel: at nine, he was Water God style's branch dojo champion. Accuracy: 100%."
"So? Lord Filthblade's a Water King."
"Night Lion Bandits claim he hit Water Saint and Sword King two years back. Accuracy: 70%. Otherwise, he couldn't have wiped their hideout."
"Bullshit. Cover-up for losing turf."
"Vi Ta's latest: Allen trained under 'Black Wolf' Ghyslaine. Two months ago—Sword King. One month ago—he slew North King."
The bearded killer scoffed. "You buying that?"
His companion thumbed toward the shadowed giant.
"Don't have to. He does."
Before the beard could retort, the other added, "That's why 'Cat' and 'Elf' went first. Truth? Good. Lie? They still pocket the gold."
Silence. Then—
"Fine. Why drag me here, then?"
"I'm here for the girls. Isolte Kael Elral—Reida's granddaughter. Prime pickings."
The bearded man's face soured. Allen's delicate features clearly didn't appeal.
"Pass. Corpses don't move."
His companion edged away.
"If you're here for women, why's he here? Bounty's chump change to him."
Both turned toward the shadow.
The guild's crown jewel—Water King, Filthblade—stared back.
The companion lowered his voice. "Rumor is, this hit's just an appetizer. Tomorrow's the real deal—backed by a real noble."
The bearded man's eyes gleamed. "The 'real deal'?"
"Even a man like him… after too long in the dark…"
A footstep. Soft. Close.
The bearded man blinked. His companion's lips still moved—
—but his head wasn't attached.
Moonlight flared.
Fabric fluttered soundlessly.
A boot clicked against stone.
Then—
SCHLICK!
Neck. Shoulder. Spine. Ribs. Arm.
One slash. Two corpses.
The light hadn't been the moon.
Just blade glare.
THUD!
Blood sprayed—then halted midair, deflected by Allen's precise Water God technique.
SPLAT.
A crimson flower bloomed on the cobblestones.
Allen eyed the six meat chunks that used to be people and smiled.
Then he looked up.
Dozens of eyes gleamed from the darkness.
Not one had warned the two 'brothers'.
—This, too, was part of the 'test'.
Allen grinned. "Thirty of you? Spirited. Confident. Now—who'll explain this 'real deal'?"
Silence.
He sighed. "No takers? Fine. Next question: when assassins get caught, what's guild protocol? Do you come one by one…"
His grin sharpened.
"Or all at once?"
A synchronized rustle as every head turned toward the shadows.
Allen followed their gaze.
A figure leaned against the wall—toe-to-toe with the moonlight, yet untouched by it.
Then… he stepped forward.
Tall as Ghyslaine. Impeccable black tailcoat. A sword sheathed in wyrm-turtle leather that glimmered darkly.
Elegant. Noble.
Yet his wild mane and the scar splitting his neck to cheek screamed predator.
The man—Filthblade—spoke, ignoring Allen's question.
"Intel confirmed. As overseer, I advise: those who wish to climb, stay. Those content, leave."
Allen thumbed his hilt.
Not one shadow retreated.
One by one, they emerged—weapons gleaming.
Even sewer rats tire of the dark.
They, too, crave the sun.
But the sun hadn't risen.
The last man stepped into the light, boots splashing blood.
Drip. Drip.
Steel split the night.
"Come."
11:25:21 – Third Floor Hallway
The pendulum swayed.
Isolte watched Allen land and kill, her grip on the windowsill loosening. She resisted the urge to leap after him.
Instead, she turned.
Sylphiette hung halfway out the window, gaping.
Isolte smiled. "Let's go."
"Huh?"
"Help him."
"O-Oh! Right!"
A frantic scramble.
"Change first."
"Ack! Y-Yes!"
The door slammed.
Isolte, a warrior, dressed swiftly. Sylphiette, already in a skirt, took seconds.
They met in the hall—where Isolte suggested waking Eris and Rudeus.
Sylphiette hesitated, but recalling Rudeus's superior magic and Eris's Silent Sword, she agreed.
They passed the hallway clock.
Tick. 11:26:30.
Eris's door was unlocked. The girl hadn't even undressed before collapsing. A gust of wind magic jolted her awake—and "ALLEN'S KILLING PEOPLE DOWNSTAIRS" launched her upright.
Next door, Isolte knocked. Eris kicked it open, smacked a half-dressed Rudeus, and dragged him out like a ragdoll.
Isolte, in turn, tucked Sylphiette under her arm.
They charged past the stairwell clock.
Tick. 11:27:19.
Three floors meant nothing to two swordswomen and their 'luggage'. Eris's sleepiness had evaporated—her crimson hair a banner behind her.
Then—
SCREECH!
They skidded to a halt.
The lobby wasn't empty.
The cheerful, buxom receptionist stood frozen—knife trembling in her hand.
Sweat dripped. No smiles now.
Their footsteps snapped her from her daze.
Eye contact.
She bolted.
Eris's eyes narrowed. She snatched Isolte's sword.
SHING!
The receptionist dodged—an unseen force yanking her sideways—
—crash—
—straight into the lobby clock.
CRACK!
Enamel shattered. A blade of condensed air punched through her skull, pinning her to the clockface.
Tick. 11:27:52.
The pendulum stilled.
Eris poked the corpse. "Huh."
Behind her, the others stared past the lobby's cracked window—where Allen stood on the lake's surface, blood lapping at his boots.
"Number 31. Done."
Beyond him, under the moon—
—crimson petals dotted the ground.
Chunks. Piles.
Unrecognizable.
1 Water King. 3 Water Saints. 6 North Saints. 1 Sword Saint. 20 Advanced Swordsmen.
The sewer rats' 'sun' had set.
Their lives' candle?
Two minutes, thirty-one seconds.
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