Saigo remained standing. Motionless. Confusion, a rare visitor in his ordered world, wrapped around him thicker than the morning fog that usually gathered around the Black Mountain.
Not because of the mission's difficulty – lethal assignments were his bread and butter. But because of the word. Because of the Old Man's unbelievable offer. 'Freedom. For me. And for Mari.'
For someone else, it might have sounded like a hymn, a key to chains. For Saigo – it was like a cave-in in a familiar gallery.
His world was built from Clan categories: Order. Execution. Discipline. Purity. Hierarchy. What lay beyond these walls? Emptiness. A formless, unsettling unknown. How to fill days without orders? Without a clear purpose hammered into his consciousness since childhood? He pictured it vaguely, like a blind man picturing dawn's colors.
Since ancient times, Clan Kotto had one immutable law: exit was only via the funeral pyre. There was, of course, an exception: ransom.
Exorbitant ransom. By paying it, an assassin, spy, informant – anyone – could leave. Otherwise… he himself had more than once carried out sentences on those who tried to "leave" on their own, without the Old Man's sanction.
The system wasn't perfect – hunts for fugitives sometimes lasted years, decades. But the Clan never forgot. And never forgave. Those found vanished without a trace, becoming a lesson for the rest.
Did he want to leave? No! Everything suited him. The Clan was his shell, his meaning, his only comprehensible universe. Leaving didn't mean freedom, but amputation of part of his soul.
But Mari… Her face in that moment of departure, that shadow of fear and distaste at the mention of the Old Man, her tremor… They screamed louder than any words. No. She didn't want to be here. Didn't want to be the Head's daughter, an assassin's wife, a bird in this gilded, yet ruthless cage.
And even though the formal decision remained his, deep down he was afraid. Afraid of her silent question. Afraid of her quiet plea that might be spoken if he brought her this phantom "freedom" on a platter.
In these less than six months, Mari had become…? Not love in a romantic sense. But something profoundly close. The only person whose presence didn't irritate…
A quiet harbor. It was indescribably pleasant to know that behind the door of their chambers, even when he returned from hell – wounded, filthy, reeking of blood and death like a butcher after slaughter – he was awaited.
Awaited without reproach, without (visible) fear, with warm food and quiet concern. It was his only, fragile human warmth in his monotonous life.
"Alright," he abruptly waved his hand, as if shooing away a bothersome fly of doubt. His voice sounded louder than necessary in the silent room. "First – the lizard. Then…" He faltered. "…mm… I'll figure something out."
What? How? There was no answer. Only fog in his head.
He drained the cooled mug to the dregs; the bitterness of the tea matched the bitterness of uncertainty, and stood up. His body automatically assumed its habitual posture of readiness.
A mountain of work lay ahead: the Clan Vault awaited him. And in his mind, beneath the layer of tactical calculations, pulsed a single word, both frightening and alluring: Freedom. And the shadow of Mari, watching him with a silent question.
…
Two days. Forty-eight hours of continuous, meticulously detailed preparation. Saigo methodically transformed himself into a weapon honed for one purpose: the Dragon of the Black Mountain.
He dismissed the thought of a quiet elimination immediately – a creature of that caliber wouldn't be taken without a fight. Which meant a confrontation in a narrow stone hell, where every step, every breath, could be the last.
The Clan Kotto Vault was not a storeroom, but a treasury of death. Sealed halls delved deep into the rock beneath Sen-Baz, filled with cold air and the whisper of ancient magic.
Saigo walked between endless racks. Rows of vials with potions, shimmering with poisonous gems. Stands of weapons – from exquisite daggers to two-handed monstrosities smelling of human blood.
Armor, artifacts, scrolls – knowledge and power accumulated over centuries, accessible only to the chosen. The air hummed with concentrated power.
The vault quartermaster, Brother Elrik, lean and swift as a shadow, walked beside him, his voice echoing dully from the stone vaults.
"Recommend the standard dragon-slayer kit: this, this, and this." He pointed a finger at several jars of thick liquids. "Potion of Fire Resistance and Frost Resistance. And also… Tincture of Stoneflesh – makes skin hard as granite. Minimum for an hour."
Saigo silently took a vial, uncorked it, and held it to his nose. An acrid, sharp aroma hit his nostrils, making him wince slightly. Weak. Diluted muck. Took a second – the same counterfeit. It might impress an ordinary person. But not him. Someone who'd spent half his life relying on such brews in the heat of battle, whose pores were saturated with their true essence, could distinguish a fake from pure essence with one sniff. He threw Elrik an eloquent look.
"And against Darkness…" Elrik spread his hands, avoiding direct eye contact. "…nothing specific, Brother Kai. Sorry, but…" He suddenly stopped, as if realizing something. "Wait here." And vanished into the labyrinth of shelves faster than Saigo could blink.
While Saigo inspected a set of poisoned shuriken (too small for a dragon, but…), Elrik returned. In his hands, he carefully clutched two lacquered boxes. He opened the first, small one. On black velvet lay a ring. Not ordinary – heavy, of dark metal, with a large, almost light-absorbing stone the color of the night abyss.
"What is this?" Saigo felt something inside him tense.
"Ring of the Insatiable Void," Elrik whispered almost reverently. "In short: absorbs dark magic. Within reasonable limits, of course. And when the stone… saturates…" he paused, "…you can channel the accumulated power back at the target. One powerful discharge."
Saigo took the ring. It was cold and heavy. Yes. He'd take this without hesitation. Against ice, fire, or steel, he could manage with strength, speed, skill. But Darkness… Its homing tendrils ignored armor. Against it, his training was weak. This artifact offered a margin for error.
"And the second?" he asked, already feeling the ring's weight on his palm.
"Ahh… here!" Elrik opened the second, flat box. Inside, on soft padding, lay not a shield in the usual sense, but a mirrored disc the size of a large saucer. A frame of lunar silver, and the surface – perfectly polished, shimmering in the vault's dim light like a frozen puddle on black stone.
"Shield of Lunar Reflection," Elrik announced. "The mirrored side is enchanted. If you're quick and time it right… it should reflect spells back into the caster's face. They say the previous owner sent a couple of mages to their ancestors that way."
"What happened to him?" Saigo lifted the disc, assessing its weight and balance.
"Mmm… let me remember…" Elrik scratched the back of his head. "Ah, yes. He got stabbed. Knife in a tavern, I think it was a drunken apprentice."
"Clear. I'll take both," Saigo stated crisply, placing the disc back in the box. "And the potions… keep them. I'll speak to the Master Alchemist about the elixirs."
"Huh?" Elrik's eyes widened. "You serious? The standard kit… surely it's not that bad?"
"More than," Saigo interrupted him. "I'll take the Frost and Fire resistance. But Stoneflesh?" he snorted contemptuously. "Adds too much dead weight. Speed drops. And slow assassins, Brother Elrik, don't live long. Especially in a dragon's den."
Elrik nodded silently, making notes in a thick ledger. Standard recommendations clearly didn't work with this client. "Understood. Now… to weapons?" he asked, already heading deeper into the halls where blades capable of cutting shadow itself hung.
"Lead on," Saigo tossed back, following him. His mind was already running combat scenarios, fitting the new artifacts' capabilities against dark magic and fiery breath in narrow cave passages. The Ring and the Mirror – not just equipment, but his margin for error.
Elrik's gaze slid over the racks, his fingers running over hilts like keys on a deadly organ. "I think this one suits you," he deftly lifted a blade from a high shelf.
A longsword. Not a bulky two-hander, but not a light rapier either. The blade, forged from a dull grey-steel alloy, seemed to absorb the torchlight. "Cuts and cleaves absolutely anything."
"Cursed?" Saigo asked, already feeling slight pressure in his temples from the artifact's proximity.
"Naturally," Elrik replied without a hint of embarrassment. "Without a curse – it's just well-sharpened metal."
"Not to your taste? Then… mmm…" Elrik set the sword aside and grabbed another blade from a nearby stand. A curved saber, bent like a snake in two places, with a guard shaped like a spiked crescent moon ready to tear an unwary palm. He pulled off its oiled sack.
Drip! An acrid, smoking drop of sludge fell onto the stone floor. Where it touched, the stone hissed and smoked, leaving a black burn.
"Sits well in one hand. Maybe not ideal for thrusting, but the acid…" Elrik flicked a finger against the blade, dripping with a clear-yellow slime, "…will do its job even without a perfect hit. And another thing: venom accumulates on the blade. Build up a charge – and you can lob a glob of it into the dragon's eye clear across the cave."
Saigo took the saber. The hilt molded to his palm like a second skin, the balance – flawless. 'I'll take it. This isn't just sharp steel – it's tactical flexibility.'
"What else?" Saigo scanned the hall. Elrik passed by a stand of halberds. "Too bulky for caves." Past two-handed axes – "Swing wrong at the wrong moment – bring the ceiling down." Crossbows – "Reload time too long." Nothing perfectly suited the tight hell of a dragon's lair.
"What's this?" Saigo jabbed a finger at a pair of open-fingered gauntlets lying on a separate table. They were forged from a light, shimmering metal, as if containing shards of the night sky. Knuckle-dusters gleamed, and the back of the hand bore an insignia of a black goat.
"Ah, Meteor Fists," Elrik gasped. "Very… beautiful. And very dangerous. For the user first and foremost."
"Every strike that lands causes a micro-explosion. Directed forward, but…" he made a gesture as if warding off a shockwave, "…the recoil and shrapnel will get you too. Ricochets in cave rocks – a hellish cocktail, don't you think?"
"I'll take them." Without hesitation, Saigo said, already trying on a gauntlet. The metal was icy and incredibly dense. It brought him back to his roots, to the years when he tore throats and broke bones with steel claws and knuckledusters. Close-quarters chaos was still his element, and he wasn't about to discard years of accumulated experience.
"You serious?!" Elrik couldn't hide his alarm.
"Absolutely. And don't forget to add to the list: Black Clone Brooch, Illusion Brooch (the second one). And the armor-piercing daggers – all three."
"Heh, Brother Saigo," Elrik rolled his eyes, filling in the journal. "If I didn't know you – I'd think you were planning to clean out the Vault and vanish into the unknown."
"Stop talking nonsense," Saigo cut him off, dropping the gauntlet back onto the table with a dull thud. "Lead on to the armor. Time – doesn't wait."