The streets of Orvelen's capital city glimmered under the pale light of the crescent moon, lanterns flickering in the autumn wind as if reluctant to illuminate the truth of what transpired within these walls. A city of decadence and cruelty, Orven Kale thought bitterly, pulling the hood of his dark cloak tighter around his face.
At seventeen, he moved through the world like a wraith. Years of mercenary work had refined him into a weapon, silent and efficient, his expression carved into stone. Yet beneath the calm exterior, an ember of hatred still burned. The Jade Kingdom's nobles feasted on wealth wrung from peasants' backs, and the Asura Empire's looming presence to the east promised only further bloodshed. Neither side had cared when his village burned; neither side had lifted a hand when his life shattered.
His current contract was simple: kill Viscount Deylar, a noble whispered to have drowned his estates in debt and desperation while selling out trade secrets to the empire. The bounty came from an anonymous patron—likely a rival noble—but Orven didn't care. Blood money was blood money, and Deylar's sins were so plentiful they hardly needed justification.
He navigated narrow alleys and tight corridors, sticking to shadows cast by ornate stone buildings and towering estates. The scent of roasting meat and spiced wine drifted from taverns, mingling with the stench of rotting refuse. Carriages rattled by, their occupants laughing as if insulated from the suffering outside their gilded windows.
The deeper Orven went, the quieter the streets became. His destination was the noble district, a heavily guarded area at the city's heart. He preferred to travel unnoticed, slipping over rooftops or under gates, but his focus tonight was preparation. Deylar would fall, but not tonight; tonight was for reconnaissance.
That's when he heard it—muted voices, sharp and guttural, followed by the muffled sound of a struggle. Orven froze. The noises came from a dim alley tucked between two lavish buildings. He crept closer, hand instinctively resting on the dagger at his belt.
Two armored guards stood over a young woman, her pale hands bound and her dress torn at the shoulder. She whimpered softly as one of them shoved her against the wall, his breath reeking of ale even from Orven's distance.
"Quit squirming, sweetheart," one of the men slurred. "A little fun won't kill you."
"Please… I haven't done anything," she whispered, voice breaking.
Orven's jaw tightened. He should walk away. Guards were city dogs, well-trained and well-connected; killing them would draw unwanted attention. Every instinct drilled into him screamed to stay in the shadows, to move on. His contract required subtlety.
And yet, something in him rebelled at the thought.
Images flickered in his mind: his mother's lifeless eyes, his sister's laughter silenced, his village reduced to cinders. He'd sworn he wouldn't be a hero. He couldn't save them then. What difference did one woman make now?
He turned away, pressing himself into the wall. His breath came slow and measured, like a predator holding back the urge to strike. But then he heard her sob—a sound so raw it cut through his cold exterior.
His fingers curled around the hilt of his dagger.
No, he thought, I won't stand by.
Orven moved like a shadow, silent and precise. In one fluid motion, he crossed the alley and plunged his blade into the first guard's throat before the man could even draw breath to scream. Blood gurgled from his mouth as Orven spun, grabbing the second man by the back of the head and slamming it into the wall with brutal force. Bone cracked. The man slid down, unconscious or dead.
The woman gasped, stumbling backward, clutching her torn dress. Orven's hood cast his face in shadow, his crimson scarf the only visible part of him.
"Go," he whispered sharply.
She hesitated, trembling. "W-Who are you?"
His dagger gleamed in the lantern light as he turned away. "No one you'll remember. Run."
She obeyed, darting into the street without another word.
Orven crouched, wiping his blade on the guard's tunic, and dragged both bodies deeper into the alley. A quick search revealed coins, keys, and a small insignia marking them as personal guards of Viscount Deylar. That explained their arrogance—they served a noble who believed himself untouchable.
He stared down at the corpses, expression unreadable. In another life, he might have reported this. In another life, he might have demanded justice. Now, justice was a dagger in the dark.
Satisfied that the scene wouldn't be immediately discovered, Orven scaled a nearby wall, his gloved fingers gripping brick and wood with practiced ease. He crouched atop the roof, surveying the noble district below. Towering estates loomed like fortresses, guarded gates flanked by men in polished armor. Deylar's mansion was a sprawling structure of marble and gilded windows, lanterns glowing warmly against the night.
Orven's crimson scarf fluttered slightly in the wind as he crouched low, memorizing patrol routes, entrances, and blind spots. Every detail was cataloged with ruthless efficiency.
Tonight had been messy. He hadn't planned to kill. But the woman's terrified eyes haunted him, and his gut twisted with the bitter truth: no matter how far he ran, some part of him would always rebel against injustice.
As he moved through the rooftops, he muttered to himself, "You're supposed to be a blade, nothing more."
But he knew better. Somewhere deep down, Orven Kale was still the boy who'd lost everything, who had burned his village to the ground and lived to tell the tale. That boy still yearned for vengeance, but vengeance wasn't enough to quiet his conscience.
When he finally reached his hideout—a decrepit safehouse near the river docks—he peeled off his cloak, revealing a lean frame scarred from years of combat. He sat on the creaky bed, cleaning his weapons in silence.
Tomorrow night, Viscount Deylar would die. But tonight, Orven had made a choice, one that reminded him he was still human.
And humanity was a dangerous thing for a killer to possess.