Episode 1 - Reckoning
"This is the request. Read it."
A single sheet of paper was thrust toward me.
"A clergyman this time? From the Holy Republic, I see."
"They say he's a heretic who worships an evil god. Given his influence, it seems they want the matter handled quietly through internal channels."
The candle flame flickered, casting long shadows across the walls. Shylock sat with his hands clasped beneath his chin, staring at me steadily. The slight furrow in his brow was the same expression he always wore. A mask, perhaps. He didn't appear to have made any special preparations.
"When are you leaving?"
"Ah, that comes after I verify whether what you're telling me is true, Shylock. You know how I am. I don't accept requests that go against my principles. I don't assassinate people who haven't committed evil."
"Tsk."
And you have plenty of evil on your hands. Yes, Shylock, it seems you truly know nothing. To think the contract from thirteen years ago still holds weight in your mind.
Shylock cursed me with his eyes before shifting his gaze back to the desk.
"Shylock, do you remember that day nine years ago?"
"What are you talking about?"
His eyes remained fixed on the desk. I took one step closer.
"The last mission you assigned to the young assassins training under Matthew."
"That story again? Isn't it time you stopped with the accusations? I told you to discard such weakness."
"No. I wanted to say thank you."
The moment he lifted his head in surprise—
"Urk."
The candle wavered. Before its flickering light could catch up, the sharp tip of my blade had already pierced his throat. The belated twist of the flame cast its glow across the wound that now gushed crimson.
In the blood that painted the entire room red, the dagger wound bloomed with purple necrosis. Soon Shylock's veins bulged across his entire body, turning a sickly black.
The Dead Man's Kiss. A purple venom that evaporated instantly upon contact with air, a lethal poison usable only for assassination. Nothing was better when one strike had to guarantee death.
"All thanks to you."
"H-how..."
"Thanks to you, I no longer tremble when I drive a blade into the throat of someone I know."
Blackened, dead blood trickled down the back of my hand. I slowly withdrew the dagger and whispered.
"Fall into hell."
"Grrrk... You've... miscalculated."
Shylock's body slumped forward. It hit the desk with a dull thud. The candle cast jagged shadows across his ruined face, now sprawled among the scattered, blood-soaked papers.
Thud. I quietly grasped the candle and snuffed it out.
There was no time. The priority was to escape and link up with Jun. No matter how clearly I had killed Shylock, being caught at the scene would be disastrous.
From the bookshelf: sixth from the left on the highest shelf, then the second and fourth books on the bottom shelf, pulled in sequence.
Rumble.
The secret passage behind the bookshelf opened.
The damp, mold-scented tunnel led to an abandoned house nearby. The massive oak barrel in the cellar's wine storage was a disguised door. Beyond it lay shattered barrel fragments, rotting wooden shelves, walls heavy with moisture and spiderwebs, and—
Squeak. Squeak.
Rats scurrying across the floor.
Aside from those vermin... silence ruled everything.
A once-luxurious mansion now thoroughly steeped in darkness. Discovering this secret passage had been pure coincidence. Nothing more than Shylock's careless oversight. He had assumed a single command to stay silent would suffice and stopped paying attention. Never imagining the situation would come to this.
I carefully climbed the old stairs within the storage room's gloom. The hinges opened without a sound. Beyond the loose door lay broken furniture that still remembered past glory. A desk split in two lay pathetically on its side, and the once-opulent chair was missing a leg. Traces of vagrants spending their nights here remained scattered everywhere.
Most guild members probably didn't know about this passage. Even I had learned of it by chance. Anyone not ranked higher than Shylock would have no way of knowing. And as far as I was aware, such a person had no interest in Zachsen.
A quiet disturbance reached me from afar. Beyond the shattered window, shadows writhed near the guild branch in the distance. It seemed news of Shylock's death had spread.
I slipped through the mansion's darkness. Linking this to the ruins would be difficult, but the city was no longer safe. I needed to reach Jun quickly—he would be waiting downstream along the Sands River...
"Didn't I ask you not to?"
A man stepped out from the mansion's shadows. A man with a meticulously groomed mustache. A man who always wore a neat cloth vest over a crisp shirt. A man whose hair had gone white yet somehow didn't look old. He was the bartender at the Starlit Tavern. But he was also the gatekeeper who greeted every visitor to the guild.
"I asked you to ensure I would never have to become your enemy."
"Matthew."
Violently bright moonlight flooded the mansion. The moon in this world shone far too fiercely. Its light split the interior into two halves. Black and white. Shadow and brilliance. Standing at the boundary of both, Matthew spoke.
"Draw your blades, Lee Han."
Left hand forward, right hand back. The left dagger hovered at eye level, threatening the opponent. The right dagger rested at mid-guard, aimed at the heart.
Ramas Numen. The dagger art you taught me.
I faced Matthew in the exact same stance. Left hand forward, right hand back. I would not use poison.
"Matthew, you cannot defeat me."
"Is that what you believe?"
"I already beat you two years ago."
"Yes... Once your head grew and your body filled out, you became difficult to handle. However..."
His eyes sharpened into something piercing. That sharpness condensed into a single line that pressed down on me. My skin prickled. This was Matthew's killing intent—the kind I had never felt before. The intangible pressure he radiated made cold sweat soak my back despite the chill in the air.
"Do not assume it will be the same as our sparring days."
Matthew moved first. His left-hand dagger swept in horizontally with brutal force. I deflected it with my own raised left dagger. The moment I parried, another thrust came.
Clang. Clack. Clang.
Was I parrying, or was he withdrawing? Matthew's left blade coiled around my left hand like a snake. Irregular stabs, slashes, thrusts, cuts. A dagger was never meant for defense. Having lost the initiative, focusing on parrying was only natural.
But the left hand's exchange wasn't what mattered. If you let yourself be distracted by the flashy clash of steel, the right-hand dagger—calmly aimed at your heart, waiting for its moment—would claim your life.
Clang— Contact.
The relatively powerful collision created a brief stalemate. In raw strength, I held the advantage. I drove his blade upward. The instant his side opened, I thrust my right dagger toward it, but Matthew used the recoil to roll away lightly. At the same time, I stepped back to evade his rising thrust from below.
I smashed the teapot rolling across the right-side table and hurled its fragments to keep him at bay. He couldn't block them all; a shallow cut appeared on his cheek.
Drip.
Blood fell from the wound, adding color to the monochrome space.
"Matthew. Shylock is already dead. There's no meaning in us fighting. Instead... let's join hands even now."
"Lee Han. You truly understand nothing."
Matthew wiped his cheek with his sleeve. The once-immaculate fabric was now ruined and soaked crimson. Staring at the blood for a moment, he reset his stance, lowered his body, and charged.
The blade sliced through the air, aiming for my throat. I dropped low and prepared my counter. Parry with the left, stab with the right. And then—
Clink— Spurt.
It happened in an instant. After deflecting his second dagger and driving my right blade into his stomach, I relaxed the force in my hand. Even without full power, the wound should have been fatal. Yet I still... lacked the courage to kill Lilly's grandfather.
While entertaining such sentimental thoughts, a question arose. My dragon blood had always granted superior strength and speed, but his understanding of dagger techniques might still surpass mine. So why would he make an attack that bordered on suicide?
And in that instant, Matthew twisted at the waist and brought down the left blade that had cut through the air, completing a full rotation.
It was easy to recognize. The attack itself was obvious. It had simply been one tempo faster.
Splurt—
The serrated edge gripped in reverse tore across my chest. At the same time, I kicked his now-unstable lower body, gaining distance as he staggered.
The dagger art we both shared—Ramas Numen. The left blade parries and disrupts. The right blade strikes vital points quickly and powerfully. But there is one variation. When the left dagger is held in reverse grip, its parrying ability drops sharply, yet it enables far more irregular and aggressive movements.
An attack-oriented style that completely abandoned Ramas Numen's defensive principles. Matthew had rotated his body, switched to a reverse grip, and slashed downward.
Matthew clutched the long wound running from his navel to his side. The upper portion of his leather pants was already drenched red. My linen shirt hung in diagonal tatters, and a ragged gash across my chest pumped blood in heavy pulses.
"Matthew... you're going all the way?"
I tore the tattered shirt and bound the wound tightly.
"Then were you swinging your blades without the resolve to see it through?"
"Ha! You—!"
"I told you clearly. I cannot abandon Shylock. You were the one who crossed the line first."
My vision swam. The dizziness was likely from blood loss rather than the weight of having to kill my master, Lilly's grandfather... perhaps even a friend.
"This time we'll finish it."
Matthew charged again, dagger reversed in his grip. Blood sprayed and sprayed again. A blade is not a shield. A blade exists to kill. No matter how defensively one fights, the moment one side abandons defense... the blade fulfills its purpose.
Countless small cuts covered my body, beading with blood. The deeper ones poured freely. Yet my flesh had received the blessing of dragon blood. While Matthew staggered, unable to steady himself from excessive bleeding, I remained relatively clear-headed.
Finally, when his wavering blade thrust down without direction or strength—
Thud— I hooked his leg, toppling him, then struck the back of his neck with force. Matthew lost consciousness on the spot.
"Hah... hah. So you really had been holding back during our sparring sessions."
Blood quickly soaked the dusty floor beneath Matthew's fallen form. I hesitated for a moment about leaving him. With this much blood loss, his life was in danger. It wasn't my place to decide, but...
"Sigh. I can't pile on any more sins."
If I abandoned him here, I would never be able to face Lilly again. I would carry him to a safe place nearby and then depart.
I hoisted Matthew onto my shoulder.
"Did you really think you could win if it came down to a battle of endurance?"
A chuckle. From behind me came the voice of the man who should have been unconscious.
"As if."
Thud— A heavy impact struck the back of my neck, and I pitched forward.
"I told you so many times—there is no such thing as certainty. Always verify twice."
Damn it. In the darkening world, I felt hands lifting me in the opposite direction before consciousness slipped away entirely.