Elfa... Few might know his name, but his titles could freeze blood—Shadow Slayer, Shadow Executioner, Shadow Judge, Shadow Nightmare.

A legendary assassin, he wielded the fabled martial art "Shadow Dance," vanishing into the night.

He remembered being seven—a plain country boy. One day, a nobleman passed his home, demanding to take him as a playmate for his child. His family thought it divine fortune: a chance to leap from peasantry to trusted retainer, escaping backbreaking fields for a life of comfort and respectability in the city.

But it was a trap. The noble merely sought a child to satisfy his beastly urges.

By cruel luck, Elfa was chosen. Yet that horror led him to the master who forged him into a killer.

"Let go!"

"Stop struggling. Be good... I know what I’m doing. Won’t kill you... Heh..."

"Bastard! Mmph—"

The man was thrice his strength, a noble whose authority had seeped into Elfa’s bones. He stilled, but shame and fury burned within. *Just accept it.*

Blood sprayed his skin. The noble clutched his bleeding face, collapsing. A hooded figure in black robes stood beside the boy, appearing from nowhere. Cold eyes cut to the bone.

"...Who are you?! Mind your own—"

The man drew a gleaming stiletto, tossed it to the dirt. It quivered, embedded.

"Live? Or die?"

Silence.

"Your chance is here. Close your eyes if you choose death—I’ll leave. Choose life, and seize it."

Without glancing back, the stranger walked away.

"Hah!"

The noble lunged for the blade—*seize your chance*—

*Splut!* Blood drenched Elfa again. He stared at the noble’s pale, disbelieving face as it crumpled. He’d grabbed the sword first, driving it into the man’s heart.

"...Your name?"

The black-clad man turned, draping his cloak over Elfa’s bare shoulders.

"...Elfa."

"Elfa. You’ve chosen. I’ll guide you down a path of thorns and glory. Whether you walk it... depends on you."

Memory snapped back to the present: a glittering noble banquet. Every assassination here dredged up his past.

*It doesn’t matter now, Master. I am a blade honed sharp. Thorns may make the path harsh, but my sword will cleave them aside, chasing glory.*

*By the assassin’s sacred name, I strike awe into men. I melt into shadows—a blade in the pre-dawn dark. My trace vanishes... but glory lives in my heart. I ring the death knell for sinners. At dawn, I offer blood to the Nether God. This is my vow.*

Reciting the ancient creed, Elfa silenced sentries along his escape route, vanishing them like mist.

*Clear escape path—eliminate target—smoke bomb for cover—flash and blast bombs for chaos—retreat.*

His mind mapped each step as he closed in on his prey...

---

As Dracula entered the hall, a steward announced his title. All eyes turned.

His golden, slightly wavy hair was swept back flawlessly, save one lock on his forehead, tied into a neat tail. His features carved a face of masculine allure—handsome, rugged, effortlessly commanding. A cold demeanor kept others at bay, yet it suited his singular aura.

His tailored crimson coat, lined with white fur, radiated nobility. A dwarf-crafted pocket watch glinted at his waist.

On his arm hung a silver-haired foreign girl. Her pearl-like skin glowed; she seemed twelve or thirteen, draped in an exquisite gown of unfamiliar design.

Some saw adorable charm in her, others bewitching beauty, still others pure innocence. An uncanny magnetism drew gazes—like a forest sprite’s spell, tempting one to abandon the world for her.

"Count Dracula," greeted a stout elder, his kindly eyes sharp with cunning. "Your presence honors us."

"You must be Governor Yuris," Dracula replied smoothly. He stepped back, bowed deeply, right hand on his chest. His right leg swept back in an exaggerated flourish as his left hand rose, then switched to cradle his right shoulder. Straightening, he gave a crisp nod.

"...An archaic noble salute," someone murmured, explaining its centuries-old origin. Murmurs of approval followed—*truly born of ancient blood*.

"I am Yuris," the governor beamed. "Such grace! I practiced that salute in my youth, but never with your elegance." He offered an elder’s blessing-gesture, guiding Dracula inward. "Ah, the young lady should join the ladies’ circle. Margery, my dear—entertain Count Dracula’s companion."

A radiant noblewoman glided over, smiling at Silver Lock.

"Silver Lock, accompany the lady. Don’t trouble our host," Dracula instructed.

"Yes... Master."

Led away, Silver Lock vanished into a cluster of noblewomen, their whispers punctuated by delicate laughter behind silk fans.

Dracula followed Yuris behind a screen. Burly guards—soldiers or bodyguards—patrolled the area, steering guests clear.

"Count Dracula, allow introductions."

Inside, seated nobles rose, offering nods or shallow bows. Dracula returned each with measured grace.

"Yuris, old friend, let us handle this," said a man rising. "Count Dracula—welcome. I am Viscount Tarken. A client of mine, you might say: your carriage was crafted by my family’s workshop. Satisfied?"

"Exquisitely," Dracula replied, shaking his hand. "Your artisans’ skill reflects wise leadership. An honor to meet you."

"Too kind," Tarken chuckled, pleased.

"I am Viscount Slayne," another said. "Your estate was purchased through my family’s agency. Any dissatisfaction, and I’ll rectify it."

"I adore the estate. My only complaint? Finding nothing to haggle over."

Laughter rippled. "Your wit charms us! Welcome to Purple Rose Harbor."

Other nobles followed. Dracula’s sharp mind and silver tongue won them over swiftly.

*Pipe silently thanked Solomon’s golden necklace for its aid. Everyone’s pleased. Pity my face stays stiff. No choice—I’ll play the aloof noble. Dracula’s title, plus cold arrogance, balanced by charm. Useful for gathering Imperial intelligence later.*

"Count," Yuris said gravely, "your nation’s power doesn’t grant you privilege here. But as governor, I can bestow a local title. As a second-rank marquis, I may only grant first-rank viscountcies. Would that suffice?"

"More than sufficient," Dracula bowed. "Your generosity moves me. I intend to invest here—establishing a venture trade investment company. A local title would ease such endeavors."

*He’d noted no family held such ventures. This logistics firm would benefit the port without threatening others—a subtle return for Yuris’s favor. It’d also justify his long stay, deflecting suspicion while he built an intelligence network.*

"Ah! So your family trades by sea?"

"Hmm, yes... (Not at all—I’m a pirate, but I can’t very well say that out loud.)"

"I see. Then we’ll likely trouble Count Dracula often in the future..."

"No trouble at all. I’m at your service whenever needed."

Just then, a waiter passed by outside carrying a tray laden with a dozen glasses of golden liquor.

"Hey, lad! Over here. Yes, you—bring the drinks!"

Seeing the waiter, Dracula smirked inwardly. *This one’s dangerous—I sensed it the moment I activated Life Perception. Every move he’s made has been under my watch. He chose the perfect timing, the perfect pace, even predicting the exact second the Admiral would turn to spot him... And that tray? Normally carried in the right hand, yet he used his left—just to ensure the Admiral noticed the drinks.*

The waiter approached. The Admiral stepped forward to take glasses from the tray, ready to distribute them, toast to camaraderie, then head out to enjoy the ball. But the tray suddenly tilted—spilling. Before he could scold the boy, icy murder flashed in the waiter’s eyes.

*Danger! An assassin!* Too close to dodge. Death was certain. A blade shot from the leather bracer on the assassin’s wrist—aimed straight for his throat. One second more, and it would pierce his skull.

Then—impossible. The assassin was flying backward, his face twisted in shock. A sharp pain lanced through the Admiral’s shoulder. A crimson herringbone coat blurred past him. His eyes saw everything, but his body refused to move, frozen as a spectator.

*Thud.* The Admiral found himself slumped in a chair. The world slowed. Guests turned with dreamlike slowness: some gasped behind hands, others stared blankly, a few fumbled for swords at their hips—only to grasp empty air. Through it all, Count Dracula glanced back at him, then turned, arm outstretched.

Saved. Reality snapped back. The Admiral’s legs buckled; he crumpled to the floor as attendants rushed to help. Meanwhile, Dracula and the assassin tumbled several meters away, locked in combat.

—

*4 minutes ago:* Alpha eliminated the last patrol soldier blocking his escape route.

*3:30:* Alpha double-checked the escape path—scouring every step for flaws.

*3:00:* Crouched with a tray of wineglasses, Alpha rehearsed the plan—searching for gaps.

*1:00:* Lip-reading confirmed the Admiral’s meeting had ended. Alpha reviewed every detail again.

*0:45:* Alpha emerged, calculating the Admiral’s position and habits, adjusting his stride—still hunting for mistakes.

*0:20:* Perfect setup. The ideal kill window opened. Alpha scanned for errors one last time.

*0:10:* Face-to-face with the target. Final mental checklist.

*0:06:* The strike launched. Escape sequence primed.

*0:01:* Failure.

—

Alpha faced the cold-eyed noble youth, his own mind eerily calm. *Perfect execution... ruined at the final second by this stranger.*

His wrist blade had been inches from the Admiral’s throat—then this youth, who should’ve been behind the target, yanked the heavy man aside in less than a heartbeat. He’d even vaulted over the Admiral, deflecting the blade with just *two fingers*. Then, using that same grip on the blade, he’d *shoved* Alpha backward. *How much strength does he have in those fingers?*

Calculations confirmed it: this noble was terrifyingly powerful. *Retreat.*

Alpha spun and ran without hesitation, hurling a smoke bomb and flashbang.

But before the smoke bomb hit the floor, the youth’s silver coffee spoon pinned it down—useless. The flashbang sailed away, detonating harmlessly in the distance. Only then did soldiers finally swarm in.

"You’re skilled," Alpha called, breathing hard. "First time I’ve seen someone throw coffee spoons like daggers. Precise. My plan’s ruined—but not unfairly. I’ve never heard of you in the Admiral’s circle. Your name?"

"Dracula. A newcomer here today. I apologize for interfering... but my host showed me kindness. Since I entered this hall..." Dracula’s gaze turned icy. "You’ve killed eight men."

"...!!!! How?!"

"Save your questions. You’re cornered. End it yourself now—I’ll grant you that mercy."

"Confident. But I choose differently." Alpha’s lips curled. "Face my strongest strike—the Shadow Assassin Alpha’s ultimate blow. A reward for ruining my work."

*Strongest strike?* Dracula didn’t move. *First assassin I’ve met. Let’s see their power.*

A short sword slid from Alpha’s sleeve. He crouched low.

"...The move that killed those guards? Useless against me."

"Heh. Not that one. You’ll see soon enough." A trace of cold smile touched Alpha’s lips—then—

*Poof.* He triggered the pinned smoke bomb with his bare hand. Thick fog swallowed a three-meter radius.

"Trickster...!" Dracula snarled. The smoke meant nothing to his undead senses—but within it, Alpha unrolled a scroll. *A teleportation scroll!* Dracula realized too late. Light flared. Alpha vanished.

"Tch."

"Master, are you unharmed?" Silver Lock rushed over, having watched silently from the shadows. His master’s fury was palpable.

"...He mocked me. Silver Lock—do you grasp my fury? Notify Del Sira. I want him dead."

"At once." Silver Lock’s eyes flashed crimson. He flicked a glance toward a distant oak tree. A shadow hidden within it nodded, then shot toward Dracula’s newly purchased estate.

Nobles gathered around as attendants helped the Admiral forward. He’d witnessed everything—death to salvation—and knew his luck today was divine.

"Father! Father!"

"Mary... this is Count Dracula. My daughter, Mary Gale Bandemin. Mary—he saved my life."

"...Thank you for saving my father, Count Dracul."

"No need for thanks, Miss Mary. A noble aids those worth saving. And the Admiral’s kindness to me demanded repayment."

*Reputation secured. His gratitude ensures his favor. He’s the most powerful man here... I owe that assassin a debt.*

But—*that* "ultimate strike"? Using a scroll to flee? Humiliation burned. He’d believed the boast, only to be mocked before his subordinate. *If I don’t reclaim this shame, Silver Lock will lose faith.*

Del Sira... *Let the Child of Night show you the terror of the night.*