After getting his hands on that decent-looking scrap metal, Rhode was thrilled as if he’d struck gold.

He even had someone attach a handle to it, making the piece look more like a dagger.

Actually—calling it a dagger wasn’t wrong at all. It even seemed pretty sharp.

“Rhode, what’s that tucked behind your waist?” Shilo asked, his azure eyes fixed on his brother, who was once again standing in punishment.

He’d noticed a leather sheath at Rhode’s hip—clearly meant for a short sword or dagger.

Rhode let out a smug chuckle. Water buckets in both hands, he still struck a proud pose.

He’d been waiting for someone to ask.

“This is my dagger.”

Shilo tilted his head. A sea of question marks flickered across his youthful face. “A dagger?”

“Yep. I sourced the materials and crafted it myself.” The black scrap now wore a matching black wooden handle, elegantly trimmed with silver.

That handle had cost Rhode most of his savings—far more than the scrap itself.

“Cool, right?”

“Not really,” Shilo shot back bluntly.

Rhode’s expression froze. His whole posture slumped.

Hearing it from anyone else would’ve stung less—but from his own twin? That hurt.

“I still prefer swords. As Carasco family members, we should take pride in the sword,” Shilo declared, his cute face dead serious—the picture of a little adult.

Shilo revered their family legacy far more than Rhode did.

Dedicated to swordsmanship, he naturally favored blades—especially longswords.

Weapons like daggers left him cold. No matter how “cool” his brother claimed it was, Shilo stood firm: longswords were superior.

“We *are* Carasco family, brother.”

Rhode let out an almost imperceptible sigh.

“And… weren’t you also planning to find a scarf? Wrap it around your neck and face?”

“How did you *know*!?” Rhode yelped, nearly dropping the buckets. He barely held on—another spill meant doubled punishment.

He *had* fantasized about it: scarf draped low, dagger gripped reverse-style.

So embarrassing. So appealing.

Exactly the kind of thing a kid his age would dream up.

“You really are…” Who knew Rhode better than his twin?

But Rhode felt no shame—only pride. He lifted his chin high.

“Punishment’s over. Go to your room,” Shilo said, pulling a pocket watch from his coat.

He’d timed it perfectly.

“Huh. You’re always so punctual.”

“Leaving or staying? Want more standing time?” Shilo gave him a weird look.

Everyone called Rhode mischievous, immature—but Shilo saw his brilliance.

Rhode knew things Shilo didn’t. Shilo only knew swords.

Today though? With his new toy, Rhode seemed six years old again.

---

That night, Rhode still couldn’t sleep—all because of the dagger.

Just as Shilo predicted: pure new-toy euphoria.

He tossed, turned, then slipped out of bed. Carefully smoothed the rumpled covers so Shilo wouldn’t catch a chill.

They’d shared a bed since infancy. Twins. Comforting. Expected.

Rhode walked to the windowsill and lifted his dagger.

The jet-black blade gleamed under moonlight, hauntingly beautiful.

As he soaked in the glow, a chilling whisper cut through the silence: “You like daggers?”

“Of course,” Rhode laughed brightly, turning calmly.

A blurry figure stood inches away—shrouded in dark mist, features utterly indistinct.

The shadow seemed stunned.

*This kid’s reaction is absurd… So calm? Frozen with fear?*

“Your *normal* reaction should’ve been stumbling back in terror.”

Rhode stayed silent, then obediently stepped back.

“You skipped the ‘surprised’ part,” the figure murmured, voice laced with amusement.

Rhode sighed inwardly and faked wide-eyed shock.

Truth was, he’d flinched at first—but quickly steadied himself.

“Heh…” A faint chuckle. *Bold kid. Interesting.*

“I’m just a passing assassin. You seemed fun—I had to tease you.”

This was the same assassin who’d watched Rhode the night before—a hunter of assassins.

“Like playing with daggers?”

“Yep.”

“Why daggers?” The topic shifted smoothly.

“Long swords aren’t my thing. Short blades… they just feel more exciting,” Rhode answered honestly.

“Hmm. Not bad. You’ve got taste, kid.” The shadow sounded pleased.

“Don’t stay up too late.”

Rhode went speechless. *Lectured about bedtime… by a midnight intruder?*

“Wait—you’re not here to kill anyone here, right?”

“No one. Rest easy.”

“Seriously though… you’re not scared? Hard to believe a kid stays this calm.”

“Terrified,” Rhode deadpanned.

“Sleep well,” the figure said—and sprinkled fine powder toward him.

Drowsiness washed over Rhode. His vision blurred. Eyelids grew heavy… then closed.

Faintly, a whisper reached him:

“May you have luck on that day.”