When would an assassination strike?

Only when no one could possibly foresee it.

In the dead of night, a fierce blaze erupted within the mansion—

igniting without warning in the darkness.

Flames lit the sky, yet brought not a shred of warmth.

This fire engulfing the estate sent chills down every spine.

“Hurry!!! Root out every assassin!!!”

“Protect the young master!”

Shouts echoed through the Carasco manor.

Doraf had prepared thoroughly, anticipating an attack.

But he never expected *this* many assassins.

Was this an assassination? A strike? This was slaughter.

Like the earlier projection, they surged like a black tide—

some skilled, some green rookies.

None were elites, yet each could kill Shilo.

Prodigy or not, Shilo was still just a child. Not yet grown.

That night, the entire clan mobilized.

To protect the family. To shield Shilo, the heir.

To preserve the glory ahead.

Flames consumed all; smoke choked the heavens.

---

“Cough… cough…”

Amid roaring flames, a boy—Rhode—leaped from bed, drenched in cold sweat, scanning the room.

His books were ablaze. Fire encircled him.

“Arson?” Rhode muttered, mind racing for escape.

No way to cross the fire unscathed.

“Water… where’s water?” Sweat dripped—heat or panic, he couldn’t tell.

Just as he spotted the kettle on the table, a chill shot down his spine.

That primal premonition of death: sharp, helpless.

Because when it came… it was already too late.

*Shhh—*

A dagger plunged into Rhode’s waist from behind.

“Aaaaaah!” He screamed—then clamped his mouth shut instantly.

“Not bad resilience,” the masked assassin mused, studying Rhode.

Few endure pain silently. Fewer control their screams.

This proved grit. Willpower.

After clearing the guards outside, he’d found a prize.

“No wonder they call you a future star,” he stepped closer.

“At your age, I’d cry over a scraped knee. To swallow a mortal wound? Impressive.”

“Truly impressive~” he sighed sincerely.

“But pity—you have no future.” The wound was fatal.

No healer would reach him through these flames.

The boy was as good as dead.

Then the assassin’s expression twisted.

“Not Hilo Carasco…” He noted Rhode’s azure eyes—

Hilo Carasco’s should be crimson.

Wrong target. Bad luck.

“Shilo…?” Rhode mumbled faintly. Blood loss fogged his mind,

yet the name jolted him awake.

“Mistargeted.” The assassin kicked him aside, cursing. He’d thought himself the lucky one.

This room had heavy guards—he assumed it held Shilo.

“A diversion…?” He slammed the wall.

“No time. Move slow, get nothing,” he grumbled.

He had to find the real Hilo Carasco—now.

Fail, and he’d be captured.

What happened to captured assassins? Only they knew.

“Wait!” Rhode scrambled, clutching the assassin’s leg.

“Get off!” The assassin kicked hard—Rhode crashed into the table corner.

*Bang—*

The table shuddered; objects clattered down.

A simple black dagger landed inches from Rhode’s hand. A hair’s breadth off, and it would’ve pierced his palm.

Instinct took over. Rhode snatched it, crawling forward.

“What’s happening to Shilo?!”

“Let go!” Panic edged the assassin’s voice. Delay meant death—even for him, the fire wall was perilous.

Rhode lunged, teeth gritted.

Too slow. The assassin dodged, slashed back.

“Get lost!!!!” He didn’t care for non-targets—but this brat was stubborn. One more slash wouldn’t hurt.

Rhode locked eyes, grip steady on the dagger.

Confused at first… yet the more he bled, the clearer his mind grew.

The mysterious figure last night. The assassin’s words. Pieces clicked.

He tightened his grip. Jaw set.

“You’re here to kill Shilo?”

“So what?”

“He… is my little brother.”

Smearing the assassin’s face with blood from his own wound, Rhode whispered coldly:

“Come back, you bastard.”