The dagger sank into the assassin’s abdomen.
But it wasn’t a fatal strike.
This assassin wasn’t like Rhode—able to fall and rise again and again—but he wouldn’t drop from a single blow either.
“You… bastard…” The assassin’s voice slurred, consciousness fading.
Heat and blood loss trapped him.
Only now did he realize Rhode had been fighting him in this very state all along.
Rhode had lost far more blood. How had that kid held on?
He wanted to flee this hellhole—but Rhode held him fast.
Frustration. Burning, helpless frustration.
“You want death? Fine. I’ll give it to you!” The assassin seized Rhode, snatched the dagger, and drove it back toward him.
Yet facing the blade rushing closer, Rhode actually smiled.
He didn’t even know why.
In his blurred vision, not just the dagger—but burning beams collapsing all around.
“You’re finished,” Rhode sneered.
---
Both lay on the scorched floor as flames roared higher.
The room would collapse soon.
The assassin had already passed out; Rhode couldn’t move a muscle.
Oddly, the assassin had blacked out first—leaving Rhode alive, for now.
But only for now. Soon, the fire would claim him.
After fighting so long… not one person came. Rhode hadn’t expected that.
Maybe everyone rushed to save Shilo.
He’d played berserker today. A strange new experience.
But gods, it was hot. Being swallowed by fire felt awful.
He just wanted to read a novel. No grand dreams—just turning pages, losing himself in a story.
He barely used the new dagger. That Black Sword guy he’d just met… he’d never see him again.
Life really was full of regrets.
Even that formidable Black Sword hidden in the dagger… couldn’t save him now.
No one could.
Someone should’ve noticed him. But they were killed.
This boy didn’t deserve this. At the very least… he shouldn’t feel so abandoned.
“Shilo… you’re safe, right?” Rhode murmured weakly.
All he cared about was his kind younger brother.
After all, this grand “assassination” was meant for *him*.
“You’ll be fine,” he whispered to himself, fist clenched tight.
“Just bad luck,” the boy murmured, staring at his flame-lit knuckles.
“To still smile now… truly strong. And pitiful.” A familiar voice spoke beside him.
An unshaven man loomed over Rhode.
Rhode recognized it—the shadow from that night in his room.
“Are you here to kill Shilo too?” Rhode asked, as if he’d force himself up if the answer was yes.
“No. I’m here to kill *those* assassins. Though… I am one too. Kid, haven’t we met?” The man wagged a finger.
“…Right. It’s you.” Rhode’s vision swam, memory flickering.
A hint of weariness crossed the man’s weathered eyes.
He crouched, poured a potion down Rhode’s throat.
A standard healing draft—enough to stabilize him, keep death at bay.
“Never thought you’d take down a small fry alone,” the man muttered, glancing at the fallen assassin.
Weak as he was, no ordinary kid could’ve handled him.
He’d heard Rhode was lazy, untalented.
Yet here he was. *Humans really do unearth strength in despair.*
“Your family’ll be shocked,” the man mused.
Before he finished, Rhode whispered, “So… assassins save people too?”
“Assassins don’t save. We kill. We complete missions. Cold. Detached.” The man tugged his collar up, hiding his face.
Assassination was darkness. No room for love or justice.
Even “righteous” killers had bloodstained hands.
“But you saved me.” Rhode smiled, gripping the man’s pant leg.
“Means my training’s incomplete. I failed,” the man grumbled.
An assassin shouldn’t care for outsiders. Yet he’d broken his code—again.
“No one chooses this path willingly. Except killers. It’s a road with no return,” the man said softly, catching Rhode’s gaze. “Even a guard holds more honor than I do. Understand?”
“Just… happened to save you. By accident.”
“What’s your name?” Rhode asked, clinging to his leg.
“An assassin’s name isn’t shared. You’re not my comrade.” The man shook him off—and hurled Rhode from the burning room.
Healing potions clattered beside him.
Rhode blinked up—but the man was gone.
Only faint words lingered:
“Drink the potions when you can stand.”
“You won’t die.”
