The bright moon hung high above. Rhode stood before a house swallowed by roaring flames, an empty bottle clutched in his hand.

He was alive. The man who saved him was gone.

Because of those words—“You will not die”—he had survived.

Just as the man said: an assassin’s duty was to take lives, not save them.

It was no exaggeration for the man to call himself an unqualified assassin.

The mere ten-year-old boy had been pulled from the inferno by such a strange figure.

That man was right—assassination was no honorable trade.

Assassins were souls shrouded in darkness and bloodshed. The one who tried to kill him had shown him that truth.

No one chose this path willingly—only bloodlust, desperation for coin, or being thrust into it as a child drove people to it.

Yet the man who saved him had shown him something else.

Rhode took a few dazed steps forward and felt something beneath his foot.

He looked down. A book.

Its cover was slightly charred, but otherwise intact.

Most importantly—it was the blank book his mother had given him, meant to be his diary.

He’d written “Rhode” on the cover in his neatest script, surname omitted.

He hadn’t taken it when he fled. It should have burned with the house.

Rhode bent down and lifted the untouched diary.

The man must have tossed it out on his way.

A careless, almost absentminded act.

Yet that tiny gesture shattered him.

Slowly, the boy sank to his knees. Sobs wracked his small frame. Tears streamed, unstoppable.

He hadn’t flinched facing death.

But now, this small kindness broke him.

No one heard his cries—he kept them low, muffled.

Why was he crying? Rhode couldn’t say.

Tears spilled anyway, as if beyond his control.

Was it relief? Something deeper?

Afterward, strangely, his heart felt lighter. Clarity settled. Some knots inside him loosened.

He was just ten. No matter how mature or clever he pretended to be, that truth remained.

Rhode had always smiled. Always seemed optimistic.

But it was a sorrowful optimism—a forced cheerfulness.

Here. Now. He could finally cry freely.

He’d never cared about his own lack of talent. Never envied his twin brother’s brilliance.

But a child cannot keep smiling after realizing, with chilling certainty, that he doesn’t matter—

even if he insists it was just bad luck.

Only he knew the icy void that opened when he believed no one cared if he lived or died.

And only he knew the fragile warmth of being remembered.

Of someone showing up.

Even an assassin.

The crackle of burning timber wove with his quiet sobs—a gentle accompaniment to the night.

---

While Rhode experienced this quiet moment, the assassin attack elsewhere was thwarted.

As expected, without heavy loss.

The family suffered no major casualties. A few servants perished—regrettable, but no one of consequence.

Shilo, especially, remained unharmed.

Remarkably, the mere ten-year-old had stayed calm throughout the terror.

More than that—he’d even countered an assassin who broke through, buying crucial seconds for the guards.

Shilo had shown the world exactly what “the empire’s rising star” meant.

The calamity ended before dawn.

Doraf held Shilo tightly, soothing the boy.

“Check on Rhode—now!” Doraf finally remembered his other son.

The less exceptional child.

Blood was blood. Ignoring Rhode’s fate was impossible.

Though… perhaps this concern came far too late.

“Young Master Rhode is here!” a maidservant nearly shouted.

Her shock? Rhode had walked here alone.

His frail frame held no visible strength.

Step by step. Blood-streaked. Solitary.

For a fleeting second, the maid felt an illusion:

Rhode walking toward them down a lonely path of thorns.

Rhode lifted heavy eyelids, glancing at Shilo in the crowd.

*As expected. Unharmed. Not because of me.*

A crude dagger at his waist, diary held close, he approached Shilo.

Shilo stared at his brother—different somehow—and felt a dizzying haze.

“Rhode…” He wasn’t blind. He saw the wounds.

“It’s fine. The bleeding stopped,” Rhode said lightly. “I won’t die.”

Because someone had told him so.

In that moment, servants, parents, onlookers—all vanished.

Rhode met Shilo’s eyes, then reached out with blood-stained fingers and gently ruffled his hair.

“I’m glad you’re safe.”

Beyond schemes and shadows, he cared only for his twin brother’s safety.

He had no grand ambitions.