Rhode cradled a few assassin-themed biographies, reading them with quiet delight.

Honestly, books on such a risky subject were nearly impossible to find.

Rhode had never spotted a single one on any public shelf.

After all, these books openly praised assassins—glorifying them at every turn.

Most people surely didn’t want such material flooding the streets.

But it didn’t matter. Leona could get them. She was a princess, after all.

The biographies painted assassins in such a noble light that readers might unconsciously see them as “heroes.”

At the very least, some youths would feel a flicker of longing.

Yet the man’s words still echoed in Rhode’s ears:

“Don’t you dare look up to someone like me.”

“No one becomes an assassin willingly—except those who enjoy killing. It’s a path with no return.”

“Even a common guard holds more honor than someone like me.”

So… what *were* assassins, truly?

“I still can’t figure it out,” Rhode sighed. “I wish I could meet him again.”

Lying in bed wouldn’t bring encounters. Rhode swung his legs over the edge.

His wounds had healed long ago; his family had simply insisted he stay bedridden.

As for this quasi-house arrest? Rhode had countless ways around it.

He scaled the wall with practiced ease and slipped out of the estate.

He preferred the streets to stuffy rooms. Shilo was probably training with a sword—or meeting some bigshot.

None of it concerned him.

Chatting with Uncle Black Sword sounded far more interesting.

Rhode scanned the bustling avenue, eyes searching.

This time, he wasn’t hoping to find another “Black Key.” Just… an encounter.

Don’t misunderstand—he’d stressed his orientation was perfectly normal.

Vankarel was a thriving nation; even non-capital cities teemed with life.

Rhode lived in Clinton—a major Vankarel city wrapped in forests.

Did you think he lived in the capital?

As a border city, Clinton’s streets swarmed with diverse races:

Orcs, elves, Avians, Demon-kin, and Merfolk walked side by side.

Capulas housed far more than just humans. In the Fourth Epoch, races coexisted peacefully—hence this vibrant mosaic.

Orcs and elves needed little explanation. Avians, Demon-kin, and Merfolk were newer to most.

The key difference? The latter three emerged only in the Fourth Epoch.

How? Few cared to dig.

Most believed they stemmed from ancient mixes: angel, demon, and sea folk bloodlines.

The truth? Only archaeologists might know.

Honestly, all races resembled humans closely—just imagine humans with a few extra bits or missing parts.

But Rhode ignored the colorful crowd. He sought only one person.

Still… would the assassin who saved him even be in Clinton?

Rhode sighed. “Realistically? Probably not.”

He’d overthought it.

Then—

“Ah—!” Rhode’s voice stretched in shock as he pointed at a man slumped by a street stall, munching steamed buns.

That weary face—Rhode would never forget it.

“Huh?” The man turned, confused.

“Huh!???????” Both let out identical, bizarre noises.

“Damn it!!!!!!” The man’s eyes widened. His hand darted toward his coin purse.

“Check!” He slapped payment down and shot to his feet.

Too late. Rhode had already latched onto his leg, dignity abandoned.

“Found you!!!!!!” Rhode cried, heart pounding.

Was his luck *this* insane? He felt like he’d defied fate itself.

“No thanks needed—goodbye!” the man grunted, shaking his leg violently to dislodge Rhode, who clung like stubborn moss. “Keep the potion money! Goodbye!!!”

*If only I hadn’t shown my face back then…*

He never expected Rhode to find him. A fatal miscalculation.

He *was* a failing-grade assassin. Regret burned—he wanted to slap himself raw.

*Serves you right for showing off in the fire. Serves you right for revealing your face.*

*Lingering in Clinton to eat? Pure suicide.*

“Forget thanks,” Rhode blurted, gripping tighter. “Just tell me—what *are* assassins, really?”

“What? I’m not an assassin! I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Who admits that on the street? He denied it fiercely.

“Take me with you! Please!” Rhode pleaded.

“Big bro, take me with you!”

“Get lost!” The man strained, useless.

“Which damn author wrote those books?! I’ll go kill him!”

Finally, he understood how the fire-scene assassin fell to Rhode—

worn down. Not by skill. By sheer, relentless persistence.