"You know magic?" Rhode stared at Waymen, eyes wide with disbelief.

In theory, one could learn all kinds of magic. In practice? Most people mastered only one category.

Strictly speaking—a narrow subset.

Adaptability and comprehension made it so. Once you internalized a magic’s "logic," others became nearly impossible.

Waymen studied perception-based magic—barely a handful, countable on one hand.

He was an assassin, not a mage.

Besides, not everyone was cut out for magic, just as not everyone could be a scholar. Waymen considered himself lucky.

He’d first learned perception-disrupting spells to ease his missions.

Honestly? Silent magic paired with assassination worked *too* well.

"Who says assassins can’t learn magic?" Waymen wrinkled his nose.

"Enough talk. Look where I’m pointing." He gestured. Rhode followed his gaze.

A kindly old man played with a group of adorable children.

"..." Rhode’s expression shifted—uncertain, he glanced back at Waymen.

"Sharp. You guessed right. He’s my target." Waymen’s voice turned flat, emotionless.

"The old man?"

"Good eye."

"Why him…?"

"Do you know where we are?" Waymen dodged the question.

Rhode hesitated, scanning the surroundings. The architecture felt familiar…

"An orphanage."

"Correct. Run by him—Sir Bankcroft."

"A baron?"

"No land, but Empire-recognized. An honored elite." Waymen spoke calmly. Rhode barely heard.

Sir Bankcroft was Clinton’s celebrated philanthropist—gentle, benevolent in public eyes.

"He *is* a benefactor. He *has* served the Empire."

"But he also has over a dozen murders on his hands."

"Mostly brutal killings of young men," Waymen added after a pause.

"..." Rhode locked onto the old man, throat dry. He couldn’t reconcile kindness with cruelty.

"Classic trope, huh?" Waymen smirked.

"No twists. No drama. People just have two sides. If I’d called him a killer first, then a philanthropist—would that change who he *is*?"

…Actually, yeah. The order *did* matter.

Hypocrites weren’t rare. Maybe they were everywhere.

"So… you’re here to *judge* him?" Rhode blurted.

"*Judge*?" Waymen waved a dismissive hand. "You think I kill because he’s evil?" He ruffled Rhode’s hair, casual.

"Even if he were purely good—if he’s the target, I pull the trigger."

A chill shot down Rhode’s spine. Killing intent, cold and sharp.

"If I wanted justice, I’d expose him. Let judges sentence him."

"But I’m an assassin. Good or evil? Irrelevant. We take lives. We collect payment."

Rhode’s voice tightened. "If he dies… this orphanage collapses."

"*All* of them. Every orphanage he funds." Waymen’s tone stayed eerily calm.

He drew a gun. Barrel aimed squarely at Sir Bankcroft’s head.

Capulas firearms amplified by the user’s magic—distance meant nothing. Waymen never missed.

For a heartbeat, Rhode saw him drenched in blood. Not his own.

Waymen glanced at the boy. Still innocent. "I said it—you *can* stop me."

Finger rested on the trigger.

One press. A silent shot. An unsuspecting man, gone.

Rhode found no reason *not* to stop him—yet his body stayed frozen.

"That’s why I said it. Assassins aren’t heroes." Waymen shook his head.

Sir Bankcroft drifted from the children, walking alone toward a quiet corner.

Perfect timing. No witnesses.

Only Rhode could lower the gun.

His hand settled over Waymen’s.

Waymen braced for resistance—then heard the quiet question:

"…Did you choose him *on purpose*? To show me this?"

"Yes."

"To show you what we do most:"

"We break order. We steal lives."

"An assassin? Just a bastard. No title changes that."