Inside a rented carriage, Rhode kept stealing glances at Waymen driving up front.

Waymen seemed to be taking him somewhere.

"Uncle… are you gonna sell me?"

"I wish I could," Waymen replied bluntly. He wouldn’t mind offloading this troublesome brat.

But Rhode was a noble’s child—just not from a major house. Few personal guards, easy to go missing unnoticed.

*Perfect target for a sale.*

Still, dragging the kid around carried serious risk for Waymen.

"Then… are you taking me to your place, Uncle?" Rhode muttered, a faint chill creeping down his spine.

"My home isn’t in Clinton," Waymen answered. "I’m bringing you to my teacher’s. He lives here."

Rhode’s face instantly lit up.

"Does this mean I’m becoming an assassin?"

"No," Waymen snapped irritably.

The carriage wheels, rumbling steadily moments before, screeched to a sudden halt. Silence fell.

Waymen leaped down and flung the door open with a sharp *snap*.

"Come on. We’re here."

Rhode had imagined Waymen’s teacher living somewhere shadowy and secluded—dark alleys, hidden camps, the works.

Reality shattered that fantasy instantly.

The house stood right on a bustling street: vegetable market next door, bookstore across the way. Just an ordinary, plainly furnished home.

"What’re you spacing out for?" Waymen called back, noticing Rhode lagging.

"Ah—sorry!" Rhode jolted awake and hurried after him, wide eyes brimming with confusion.

Waymen ignored him and knocked.

*Thud.* The door swung open immediately, as if someone had been waiting.

An elderly man, around sixty or seventy, stood there. Dressed like a country gentleman, yet his posture was unnaturally straight.

"Teacher. I hope you’ve been well," Waymen said, pressing two fingers to his carotid artery and giving a slight bow—a silent assassin’s greeting: *I am still alive.*

The old man scanned them, then smiled warmly. "Come in."

Inside, he brewed tea with practiced ease.

"Child, would you like a snack?" he asked casually.

"No, thank you," Rhode murmured, eyes darting curiously around the room.

"Waymen," the old man chuckled, "I never taught you to kidnap children."

Waymen’s lips twitched. "Teacher, I didn’t kidnap him—he clung to *me*. He wants to be an assassin."

Hagart’s gaze settled on Rhode’s finely dressed frame.

"Hmm…" He sat, sipped his tea. "Child, I am Hagart. Your name?"

"Rhode," the boy answered obediently.

Strange—he couldn’t act cheeky around this man.

"Alright. Explain everything," Hagart said.

Waymen rarely visited, let alone recommended a ten-year-old for the path. Hagart was intrigued.

Clearing his throat, Waymen recounted every detail—the boy’s naive ideals, his cartoonish view of assassins.

Hagart let out a slow, deliberate *"heh… heh… heh…"*

A bead of sweat traced Rhode’s temple. *Am I being mocked?*

(He wasn’t. Neither man meant disrespect.)

"I see. No wonder you’re drawn to this path," Hagart said, ruffling Rhode’s hair.

Rhode flinched, eyes squeezing shut—he hated head pats.

"But, child…" Hagart’s smile softened into solemnity. "Waymen is right. Assassins aren’t what you imagine.

I will not recommend you."

A retired assassin never truly retires. Hagart remained entwined with shadows—but his word alone could open the assassin world. Rhode just didn’t grasp that weight yet.

Rhode froze, glancing between Hagart and Waymen. *Wait… I can’t be one?*

"Heh heh… don’t panic," Hagart chuckled, seeing the boy’s fluster. "At ten, no one would call you qualified.

But if you wish—you may come here anytime. I’ll teach you basics. Master stealth first, *then* talk about becoming an assassin."

Rhode’s eyes widened. "Really?"

Hagart found his blunt honesty refreshing. "Grow older. Consider your path carefully. If you still choose this life… I won’t stop you." He raised one finger.

"No way…" Waymen muttered, nearly biting his hand. He’d only wanted a clear yes or no.

Hagart stroked his white beard, voice calm. "Didn’t you bring Rhode here… for this?"

"Y-yes," Waymen stammered weakly. (It wasn’t true. But he had no choice.)