Waymen had brought Rhode to Hagart’s place—and naturally, he was the one to see him home.

After all, letting a ten-year-old trek across most of Clinton alone was simply unreasonable.

During the carriage ride, Rhode swung his feet excitedly, nonstop. Waymen nearly felt sick from the motion.

If it were anything else swinging, he might’ve smiled. But a kid’s feet? No thanks.

Still, watching Rhode’s joyful bounce, Waymen’s heart felt tangled.

“I’m leaving Clinton tomorrow,” Waymen said after a brief pause.

“Huh?” Rhode froze, the word *why* almost slipping out.

“I don’t live here. I’m from the Imperial Capital,” Waymen replied, irritation edging his voice.

“Though… strictly speaking, I don’t really have a home either.” He shrugged.

“Since Master Hagart agreed to guide you, just follow his teachings. Whether you become an assassin or not, what he imparts will serve you well.”

“But whether you learn? That’s up to you.”

The commute from Rhode’s home to Hagart’s was inconvenient—frequent trips would raise suspicion.

But that was Rhode’s problem to solve. Waymen, soon departing, wouldn’t interfere.

“I’ll find you in the Imperial Capital after I become an assassin,” Rhode declared.

“Hah. *After* you become one? Wait till you’re sixteen.”

In most regions of Capulas, sixteen marked the coming-of-age ceremony—adulthood followed immediately. No need to wait for eighteen.

“The Imperial Capital isn’t the playground you imagine. Scheming, power plays… people there are no different from demons.” Waymen’s tone turned heavy.

“And we assassins? Just convenient tools in the hands of those who play the game.”

Rhode stayed silent, head bowed.

“You’ll form your own judgment when you’re older,” Waymen added softly, reins in hand.

Their brief exchange ended as Waymen dropped Rhode near home and turned away.

Too much contact was unwise.

They belonged to separate worlds—and deep down, Waymen sincerely hoped Rhode would never step into his.

---

*Jingle.* The wind chime sounded.

After ensuring Rhode’s safe return, Waymen walked alone back to Hagart’s house.

He sought his teacher again, expression solemn.

Standing before the modest wooden door, it swung open on its own—no hand in sight.

Waymen didn’t flinch. He stepped inside without hesitation.

Hagart had opened the door himself for Rhode simply to avoid startling the child.

A self-opening door? Straight out of a haunted house tale.

Inside, Elder Hagart sat quietly reading. He took a slow sip of tea.

“Rhode’s home?” Hagart asked softly, setting down his cup.

“Dropped him off.” Waymen paused. “Master… I thought you’d flatly refuse his request.”

“And you didn’t refuse him outright either,” Hagart chuckled.

Waymen fell silent.

“You couldn’t bear to shatter his dream, could you?” Hagart murmured. “You haven’t changed a bit. Never could.”

Waymen was an orphan, raised solely by Hagart—who taught him every skill. To him, Hagart was more than teacher: a *master*, in the revered sense of the Eastern Continent.

“You once had dreams too,” Hagart sighed.

“I dreamed of being a peacekeeper—not an assassin like that kid,” Waymen retorted, lips quirking.

“Without revenge… you might have been one,” Hagart said, eyes closing.

Bloodstained hands never wished to pull another into darkness. Yet choices belong to the chooser.

“That’s why I thought you’d refuse.”

“Patience. He’s only ten,” Hagart waved a hand. “A little older, and the impulse fades. No one willingly walks into darkness without reason.” His gaze drifted, haunted by memory.

“But you could’ve denied him hope.”

“This old man won’t crush a child’s dream either,” Hagart grinned mischievously. “Just like you.”

Waymen sighed.

“Besides… this old man wouldn’t mind a grandson.”

“He has a family.”

“I know.”

Hagart wasn’t soft-hearted. But Rhode’s clear eyes, unfiltered honesty, and quiet tenacity stirred something in him—a rare, unpolished sincerity. Every trait intrigued the old man.

Though unfitting for one whose hands bore countless lives, he wished to guide the boy rightly.

“Don’t trick him into actually becoming an assassin…” Waymen muttered.

“This old man will gently steer his dreams toward becoming a helpful adventurer,” Hagart smiled, calm and certain.

Waymen and Hagart were strange souls: dwellers of shadow who never sought to drag others in.

Perhaps, had fate not played them cruel jokes, they too would never have fallen into this endless abyss.

---

*Admiring heroes is a beautiful thing. I too once dreamed of becoming the hero bards sing of in their tales—The Nameless Chronicle.*