A cool breeze swept through the courtyard of Rhode’s home.

“Rhode, what are you up to?” Shilo asked. Spotting Rhode on the swing, he casually leaned against his back.

Curious, Shilo peered over Rhode’s shoulder for a closer look.

A diary—its corners charred.

“I’m writing. Don’t peek,” Rhode said, snapping it shut behind his back.

“I don’t snoop in diaries,” Shilo pouted, hopping off and giving the swing a hard shove. “But why use a burned notebook?”

“Vintage charm. Isn’t it nice?” Rhode declared proudly as he soared upward.

“It’s not vintage—it’s *burned*,” Shilo sighed, too tired to critique Rhode’s taste.

After a few pushes, Shilo wanted a turn. Rhode seemed to sense it. He jumped down, patted the seat, and gestured.

“Whoa—so high!” Shilo laughed, soaring into the air.

For once, he looked like a child, not the little adult he usually was.

“Hey, Rhode… what’ve you been doing outside lately?” Shilo asked suddenly.

“Training to become a bard,” Rhode deadpanned, shoving the swing higher.

“Brother, if you’ve got time, practice swordsmanship with me.”

“Not interested,” Rhode replied, utterly indifferent.

True—Rhode held no attachment to the sword, defying the Carasco family’s sword-centric creed.

Calling him rebellious wasn’t wrong.

“Lord Shilo~!” A chorus of sweet, songbird-like voices chimed as adorable girls rushed from the corner.

“Whoa… they’re here for *you*,” Rhode muttered with a hint of sourness.

(Not that he cared.)

“Crap—I forgot Father’s hosting a gathering today!” Shilo’s face paled. He leaped off the swing.

“Run for it!” Rhode cheered, fist raised. “No idea why you’re fleeing, but… good luck!”

Before he finished, his usually composed little brother vanished.

“Lord Shilo~!” The girls swarmed Rhode. Some were even older than him and Shilo.

“I’m Rhode, not Shilo,” he waved. “See? Shilo has no scar.” He pointed to his own.

Disappointed sighs. Disdainful glances.

Within seconds, chattering, they dashed off—leaving Rhode alone, leaning against the swing.

He tucked the tiny charred diary and pen into his coat, hands on hips with a sigh.

*We look identical… A scar shouldn’t make me ‘unworthy.’*

*And kids this young, already so calculating? Where’s the innocence?*

*Maybe their families drill “competitiveness starts young.” Terrifying.*

Rhode completely forgot—he was just a ten-year-old kid too.

With Shilo gone, he decided to head out.

Destination? Master Hagart—his self-appointed “grandmaster.”

(Since he’d dubbed Waymen his teacher, Waymen’s teacher logically became his grandmaster. Flawless reasoning.)

---

Leaving home was easy—maybe a quick “Where to?”

Noble children rarely roamed alone. Kidnapping risks were real. Servants usually accompanied them.

Rhode had one too.

But after last time’s incident, the household barely monitored him.

Most kids would feel abandoned. Rhode found it freeing.

He’d have the servant drop him at Hagart’s, leave, and return later.

The family knew he visited an old man. Doraf even sent someone to check.

Whatever Hagart said eased their worries. They never questioned his visits.

Clearly, they had no clue about Hagart’s true identity.

If they knew he was an assassin? No way they’d allow it.

“Whoa!!” The servant reined the carriage to a stop before Hagart’s door.

“Young master, I’ll return tomorrow morning,” the servant bowed respectfully.

Even without talent, “noble” status placed Rhode above ordinary folk.

A mediocre noble still lived better than those scraping by at the bottom.

The servant sighed softly and drove off.

Rhode watched, puzzled. *Why sigh?*

Shrugging it off, he knocked.

“Door’s open. Come in,” Hagart’s aged voice called.

Rhode stepped inside.

“Free time lately? Visiting this old man?” Hagart chuckled, setting down his book.

“Master Hagart, do you like reading too?” Rhode sat across from him. (Calling him “grandmaster” felt weird—“Master” was safer.)

“Reading and tea—this old man’s few joys to pass the time,” Hagart nodded, pouring him a cup.

His eyes held gentle warmth. He’d always felt fond of this boy.

“Master… do you have books about assassins?” Rhode asked, hopeful.

“No such books here. Plenty on adventurers, though.” Hagart laughed lightly.

*(Waymen’s warnings echoed in his mind.)*

*Time to begin adventurer training. This old man won’t let the boy stray.*