Chapter 66: Assassin

I leveled the gun.

"Right now, I’m only looking at you."

"P-Please! Don’t shoot! I’m a noble! My father is a Baron!"

"And I am an Ashborne," I replied. "Do you think anyone will investigate if a corrupt businessman has an... accident in his own office?"

Cedric began to hyperventilate. Tears welled in his eyes.

"What... what do you want?!" he shrieked. "I’ll do anything! I’ll stop the attacks! I’ll fire the thugs!"

"That’s a given," I said. "But that doesn’t pay for the window you broke. Or the food wasted. Or the stress you caused my head chef."

I stood up, walking around the table until I was standing right next to him. I pressed the cold muzzle of the revolver against his temple.

He whimpered.

"I calculate my losses," I whispered into his ear, "at one hundred gold coins."

"One... hundred...?"

"Consider it a settlement fee. For mental anguish."

"That’s... that’s all the liquid cash I have in the vault!"

"Then you better go open that vault," I said, pressing the gun harder until his head tilted. "Or would you prefer I take the payment in lead?"

"I’LL PAY!" he screamed. "I’ll pay! Just don’t shoot!"

I pulled the gun back and smiled—the kind of smile that didn’t reach my eyes.

"Wise choice, Cedric. Very wise."

I sat back down on the sofa and gestured toward the door with the barrel of the gun.

"Well? Go get it. I don’t like waiting."

Cedric scrambled out of the chair, nearly tripping over his own feet, and ran out the door as if the hounds of hell were snapping at his heels.

I watched him go, then calmly uncocked the revolver and placed it on the table.

"One down," I muttered, picking up another grape.

"Let’s hope the others are just as rich."

I walked home with a spring in my step, the heavy pouch of one hundred gold coins jingling pleasantly in my coat pocket.

There is nothing quite like the feeling of "honest" earnings after a hard day of negotiation.

The sun had already dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep twilight hues. I reached my front gate, humming a tune, expecting the usual smell of dinner and the warm light of the diner.

But the moment I opened the door, the tune died in my throat.

The air inside wasn’t warm. It was tense. Sharp.

"What’s going on...?" I muttered, stepping into the living room.

Then I saw it.

In the center of the room, a man dressed in dark, tight-fitting leather was kneeling on the floor. His hands were bound tightly behind his back with thick rope, and a rough cloth was stuffed into his mouth.

He looked battered.

Standing over him were Alicia and Lily. Alicia was tapping her foot impatiently, her arms crossed, while Lily stood with a grim, pale expression.

They turned at the sound of the door.

"Boss," Lily said, her voice tight. "You’re back."

I stared at the scene.

"Yeah, I’m back," I said, closing the door slowly behind me. "But what the fuck is this? And who is that?"

Alicia stepped forward, pointing an accusing finger at the bound man.

"This trash," she hissed, "was waiting in the alley behind the house. He tried to ambush Lily when she went to take out the garbage."

My blood ran cold.

"Ambush?"

"He had a dagger," Lily added, her voice trembling slightly. "If Alicia hadn’t sensed him and tackled him... I..."

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.

I looked at the man.

He wasn’t a thug. He wasn’t a drunkard causing a scene.

He was an assassin.

A hired blade sent to kill my head chef. My employee. My person.

The happy mood from the gold coins evaporated instantly, replaced by a dark, searing rage that started in my gut and flooded my veins.

They didn’t just want to ruin my business. They wanted to kill my people.

I dropped the bag of gold onto the table with a heavy

thud

.

"I see," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "We were waiting for you to decide what to do with him, Boss," Alicia said.

"Decide?"

I walked over to the man. He looked up at me, his eyes wide with fear and defiance.

"I need to know who sent him," I said calmly. "Interrogation is necessary."

I rolled up my sleeves.

"And I believe in direct communication."

I grabbed the man by his collar and yanked him upright.

"WHO SENT YOU?!?!?!"

SMACK!

My fist connected with his jaw. His head snapped back with a sickening crack.

"Ugh!"

I didn’t give him a second to breathe. I hauled him back up.

"WHO SENT YOU?!?!?!"

SMACK!

"S-Stop—!" he tried to mumble through the gag.

I didn’t stop.

"WHO SENT YOU?!?!?!"

SMACK!

Blood sprayed from his nose. His eyes rolled back.

"...."

"WHO SENT YOU?!?!?!"

SMACK!

They say men communicate with their fists, don’t they? I was just having a very enthusiastic conversation.

I pulled my arm back for another swing, aiming to dislocate his jaw this time, when a soft hand grabbed my bicep.

"Um... Boss."

It was Lily.

"Don’t stop me, Lily," I growled, not looking back. "Can’t you see men are talking here?"

"That person has already lost consciousness..."

I paused.

I looked down. The man I was "conversing" with had gone limp. His head lolled to the side, eyes closed, sleeping peacefully amidst the blood and bruising.

"Oh."

I let go of his collar. He flopped onto the floor like a sack of potatoes.

"Falling asleep after just a bit of conversation," I muttered, wiping my knuckles on a handkerchief. "This is why third-rate thugs are hopeless."

I clicked my tongue in annoyance.

"Tsk. Alicia, take him to the spare room. Tie him to a chair. Inform me when he is awake."

"Yes, Master."

I cracked my neck.

"Let’s save the rest of the fun for later."

"...Mmm."

Consciousness returned slowly.

The man opened his eyes. His vision was blurry at first, focusing on a white-painted wooden wall. He blinked, turning his gaze. A bed. A desk. A simple room.

He tried to move.

He couldn’t.

His body felt stiff, his arms wrenched painfully behind him, his ankles bound to the legs of a sturdy wooden chair.

Panic surged through him, clearing the drowsiness instantly.

"...!"

The memories came rushing back. The alley. The silver-haired girl moving faster than humanly possible. The blow to the head.

And then... the demon in the academy uniform who had beaten him unconscious.

He struggled against the ropes, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had to escape. He had to—

"You’re awake~?"

"...!?"

A face dropped into his field of vision from above—upside down.

It was him.

Lucien Ashborne.

The man shrieked, a muffled sound against the new gag, and thrashed in the chair. The wood creaked and shook, but the knots held firm.

"Oh come on," Lucien said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Honey, why are you whining again~?"

He straightened up, walked around the chair, and—

THUD!

He struck the struggling man’s head with his fist, casual and hard, like percussion maintenance on a broken machine.

The man went dizzy, his struggles ceasing instantly.

"Lily! He’s awake! Bring it in." Lucien called out toward the door.

The door creaked open. Lily entered, holding a tray with a pitcher of water. She looked at Lucien with a mix of exasperation and concern.

"...Did you send me out just for that?"

"Yeah," Lucien grinned. "If you were standing next to me when he woke up, he wouldn’t be surprised. The jump scare is crucial for setting the mood."

Lily sighed and placed the tray on the desk.

Lucien walked over to the assassin and yanked the gag out of his mouth.

The man gasped for air, coughing. As soon as he found his voice, he glared at Lucien, trying to salvage whatever professional pride he had left.

"Torture is useless!" he shouted, his voice hoarse. "I won’t say anything! I am a professional! You can break my fingers, you can burn me, but I will never betray my client!"

Lucien blinked. He looked at Lily.

"What’s he talking about?"

"He seems... spirited," Lily noted.

"He’s talking just fine while pretending to be tight-lipped—what a funny guy."

Lucien leaned in close, his face inches from the assassin’s. He wasn’t smiling anymore. His eyes were cold, devoid of the earlier playfulness.

"Don’t worry," Lucien whispered. "I’m not planning to torture you."

The assassin paused, confused. "Y-You aren’t?"

"No. Torture is messy. It’s loud. And frankly, it’s outdated."

What’s torture anyway?

Isn’t it inflicting physical pain to extract a confession?

I’m not going to do terrifying things like stabbing his legs with knives or dunking his head in water. I just want to mess with him.

"Hehehe."

Lucien reached into his waist and pulled out a small, drawstring leather pouch.

The assassin eyed it warily. "...What is that?"

********

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