Alph worked alongside Varrick through the afternoon, the steady rhythm of hammers on metal echoing through the smithy. They fed mithril ore into the forge's flames, heat pressing against Alph's skin like an unseen hand. He observed, absorbed, then joined in, assisting Varrick as raw ore took shape into polished ingots.

  As dusk settled, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Alph made his excuses. He needed his usual evening walk, he said, to clear his head after the day’s intense heat. Varrick grunted, absorbed in his own work, and waved a dismissive hand.

  Alph, now clad in simple, dark clothing, navigated the labyrinthine streets of Val Karok’s lower districts. He sought out a training hall, a grimy, nondescript building tucked away in a shadowed alley. This hall asked no questions, cared little for identities, and offered space for those who preferred to practice away from prying eyes.

  The sounds of grunts and impacts were lost amidst the district’s usual cacophony. Here, Alph could practice the skill he was trying to learn without drawing unwanted attention. Using a regular training axe, he trained in the elusive Tier 1 Fighter's skill.

  The following day unfolded much like the last. Alph carried out his apprentice tasks with growing confidence, his hands toughening with each task. He assisted Varrick in preparing molds for the drill components, the mithril ingots resting nearby, ready for transformation. Through careful observation and practice, he absorbed the finer points of metalworking—the quiet dialogue of the forge, the exacting attention demanded by delicate craftsmanship.

  As dusk settled, Alph slipped into his rough-spun serf clothes and tugged the hood down. The chill deepened while he descended toward the Stinky Mole Tavern, a grubby, low-slung structure buzzing with the rowdy clamor of the district. Raucous laughter, bellowed arguments, and the clatter of mugs bled into the street, thick with the stench of sour ale and unwashed bodies. He shoved past the heavy door, the din pressing in around him. His gaze swept the murky interior, hunting for a known silhouette.

  The lantern's guttering flame painted jagged shadows across the corner booth. That short grey bob caught the light just enough to stand out against the tavern's grime—Nylessa. Alph wove through the press of bodies, ale-stained elbows bumping his ribs.

  Alph navigated the crowded tavern, the air thick with sweat and cheap ale. As he neared the corner booth, Nylessa’s head, with its distinctive grey bob, snapped up. A smile, quick and sharp, spread across her face. She leaned back, her eyes glinting with amusement.

  Alph pulled out the chair opposite her, the legs scraping on the grimy floorboards. He settled in, the low rumble of conversation and laughter washing over them.

  "So, how was your..." Alph began, his voice low.

  "How are you hold..." Nylessa asked at the same instant, her words overlapping his making them both stop awkwardly.

  Silence stretched between them, broken only by the tavern's din. Alph gestured for her to continue.

  "How are you holding up?" she repeated, her brow furrowed. "Seriously, the Law Enforcement of Golden Street is turning the entire city upside down, all because of one scumbag's death. It's ridiculous!"

  Alph's eyes darted around the tavern. "Keep your voice down," he hissed, leaning forward. "What do you mean, 'turning the city upside down'?"

  Nylessa spread her hands, a gesture of exasperation. "I don't know the specifics, but it's obvious, isn't it? That noble, Pavel, must have had some powerful patron. They're making a huge fuss, questioning everyone."

  Alph nodded, a cold knot forming in his stomach. This aligned with what he overheard Morna tell Varrick. However, he kept this information to himself, not willing to share it with Nylessa and further risking her getting scared and backing out of the deal.

  "What were you going to ask?" Nylessa prompted, her brown eyes with their red tint fixed on him.

  Alph hesitated. He had just intended to inquire how her missions went but instead he decided to test the waters, to gauge her understanding of the consequences of their actions.

  "How did the bounty claim go?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

  Nylessa brightened, a triumphant grin spreading across her face. "Oh, that? Easy. The guild didn't even need the usual proof of kill. The clamor the Law Enforcement made, the way they're tearing the city apart, that was all the proof they needed."

  Alph's gaze narrowed, his jaw tightening beneath the hood's shadow. A brief scowl crossed his face. "Proof of kill? What was that?" Another complication.

  "Oh. Right. I, uh, I forgot to tell you." Nylessa's grin faltered. Her eyes widened slightly, and a blush crept up her dark, bluish-hued skin. "When you proposed to, you know, deal with Pavel, I didn't think you'd actually manage it. So I didn't mention it. Usually, for a confirmed kill, the guild needs… a hand. The target's hand." She winced, a flicker of embarrassment crossing her face. "Sorry. My bad."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Alph stared at her, a silent chill crept up his spine.

  A hand? So assassins would cut off their target's hands?

  This airhead, this half-elf who couldn't even remember a crucial detail like that, was supposed to introduce him to the Assassin's Guild, to teach him the ways of a Tier 1 Rogue?

  Alph's fingers twitched before he caught himself, barely restraining the impulse to drag his palm down his face. The sheer absurdity of her forgetfulness weighed on him, each new realization pulling him further into grim resignation.

  This is who I'm trusting with my introduction to the guild?

  His mind painted an immediate, unsettling image—Nylessa leading him through some shadowy initiation, casually forgetting to mention vital details until blades were already drawn. The way she'd nonchalantly admitted forgetting about needing a severed hand made his gut twist. Was every job with her going to involve these last-minute revelations, each one potentially lethal?

  A cold droplet of sweat traced Alph's spine as he imagined standing before guild representatives, unprepared because his so-called guide had "forgotten" some critical protocol.

  "Don't fret the small things, Raven," Nylessa said, laughing. The sound came out nervous, tinkling, grating. "It's just a hand. A detail. The guild got their confirmation, that's what matters."

  She pushed herself from the booth, a couple of copper coins clattering onto the scarred tabletop. A tavern wench, her face weary, came to wipe down the table. Nylessa nodded toward the exit, her eyes bright with anticipation. "Ready?"

  Alph pushed back his own chair, the scrape echoing the earlier one. "What does this 'trial' hold?" he asked, his voice flat.

  Nylessa was already weaving through the tables. "That's up to the recruiter," she called over her shoulder, not breaking stride. Alph followed, the stale air of the tavern gave way to the cooler, damp night air of the lower districts.

  "As a referrer, I get to observe," Nylessa continued, her voice now a low murmur as they walked, "just to make sure it's fair. But I can't help. Not in any way." Her words carried a hint of pride, a small puffing up of her chest.

  They descended deeper into the labyrinthine alleys, the smells shifting from ale and sweat to refuse and damp earth. The buildings grew shabbier, leaning into each other as if for support. Shadows stretched long and distorted under the flickering lamplight.

  "The trials are usually to kill someone," Nylessa said, her tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "However, you need to be truthful about your profession's tier. The difficulty of the target depends on it."

  Alph's steps faltered, a momentary hitch in his stride. Kill someone. The words hung in the air, heavy and cold. He had killed Pavel, yes, but that was an act of vengeance. This was different. This was a test, a calculated act, a cold-blooded murder for the sake of initiation.

  He pushed past the hesitation, his stride regaining its rhythm. A kill. For initiation. The thought tasted bitter, but he swallowed it down.

  This is the path I chose. Power. Survival. This is a transaction. A necessary step. He had to keep his eyes on the horizon, on the larger purpose that demanded such grim acts.

  Nylessa led him down a particularly narrow alley, the walls slick with grime. A faint, metallic tang hung in the air, mixing with the stench of sewage. At the end of the alley, a heavy, unmarked door, barely visible in the gloom, stood slightly ajar.

  "Here it is," Nylessa murmured, the playful edge gone from her voice, replaced by crisp efficiency. She retrieved a lantern from behind some crates and stepped forward. Alph trailed in her wake.

  Beyond the threshold, the darkness thickened, swallowing the earthen corridor in a suffocating embrace. The lantern's flickering radius revealed only a few feet of the path ahead at a time, the flame casting long, dancing shadows against walls gouged by pickaxes. The air here was stagnant, heavy with the scent of wet soil and a distinct, mineral rot that coated the back of his throat.

  Nylessa moved with the silent confidence of a shadow rogue, her boots making no sound on the packed dirt. Alph followed, his own tread measured to minimize noise. The tunnel wound deeper into the earth, a spiraling descent that pressed against his senses. Cool moisture seeped through his clothes, clinging to his skin like a second layer of sweat.

  Minutes stretched. The oppressive silence was broken only by the rhythmic scuff of his leather soles and the faint hiss of the burning oil. Eventually, the claustrophobic walls receded. Pale, yellow illumination bled into the corridor ahead, growing stronger with every step until the cramped tunnel abruptly exhaled, spilling them into a vast, cavernous hollow.

  Crude stone platforms carved directly from the living earth littered the cavern floor, hulking shapes in the gloom that resembled scattered dominoes. Most sat empty, collecting the drifting subterranean dust, but the dais at the very end of the chamber was occupied. A solitary figure slumped there, draped in a posture of utter decrepitude.

  To a casual observer, the stranger was nothing more than a beggar who had wandered too deep; his beard was a greasy, matted thicket that completely obscured his jaw, and his hair resembled a tangled bird’s nest that hadn't seen a comb in years. His tunic was a wretched tapestry of tears and frantic repairs, patched over with rough twine that looked ready to rot away.

  Then the man looked up.

  As their eyes met, the illusion of a harmless vagrant disintegrated. A jolt traveled down Alph's spine, sharp and icy. His chest tightened. The dormant Slayer instincts roared to life with terrifying clarity, flooding his veins with adrenaline.

  This is no beggar.

  The biological alarm bells ringing in Alph's skull identified a fellow apex predator, a creature that sat at the top of the food chain. The man's gaze dissected; it weighed his mortality with clinical indifference. Alph’s fingers twitched, his muscles locking as his body urged him to prepare for violence. Lethal. The realization settled in his gut like lead.