Central Region, Dratol…

  Clear skies stretched across an endless, almost heavenly canvas, streaked with threads of gray, white, and red that reached as far as the eye could see. The final remnants of night were torn apart by the rising sun. For many, it signaled the start of another monotonous routine—predictable and uneventful. For others, it marked the arrival of a long-awaited day.

  The streets of Dratol overflowed with life. Citizens crowded the sidewalks while carriages of varying size and splendor rolled along the busy roads. Hawkers shouted themselves hoarse, their voices clashing with the quieter anticipation of shop owners waiting for their first customers.

  Amid the city’s restless vigor sat a man inside a deluxe carriage.

  Enthusiasm radiated from him, as though the energy of the streets had seeped into his bones. He leaned toward the window, watching strangers pass by and admiring the lavish storefronts as the city went about its morning rhythm.

  “This is refreshing,” Elliot said with a satisfied sigh. “It’s been a while since I came to this part of Dratol.”

  “Is it really necessary for that thing to accompany us?”

  Elliot turned away from the bustling streets to look at the other occupant of the carriage.

  Adam sat opposite him, dressed in Varidan Academy’s distinctive uniform. His legs were crossed, arms folded loosely across his chest. Silver hair swayed gently with the carriage’s motion, and his limpid blue eyes were fixed on a faceless, pale-brown mannequin seated beside him—dressed similarly, posed identically.

  “Just imagine it isn’t there,” Elliot said, giggling under his breath. He adjusted himself in the fine leather seat and cast another glance at the mannequin. “Bear with it until we reach Varidan’s territory.”

  Moments later, the chef turned serious, frowning slightly. “Are you prepared for what’s to come?” he asked. “I know we’re nowhere near acquaintances—let alone friends—but I’ll give you one piece of friendly advice.”

  Elliot leaned closer, briefly glancing at the mannequin before lowering his voice so only Adam could hear. “Don’t trust anyone. And keep increasing your rank if you want to survive this path.”

  Just as quickly, he leaned back, his smile returning as he slouched comfortably in his seat, eyes drifting once more to the passing scenery.

  Adam studied the carefree chef, his expression unchanged. He spared the faceless substitute a brief glance, then closed his eyes.

  Why did he whisper that?

  Is someone else controlling the substitute?

  The thought lingered for only a moment.

  It doesn’t matter.

  “Gentlemen, we are approaching Varidan’s territory,” the coachman announced.

  Adam’s eyes snapped open.

  Elliot turned toward him again, a playful smile tugging at his lips. He reached into his pocket and retrieved an amulet. “You can have this back,” he said, tossing it across the carriage. “You’ll need it if you don’t want Varidan sticking its nose into your business.”

  Adam caught it on reflex. He studied the smooth surface briefly before slipping it into his breast pocket.

  “Do you plan on escorting me all the way to Varidan Academy?” he asked.

  Elliot laughed, shaking his head. “Surely you jest. I have no intention of dying so young. Who would take care of my business if I did?”

  He pressed a red switch overhead. A sharp chime rang out as the carriage slowed to a halt. Elliot’s smile thinned. “This is as far as I go. You’ll have to find your own way from here.” He gestured casually. “Come by my place if you’re ever hungry.”

  Adam grunted in response, pushing open the carriage door. He closed it behind him and vanished into the sea of people crowding the street.

  Elliot chuckled softly. “It’s nice to be young.”

  He pressed the switch again. “Take me back to where we started. Slowly—I want to enjoy the ride.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Elliot remained slouched in his seat as the carriage rolled forward once more. I’ll miss having someone to sample my cooking.

  His gaze drifted to the substitute. What should I do with this thing? Will the boss be upset if I keep it?

  He shook his head. Even if he doesn’t say anything, Miss Adelaide definitely will. Adam’s lucky.

  Elliot closed his eyes, whistling softly as the carriage disappeared into the distance.

  In a drab alley near the spot where Adam had disembarked, a man dressed in plain black clothing watched the departing carriage with a scowl. He pulled an azure crystal from his inner pocket, muttering under his breath.

  The crystal flared to life, emitting a low, unsettling static.

  “Sylvain,” a young man’s voice echoed from the crystal. “Why are you contacting me so early?”

  “The target is returning to the academy,” Sylvain replied, his voice hoarse and deep.

  A soft, amused laugh crackled through the transmission. “Already? Interesting. Where did he go?”

  “He went to a warehouse in the southern region,” Sylvain said. “It belongs to someone named Elliot—”

  “Elliot?” the voice interrupted. “Who’s that?”

  “The owner of a small business chain that’s gained popularity over the last few months. Elliot’s Fish and Chips,” Sylvain answered. “We believe he’s hired to promote the business to Varidan students. This isn’t the first time we’ve observed them meeting.”

  “…Anything else?”

  “There was another individual with them when they departed. We’re investigating his identity. I’ll have a report within a few days.”

  “Good work. Contact the others and see if we can use that business owner to lure him out of the academy,” the voice said. It paused for a brief moment. “And have you found any news on that bastard yet? I refuse to believe your guild is incapable of locating one measly assassin.”

  “S-sir, we’ll find him soon,” Sylvain stammered. “I swear to you, as the vice guild leader of—”

  “I’ve heard this before,” the voice interrupted with a snort. “Contact me when you have something worthwhile.”

  The crystal dimmed, then crumbled into fine azure dust that scattered across Sylvain’s palm.

  A deep scowl twisted his scarred face as he stared at the remains.

  That brat’s grown even more insufferable since awakening.

  Snarling, Sylvain kicked an empty trash can, crushing it into twisted metal with a single blow.

  “All those idiots had to do was kill the target,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Why the hell did they have to make everything so damn complicated?”

  He inhaled sharply—then noticed several people staring at him.

  “What the fuck are you looking at?” he growled.

  The onlookers immediately scattered.

  Sylvain adjusted his coat. Klien… you’d better be rotting in some ditch somewhere.

  He spat onto a pile of garbage. And Gallien—damn fool just had to die in Valar. His jaw tightened. I need a drink.

  He strode out of the alley.

  On his fifth step, he collided with someone as he rounded the corner.

  “Are you fucking blind?” Sylvain snapped, spinning around, rage flaring across his face.

  His fury faltered.

  An old man stood before him, trembling slightly as he leaned on a rusted walking cane. Wrinkled skin sagged over sunken, lifeless eyes. Sparse strands of gray hair swayed with the faint tremors running through his frail body.

  Tch. An old-timer. Lucky bastard—I’m not in the mood.

  “Beat it,” Sylvain spat. “Today’s your lucky day.”

  “Where do you think you’re going after bumping into me?” the old man barked. “Come back here, you brute. Aren’t you going to apologize?”

  Despite his age, the man’s voice rang out across the street. Several passersby slowed, curiosity overtaking caution.

  Sylvain’s eye twitched.

  Is he senile? Does he think I won’t hit him just because he’s old?

  Sylvain, however, hesitated.

  This’ll get troublesome. Coalition Agents sniffing around is the last thing I need.

  He stepped closer and leaned down, whispering into the old man’s ear. “Walk away. Don’t push your fucking luck. I’m not someone you want to mess with.”

  He patted the man’s shoulder, smiling thinly—nothing friendly in it.

  He turned to leave.

  Then Sylvain felt a tug at his jacket.

  He looked down. The old man’s frail hand gripped the hem of his coat, refusing to let go.

  Sylvain’s eyes ignited with fury. Crimson light bled into his fists as heat distorted the air around them.

  You decrepit piece of shit… Fine. I’ll make you understand.

  “You’re planning to attack me?” the old man asked calmly.

  Before Sylvain could react, the cane moved.

  It swung lazily—almost carelessly. A violent gale erupted.

  What the—

  Sylvain’s eyes widened. He saw the cane approaching his face, yet his body refused to respond. An instant later, a sharp crack echoed through the street.

  The cane struck him squarely.

  Sylvain was launched backward, smashing face-first into a nearby wall. Concrete exploded inward as his body embedded itself deep into the structure.

  Gasps rippled through the onlookers. No one dared move.

  “Threatening someone… despite being so weak,” the old man muttered, shaking his head. “Kids these days.”

  He tapped the ground twice with his cane.

  The shattered wall expelled Sylvain’s body as if rejecting it. Cracks sealed. Stone smoothed. At the same time, Sylvain’s broken face reconstructed itself—blood reversing course, flesh knitting together in grotesque precision.

  He stood where he had been moments before.

  Breathing.

  Uninjured.

  Frozen.

  “I apologize,” the old man said mildly, stepping closer. “I went a bit overboard. I didn’t realize you were that weak.” He tapped Sylvain lightly with the cane. “Since I healed you, there’s no need for compensation, yes?”

  Sylvain couldn’t respond. His eyes locked onto the man’s.

  “I’ll take your silence as agreement,” the old man said, smiling pleasantly.

  He turned and walked toward a nearby oak grove, disappearing between the trees.

  The moment he vanished, Sylvain’s legs gave out.

  He collapsed to his knees with a hollow thud, staring at the spot where the old man had gone.

  “What’s that smell?” a young woman asked, pinching her nose.

  A foul stench drifted through the street.

  “H-he… he soiled himself,” a middle-aged woman whispered, pointing.

  Dark stains spread across Sylvain’s trousers.

  No one laughed.

  They only stared—silent, unmoving—sharing in the raw, suffocating terror written across his face.