""Ha~ ha~...""
My labored breaths rasped in the still forest air, each one a jagged scrape that seemed to tear at my raw, overworked lungs. Sweat dripped steadily from my forehead, mingling with the blood of monsters already staining my cloak.
My hands trembled as I leaned heavily against the rough bark of an ancient oak tree, its gnarled roots seeming to pulse faintly with life beneath my boots. My vision blurred, the edges darkening as exhaustion clawed at me relentlessly.
""Ugh! ARGHH! Guh!""
I groaned, every single cell in my body screamed with pain. It wasn't just a dull ache or sharp pang—it was as though an unseen force had wormed its way inside me, tearing me apart from within with wild abandon. Each beat of my secondary heart, the only one still functioning, sent a ripple of agony through my chest and limbs. The secondary heart beat at around 70 bpm in an attempt to make up for the failure of the primary heart.
((F*ck! Using [Form Release] right after [Temporal Recoil] just wore off...what was I thinking?))
The thought was bitter, self-recriminating, but undeniable. I was regretting my decision to use [form release] just after getting off [temporal recoil]—though it did save my life.
((Calm yourself...let's assess the damage first...))
But since this was a critical situation there was no time to mope over what was already done.
((Primary heart: cardiac arrest, left lung: collapsed and filling with blood, multiple fractured ribs, liver: lacerated, likely leaking enzymes into my bloodstream))
I cataloged the damage clinically, as though it belonged to someone else, even as the agony radiated through me. My enhanced physiology, the result of countless experiments and alchemical augmentations, was the only reason I was still alive. Any normal person would have succumbed to shock or organ failure long before now.
""Gah!""
A violent spasm seized my body, forcing me to double over. My chest convulsed as I vomited thick, black blood onto the mossy forest floor. It hit the ground with a wet *splat!*, bubbling and writhing unnaturally—thick and viscous, more like tar than anything human.
The acrid taste clung to my tongue, and the sight of it twisted something in my gut, not from fear, but from the grim reality of my condition.
It had been so very long since I'd felt this level of damage—so long that the sensation itself felt almost foreign, a bitter reminder of my limits.
I had grown too comfortable, too accustomed to the illusion of being an unstoppable force. The complacency of invincibility had seeped into my bones, dulling the edges of caution. But in moments like this, with black blood staining my lips and pure agony clawing through my body, reality struck with cruel precision. I was still only 9 years old—a fact I hated acknowledging, but one that loomed over me like a shadow.
My mutation cycle was far from complete. For all the incredible abilities I possessed, for all the feats that defied the capabilities of normal people, I remained painfully, undeniably mortal. This body—this fragile, unfinished vessel—was still tethered to the vulnerabilities of mankind, still susceptible to the sharp edge of mortality.
This pathetic, incomplete frame was FAR from my full potential. And that...
...That was vexing.
""Potions…meds…""
The words scraped out of my throat, raw and jagged. My vocal cords burned, and each syllable was a struggle, but I needed the reminder. My hand trembled as I raised it, summoning the spell that had become second nature.
(([Item Box]...))
A faint shimmer in the air marked its activation, and from the empty space emerged a worn suitcase. It fell heavily to the ground, a dull *thud* echoing in the stillness. This wasn't just any case; it was my lifeline, stocked with a carefully curated mix of alchemical and medical remedies designed to handle the unique chaos that came with my abilities.
I dropped to one knee, my hand trembling as I unclasped the case. Inside, the contents gleamed faintly—vials of liquid, syringes, and jars, all meticulously labeled in an efficient script.
((My [Regeneration] will handle the internal bleeding and fix the damaged organs eventually... but it's painfully slow unlike the ogre's version. I'll need to force my left lung open and kick-start the failing organs...))
[Regeneration] was one of my most valuable assets, it has kept me alive through A LOT, but it came with agonizing inefficiency. The process of knitting tissue, rebuilding cells, and mending bones was excruciating and drawn-out. It would keep me alive, but I'd feel EVERY second of it.
""MMM!""
Knowing exactly how much this was going to hurt, I pulled a thick strip of cloth from my case, tied it tightly around my mouth, in order to not bite my tongue. Leaning against the tree, I steadied my trembling hands and reached for the first syringe I'd need. The R-booster, its green liquid swirling with faint luminescence. Doubling my healing speed, it would keep me alive but not without unimaginable pain. I pressed it into my thigh and depressed the plunger.
*Shunk!*
"MMMMMHHH!!!"
My body surged as torn muscle fibers knitted together at breakneck speed, every nerve screaming in protest. The boiling heat of accelerated regeneration radiated outward, the process as agonizing as the injuries themselves. My heartbeat hammered in my ears, each thud a relentless reminder of the cost of survival.
Barely holding on, I grabbed the second syringe: the Adrenal Stimulant, Type B glinted faintly in the dim light, its crimson glow promising both salvation and agony. Designed to jolt failing organs back into action, it was as merciless as it was effective. With no choice, I plunged the needle into my arm.
*Stab!*
"MMMMMMPPPPPHHHH!!!"
The muffled scream ripped through me as fire tore through my veins, spreading like molten metal to my chest. My collapsed lung spasmed violently, dragging jagged breaths past the suffocating pressure. Blood bubbled up into my mouth, seeping around the cloth, as the lung struggled to inflate. Each convulsion was a dagger twisting deeper, but air finally pushed through. Relief came sharp and cruel.
Finally, I reached for the last syringe: the Pulmonary Aid, Type A, a viscous golden serum meant to reopen collapsed airways and clear internal blockages. Without hesitation, I jabbed it directly into my chest just below the ribs.
*Crunch!*
"MMMMMMMFFFHHH!!!"
The fire reignited, searing through my lungs. They convulsed violently as the serum forced the airways open.
""GAAAH! KAK! UEEEEEH!""
When I finally removed the cloth. Desperate coughs escaped from my mouth, expelling blood and clots with each painful cough. Dark, thick pools stained the ground beneath me as I gasped for air, each breath razor-sharp and laced with pain.
""Ugh...""
Slumping back against the tree, I shuddered as my [Regeneration] boosted by the R-booster rapidly did it's work. Each cell screamed as it tore itself apart and reassembled with efficiency.
Sweat drenched me, soaking through my clothes, as my vision swam with black spots. Every nerve in my body felt like it was on fire, yet I clung to consciousness, unwilling to let go.
I would survive. I always did. But survival was never free...
""Ha~ ha~""
*Thump! Thump! Thump!*
*Thump! Thump!*
*Thump...*
Each strained breath forced its way through my still-burning lungs, raspy and uneven, the sound harsh against the oppressive silence. My heart, once hammering erratically like a war drum, began to slow. Gradually, it settled back into its unnerving, unnatural rhythm: one deliberate beat per minute.
A cold reminder that death wasn't an option for me...not until the mission is done.
""Haaaa~""
I exhaled one final breath of relief, feeling the tension in my body slowly ease as, after what felt like an eternity—20 minutes or so—my body finally stabilized.
"Ugh...damn, this sucks. How did I end up damaging myself more than the monster horde did?"
The words came out in a half-grumble, tinged with mild amusement and overshadowed by a deep annoyance at the absurd irony of the situation.
""Well...could've been worse, I guess""
I muttered, forcing myself to let it go. It was pointless to dwell on what had already happened.
(([Temporal recoil] alone could have ruptured every organ and fractured every bone in a normal person's body unless they set up magical countermeasures beforehand. I should be thanking my augmentations that ten seconds of paralysis per minute of stagnated time was the worst price I had to pay))
I thought to myself, remembering what happened during a demonstration in magic training where someone used chronomancy without doing the necessary set up.
(([Form release], though...that could've been REALLY bad...))
I grimaced, recalling [Form release]'s side effect, [Warp Form] that had compounded the damage. That ability had torn at my body from the inside out. It was a miracle—or rather, a testament to my unnatural resilience—that I'd resisted the worst of the magic's toll.
Considering how bad things really could've gotten, I felt a flicker of reluctant gratitude. If this pain and exhaustion were the only consequences, I should count myself lucky.
""Ok... enough procrastinating. Time to go""
I muttered, forcing myself to my feet. The dull ache in my body protested every movement, but the mission couldn't wait.
((It's a rare day when I'm this lucky, if I hadn't found this spot things could've gotten dicey...))
I thought with a bitter edge, glancing around at the secluded spot I'd chosen to recuperate. It was far enough from both the monster horde and any prying eyes—a rare stroke of good fortune, considering the mess I'd just crawled out of.
""The road ahead should still have some stragglers from the horde""
I murmured, my voice low as I considered my next move.
""But it shouldn't be as bad now that I helped defend the wall, I can just dodge or sneak around them...""
The memory of the fight flickered through my mind—a grim, bloody reminder of why I'd jumped into the fray in the first place. Garellia wasn't just a fortress city; it was a critical hub for trade routes. Many of the fastest paths—including my planned route to the Red Ember Anchorage—ran through or around its defenses.
((If that wall had fallen, those routes would've been compromised, slowing me down significantly))
It was a necessity that I protected Garellia even if it got some eyes on me which I didn't want. The horde spilling through Garellia would have turned the surrounding roads into a warzone, forcing me to take longer, riskier detours.
I sighed, brushing the dirt from my cloak stained with dried blood as I steadied myself for the journey ahead.
((A little sacrifice now saves a lot of trouble later))
The logic was detached but sound. I didn't need to be thanked, nor did I want to be. My part in the battle had been purely transactional—a means to an end.
"Let's clean this place up first, "no traces" after all..."
I said aloud, more to myself than anyone else.
Before leaving, I crouched down to clean up the mess I'd made. I wiped down the syringes, repacked the vials, and ensured everything fit neatly back into the suitcase. Any bloodstains or scraps were cleared away, leaving no evidence behind.
*Click*
The suitcase snapped shut. Activating [Item Box], I watched as it dissolved into shimmering particles, vanishing into its storage.
I turned my gaze to the other item lying on the forest floor, its faint gleam catching the light.
(("Mumei"...the blade's been chipped from the battle))
I stared at it for a moment, unfeeling. Like me, the weapon was replaceable. That was the point of its name—"Mumei" the nameless, unremembered, insignificant blade. A disposable tool, nothing more. I even had a spare in my [Item Box], ready to take its place.
Still, I knelt, picked it up, and threw it back into the sub-spatial confines of [Item Box]. Damaged or not, it deserved to be returned.
A quick scan of the area confirmed it was clean—no traces of my presence remained.
Pulling my hood back over my head and my mask back on to my face, I straightened and turned toward the road.
""Alright, let's get moving...""
I muttered, crouching slightly as I readied myself. With a sudden burst of energy, I launched forward, the world blurring around me as my inhuman speed carried me down the trail.
Each step struck the ground with controlled force yet completely lacked any sound as they propelled me forward like a projectile. The dense forest blurred into streaks of green as I zigzagged between trees, the wind whipping against my cloak.
The trail twisted ahead, cutting through thick undergrowth and the occasional clearing. At one point, I spotted a pack of goblins lurking near the path, their jagged weapons gleaming faintly in the dappled light.
((Leftovers from the horde I'm guessing...))
*Rustle!*
They turned at the sound of my approach, their guttural cries echoing briefly before I darted to the side, cutting through the forest to avoid them entirely. The goblins didn't even get a chance to catch a sight at what the rustling was.
A rickety wooden bridge loomed ahead, spanning a tranquil lake that reflected the sunlight like molten silver. I crossed it in a flash, the wooden planks groaning faintly beneath my speed but holding firm.
((No time for sightseeing...))
On the far side of the bridge, movement caught my eye.
"Grrrrr!!!"
A pair of wolfens emerged from the underbrush, their glowing yellow eyes locking onto me. One snarled, crouching low to pounce, but I shifted my trajectory at the last second, slipping past them like a shadow.
*Whoosh!*
A claw swiped through empty air where I'd been a heartbeat ago, the wolfen snarling in frustration as I vanished deeper into the trail.
The terrain became steeper, the path winding up a gentle incline. As I climbed, I caught sight of something massive moving through the trees—a girradon.
*Crash!*
"Grrrrrr!!!"
The giant four-armed ape, its white fur streaked with dirt and scars, towered over the forest floor. Its four powerful arms swung branches aside as it trudged forward, its five tails flicking restlessly. The creature let out a low, rumbling growl, its sharp eyes scanning the area.
*Hup!*
"*sniff* *sniff*..."
I leapt up into the trees, landing silently on a thick branch to avoid its path. The girradon paused briefly, sniffing the air before lumbering onward, oblivious to my presence. I waited a moment longer, ensuring it was out of range, before dropping back to the ground and resuming my pace.
Finally, the forest began to thin, and the rugged trail gave way to smoother, more deliberate stonework. I emerged onto a wide, well-maintained road—one of the main highways that connected the fortress cities and ports of the region.
((Good. No sign of the horde here...))
The cobblestones stretched ahead in a clear, unobstructed path, flanked by sparse trees and patches of grass. Wagons and mounted travelers would typically populate this road, but today it was deserted—likely due to the earlier chaos in Garellia.
I paused briefly to get my bearings, scanning the sun's position in the sky.
((If I hurry I can make it by sundown...))
With that thought, I surged forward once more, the rhythmic sound of my steps echoing along the empty road.
The trip to Red Ember anchorage was two days by horse which meant it would take one day for me if I sprinted at full speed without rest—which I intended to do.
The dusty cobblestone trail stretched out before me, deserted and eerily quiet. News of the Leyline rupture had likely reached nearby towns, villages and cities, causing traders and carriages to divert their routes elsewhere. That absence suited me perfectly. It gave me the freedom to dash along the road at breakneck speeds unimpeded—a blur to normal eyes, a sight better left unseen.
By the time twilight painted the horizon in hues of amber and violet, the silhouette of Red Ember anchorage came into view. I slowed my pace, ducking into the cover of the shrubs lining the roadside. From my vantage point, the anchorage unfolded like a shadowy tableau of secrecy.
The docks jutted into the sea like skeletal fingers, their wooden planks weathered by salt air and time. Many were warped, sagging under the weight of disuse, though the occasional fresh board hinted at selective upkeep. The buildings clustered near the shore were a mismatched collection of structures—ramshackle warehouses with peeling paint, sagging roofs patched with tarps, and lanterns casting dim, flickering light over their entrances. Crates and barrels were stacked haphazardly in the alleyways, their contents shielded from curious eyes.
A faint salty breeze rolled in from the ocean, carrying with it the tang of brine and the faint, acrid scent of tar. The harbor itself seemed unnervingly quiet at first glance, the waters reflecting the muted twilight as though nothing stirred beneath its surface. But subtle signs betrayed its true nature—a faint ripple here, a shadow moving against the tide there. The anchorage wasn't abandoned, not entirely. It was the kind of place that played dead until the right "ships" arrived, where shady deals and clandestine operations thrived under the guise of desolation.
((A perfect hideaway for smugglers...it can't get more shady than this))
I remained still, scanning the scene for any signs of activity. The quiet was deceptive, a silence that promised danger rather than safety. The Anchorage, in all its run-down and forsaken glory, was exactly what I expected.
Instead of diving headfirst into the anchorage, I decided to camp out and wait. My enhanced vision scoured the surrounding area until I found an ideal vantage point—a secluded cliff face by the beach, nestled at the edge of the forest. The location was high enough to provide an unobstructed view of the anchorage, its shadowy structures laid out like pieces on a chessboard.
((The book said Orland would be here in five days, which means I have four days to prepare...))
I perched myself on the rocky outcrop, my inhuman eyes scanning the supposedly "desolate" anchorage below. There was no need for binoculars; my vision could pick out details as fine as a bowstring from 20 miles away. From here, I could see movements that others would have missed.
""Three males, one female...there are probably more nestling in the darkness""
I murmured, calculating the odds as my gaze traced the dimly lit paths and the faint outlines of figures moving between buildings.
To enhance my reconnaissance, I summoned my suitcase with a cast of [Item Box], its worn leather surface appearing as if drawn from thin air. Flipping the latches open with practiced precision, I rifled through its contents and pulled out a vial of shimmering yellow-amber liquid.
*Pop!*
The cork came free with a soft sound, and I downed the potion in one swift motion. The bitterness lingered briefly before the effects of the [Cat's Eye] potion kicked in. The darkened landscape around me brightened instantly, every shadow illuminated as though it were daylight.
I returned the empty vial to the suitcase, closing it quietly before focusing on the scene below once more.
""Five males, one female...""
I whispered, spotting two additional figures concealed in one of the buildings. Their movements were subtle but unmistakable.
((Not enough people for a big exchange to be taking place. They'll likely bolster their numbers closer to the day of the deal..))
I leaned back against the cliff, formulating my next steps.
""Gives me time to set up""
I muttered to myself, the words steady and certain.
The first night was eerily quiet. As I settled into my vantage point on the cliff face, I focused on the anchorage below. My enhanced vision scoured the dark terrain, noting every flickering lantern and faint shadow. The supposedly "desolate" anchorage betrayed subtle signs of life—a few figures moving cautiously under cover of darkness.
I used the time to set up defenses. Around the cliff face, I planted tripwires connected to flashpowder explosives filled with knockout gas, ensuring I'd be alerted to any intrusions and can deal with it swiftly. Decoy trails were scattered along the forest's edge, designed to mislead anyone curious enough to investigate. With my vantage point secure, I spent the rest of the night mapping the layout of the anchorage and memorizing guard routines. The five men and one woman I had spotted earlier moved predictably, their shifts overlapping just enough to leave moments of vulnerability.
By dawn, the anchorage was quiet again, leaving me to turn my attention to my preparations.
On the second day, I honed my weapons. First came the knives that I carried on me because [Item Box] didn't have infinite space and I wanted access to these concealed weapons at all times—the switchblade, gravity knife, and butterfly knife. Each blade was inspected under the morning light, their edges tested for sharpness. The butterfly knife was pristine, but the gravity knife had a nick along its edge, which I carefully honed to perfection. The switchblade, heavier and built for more brutal affairs, needed no adjustments.
Once satisfied, I once again brought out "Mumei" from the [Item Box]. The katana's blade, chipped from the last battle, gleamed anew after careful sharpening with my alchemical whetstone.
I paused between tasks to review the logbook and the stolen notes from the SS Grudwar. The pages, filled with the Velvet Tide's movements and coded entries, provided insight into Orland's operation. My eyes flicked over the words, committing key details to memory. They hinted at a deal that was meant to shift the balance of power—not just for Orland, but for those pulling his strings, this mysterious "client" from the iron ports of Fanoshia.
((Everything points to this anchorage...Whatever he's planning, it starts here))
I closed the logbook and tucked it away, my thoughts heavy with the weight of what lay ahead.
The third day saw me venturing into the forest for ingredients. Virility grass for stamina potions, Emberwort for fire resistance, and Shade berries to sharpen focus were plentiful in the underbrush. My compact alchemical kit turned the gathered flora into five fresh potions, their vibrant colors swirling as I labeled each vial. The acrid scent of brewing reagents clung to the air as I stored them carefully.
That night, the anchorage stirred with new life. Lanterns illuminated the docks, and figures moved under the faint glow, unloading crates from a newly arrived ship. I recognized the familiar ship almost instantly—the SS Grudwar, delayed by two days due to the Leyline rupture. Its presence confirmed my suspicions: Orland's operation was in full swing.
((They're here. The pieces are falling into place...))
I thought with a blank face as things were finally moving.
By the fourth day, the anchorage was bustling. The quiet, "desolate" image had given way to a thriving hub of covert activity. More figures arrived in small groups, crates were moved under strict supervision, and the hum of voices carried across the water. My enhanced vision tracked it all, committing every detail to memory.
At my perch, I finalized my preparations. My traps were checked none of them triggered which meant no one got close to my cliff face, my weapons ready, and my potions securely stowed. Everything was in place.
As twilight descended, I crouched low, my body coiled and ready. The anchorage, once lifeless, now pulsed with activity as it awaited its pivotal moment.
((Orland should be here any second now...))
I mused silently, my gaze fixed on the activity below.
And arrive he did...
Roughly an hour past noon, a second ship entered the anchorage, cutting through the waves with ostentatious flair. This vessel was a stark contrast to the SS Grudwar, which had been docked here for a day already. It was gaudy to the point of absurdity—ornamental carvings adorned its sides, and an elaborate statue of an owl, wings outstretched in regal pose, crowned its prow.
((An owl, a symbol of wisdom and visionaries...how ironic))
If my expression wasn't perpetually blank, I might have laughed. Instead, I filed the thought away, my sharp eyes narrowing on the ship's passengers.
""A ship THAT pretentious can only belong to Orland...Ah, there he is now. Seems he's been treating himself well""
My tone was as emotionless as ever as I observed a plank bridge lower to the dock. Out stepped Hanuman Orland, the man I had been hunting. He wore a captain's sailor coat around his neck, the sleeves billowing like a makeshift cape in the sea breeze. His fisher's cap was ludicrously over-embellished, glittering with gaudy jewels, and his fingers gleamed with an array of rings that seemed more like trophies than accessories. A pipe jutted from his mouth, puffing spirals of smoke that danced in the sunlight.
He was just as the briefing materials had described him—only more absurdly decorated.
""I could take him out with a sniping spell right now...""
I murmured, my fingers twitching slightly. The clean kill would be easy. But no.
""No... Let's wait for this 'client' first""
And I didn't have to wait long.
Around 17 minutes after Orland's arrival, the sound of an engine disrupted the rhythmic crash of the waves.
*BRRR!* *BRRR!* *BRRR!*
It was low and guttural, the distinctive rumble of a motor vehicle. My eyes darted toward the source of the noise. Emerging from the forested road leading to the anchorage was a mana-powered car—a sleek, utilitarian machine puffing shimmering blue steam from a chimney-like exhaust.
""A car?""
I muttered, momentarily intrigued. Such vehicles were rare, a luxury only a few nations could afford to produce...well more accurately Fanoshia IS the only nation that could produce these machines.
""They really are from Fanoshia...""
Fanoshia, the northeastern industrial powerhouse, renowned for its mana-fueled innovations. The car pulled up to the gate, its engine hissing softly as it came to a halt. The doors opened, and my focus sharpened.
Two figures stepped out, and the sight of them made my blood run cold.
""A red coat...with a golden trim...""
The words left my lips in a whisper, heavy with recognition. My gaze fixed on the insignia embroidered on their shoulders, the symbol that confirmed my worst suspicions.
((The Rivalin Merchant's Guild...one of the many proxies of the Scarlet Chorus, a faction of the Executerii))
I remained perfectly still, my face a mask of calm, but inside, the realization struck like a thunderclap. The Executerii wasn't a monolith—it was a sprawling coalition of factions and divisions, each with its own distinct goals, ideologies, and specializations. But one rule held the organization together, an unbreakable code: no faction was permitted to interfere with another's operations let alone illegally acquire another faction's assets.
And yet, here they were...
A proxy of the Scarlet Chorus, infamous for their ruthless philosophy of social Darwinism and "survival of the fittest," stood on the dock. They weren't just here—they were meeting with Orland, a traitor smuggling wetware and specialized organs engineered by the Mekhanites—my faction.
((This is a direct violation of the code. No faction is allowed to acquire another's assets without express permission from either the administrative council or a class 7 personnel of the supplying faction...what the hell is going on?))
My pulse quickened, but I forced it to settle. Despite the maelstrom of thoughts in my mind, my expression betrayed nothing.
The Rivalin representatives radiated authority. Their crimson coats, trimmed with gold, caught the sunlight with an almost theatrical brilliance. The taller of the two, a man with sharp gray eyes and a bearing of regal confidence, moved like someone accustomed to command. His companion, a wiry woman with a blade strapped to her hip, exuded a quieter menace. Her hand hovered near her weapon as her gaze swept over the anchorage, sharp and calculating, like a predator scanning for threats.
They approached Orland, and even from my perch, their body language spoke volumes. Orland's ostentatious bravado, so evident moments earlier, had softened. The gaudy captain who strutted down the plank now nodded deferentially to the Rivalin merchants, his shoulders slightly hunched as though acknowledging their authority.
((So, this is the client...))
The thought settled heavily in my mind like a lead weight. My eyes tracked their every move—every deliberate step, every subtle gesture exchanged between Orland and the Scarlet Chorus proxies. Their presence was an insult to the core tenets of the Executerii, a direct violation of the stated rules that kept the factions from descending into chaos.
And it wasn't just their presence. It was the boldness of it—the crimson coats with golden trim, their insignia displayed for all to see. They weren't hiding. They didn't need to. I'm almost impressed by the audacity...
""...Haaaa~ what a pain...""
The words escaped in a whisper, barely audible over the distant waves crashing against the docks. My tone was calm, almost indifferent, but the weight behind it spoke volumes. The game had shifted dramatically, and now I was standing at the edge of a precipice, staring down into uncertain waters.
""We're being attacked by a sister faction...Is that what this is?""
I muttered under my breath, my eyes narrowing.
((If it was just Orland trading with outsiders, it would be simple. Kill everyone, clean up, and disappear. But this...If I kill a proxy of the Scarlet Chorus, even if justified, the fallout will be catastrophic. Internal conflict is inevitable, and the higher-ups of both factions will demand answers. Worst case scenario a civil war will break out...))
I exhaled slowly, weighing my options. The rational part of me urged caution, to wait, to gather more intel, and report back. But another voice—the colder, more practical one—argued otherwise.
((Orders are orders. The mission was clear: silence Orland and recover the stolen assets. The puppets of the Scarlet Chorus weren't supposed to be here. Their presence doesn't change the directive. If anything, it makes it more urgent))
My fingers tightened imperceptibly around the hilt of my Ballisong knife, waiting for the inevitable.
""...""
I glanced at the proxies again. The tall man with the regal posture was now laughing, his hand gesturing toward the crates being unloaded. The shorter woman with the blade on her hip scanned the area, her sharp eyes missing nothing. Confidence radiated off them, their movements casual yet deliberate, as though they knew they were untouchable.
((...))
I closed my eyes for a long moment, deliberating. The optimal move was to wait for reinforcements or consult the higher-ups, but that wasn't how I worked. Delays only invited complications. If internal conflict was inevitable, it wouldn't be me who dealt with the fallout. That was above my pay grade. My job was simple: silence the threats.
""...Fine. Orders are orders""
I opened my eyes, my expression as blank as ever, though my decision was final.
((Kill them all. The higher-ups can deal with the consequences...))
My body relaxed slightly, though the tension in the air around me thickened. The game was set. It was time to make my move.
At the end of the day I am an assassin, not a higher-up. Whatever bloodied tides that were approaching was not my problem to deal with...