Night had only just begun, but the old human wizard of Dominex was already weary. He sat in his master bedroom, hunched over a scroll filled with theories about the elemental magic connection in the brain—a region he called the Central Luncus. His wrinkled hand ached after four hours of writing with an owl-feather pen dipped in ink harvested from the spotted white octopus of Luulax. His beard, long and ashen-gray, framed a tired face. One deep blue eye remained sharp, the other replaced long ago by a dull glass eye. His balding head was mottled with liver spots and dusted with dandruff.
He wore elegant robes in deep blue and white, fastened with silver buttons bearing the Luulax emblem. Rings adorned every finger—some enchanted for utility, others worn purely for status and pride.
The wizard's cabin stood far from the city's chaos. The commonupps—noisy, bothersome folk—gave him headaches, so he lived in solitude outside the bustling heart of Dominex. His only companion was Spring, a proud and temperamental owl he cared for like family.
The cabin itself brimmed with magical clutter: potion ingredients filled jars and sacks, while finished potions lined the shelves. A blackened cauldron sat cold by the hearth. Books formed crooked towers on the floor, having long since lost their shelf space. Candle flames danced with soft blue magical light, casting a ghostly glow across the walls decorated with paintings and old relics.
As he neared the end of a particularly dense chapter, he paused. A presence—unmistakable and cold—washed through the room. The lights flickered but did not go out. The wizard calmly placed his pen aside as Spring hooted with warning behind him.
"I've been expecting you," the wizard rasped, not even feigning surprise.
He turned in his seat and saw him. A dark figure, motionless, cloaked in a black hood that shrouded his face. Only his eyes shone—icy blue, like twin shards of frozen water. He wore polished silver armor over dark garb, with brown belts strapped across his chest, waist, and forearms. Not a patch of skin was visible. His presence was more than unsettling—it was dangerous.
"The Pain of Butchers received your message, Master Ilvak Bross," the figure said in a voice deep and cavernous. "You require our services?"
Ilvak nodded slightly, hands resting on the scroll as he gestured weakly toward his age.
"Forgive me for not rising to greet you. Time has made a mockery of my joints. Unlike the druids, it seems I won't be living a thousand years," he chuckled softly. "May I ask your name, stranger?"
The figure did not move. "In this line of work, names are best left unspoken."
"Understandable," Ilvak replied. "The matter I called you for could very well earn me a life sentence. But as a Wizard of the Kudemia Academy, bound by its oath and my honor—I give you my word, your name will not leave these walls."
A beat of silence passed.
"Nathan Madarts," the figure said finally, his tone as sharp as the silence he broke. "At your service."
The old man felt a shiver of unease at the name. He gave a slow, respectful nod before continuing, his tone measured.
"So, the leader of the guild himself. I didn't expect my little problem to draw the attention of someone like you. Please, have a seat. Spring will bring us some tea. And call me Master Bross—that's how I'm known in Luulax."
With a clap of his hands, a chair from behind the doorway creaked to life, moving like a loyal dog before coming to rest behind Nathan, where it went still again. The owl, Spring, flapped off toward the kitchen where a pot of tea was already brewing. With practiced precision, it fetched a pair of clay teacups in its talons, placing them carefully before Master Bross. Then it brought over the heavy pot and set it down on the desk.
The wizard poured the tea, handing the first cup to Nathan. The brew gave off a faint aroma of berries and hot spring water. Nathan accepted it with his left hand but didn't drink. Instead, he stared at the old man for a moment, as if waiting.
"I see... it's a Parzian custom to watch the brewer drink first," Bross said with a knowing smirk.
The cloaked man gave no reply.
"Was it difficult crossing the border?" Bross asked, testing the waters.
Still, silence.
"Please. I know the Pain of Butchers only do business, but perhaps you could humor an old fool with a bit of conversation before we dive into matters. It's been years since my last visitor," Bross added with a sheepish grin.
"Assassins always find a way," Nathan finally said, taking a measured sip. "To be behind people's backs… and inside the wallets of the young."
"Aha!" Bross chuckled, delighted. "From The Book of Assassins by Torn Haram. Fine troll, if I may say so. Though I always preferred his tales about nobles and beast-monsters. Much more engaging. I read those when I was young. Tell me—could you remove your hood? I'd like to see the face of the man I'm working with."
The glow in Nathan's eyes pulsed, the light sharpening like a dagger.
"Tread lightly, Master Bross," he warned, voice cold as shadow. "I'm not here for a friendly visit. Let's return to business."
"Very well," Bross said, gesturing toward the wall. "Do you see the painting above my study?"
Nathan's eyes lifted. It was a large oil painting, as wide as the wizard's desk and nearly as tall as his leg. Thick, expressive strokes shaped a serene village scene—people mingling around a central blacksmith shop, the hub of the small community. Nathan narrowed his gaze, squinting to read the title carved into the wooden frame.
"Miss Arla Dofurhim. Fang artist known for her realistic work," Nathan said calmly.
"A reader of poetry and a praiser of artists! How delighted I am," Master Bross responded with a smile. "Tell me—do you know the rest of her work?"
"The Venides' Prayer and Light of Isk. She's not to my taste. Makrian and Rain over Reidun Castle by Jolly Lick—those, I prefer."
"Ah, so you favor watercolor pieces. Very interesting. In any case, this isn't just idle talk. This is about another of Arla Dofurhim's paintings. One that's important."
Without warning, Nathan crushed the delicate teacup in his hand. Ceramic shards cracked, and hot tea splashed across the floor, spilling over the old scroll laid open beside Master Bross. The wizard jumped, startled and now visibly anxious.
"Pain of Butchers are not thieves, Master Bross," Nathan said, his voice colder now. "We are highly skilled assassins. Meant to kill—not to steal. There is a very large difference."
"Of course there is!" Bross said quickly, raising a hand in apology. "But please—let me finish."
Nathan went quiet again, folding his gloved hands in front of his belt, a stance resembling a priest's prayer. His glowing eyes never left the wizard.
"The Beauty. It was her newest piece. I commissioned it—for my Ex-wife a few winters ago. I sent Arla my hard-earned gold and she supposedly should have brought the painting to me, yet she claimed my assistant came to retrieve it. But I have no assistant. So I cast a few spells, as a proper wizard should, and discovered that it was one Mister Yarn Icob from Kurkizaan who took it."
Bross's eyes flickered with frustration as he continued.
"I tried the proper channels—filed complaints, offered bribes, tried to get it back. But nothing. And to salt the wound, the bastard burned the painting. I was robbed, mocked, and spat on by a thug who just doesn't like me. And the law… the law does nothing."
He paused, then added with a heavy sigh, "So, what I am about to ask—I do with a heavy heart. I want you to kill Mister Yarn."
Nathan gave a single nod. "That can be arranged."
"You don't need to know anything about him? His story? What kind of man you're about to kill?"
"No," Nathan replied, standing from his chair. "If I heard every sob story from every bleeding soul I was contracted to kill, one of us might eventually grow a heart. I'm not here to care. The gold measures my compassion, Master Bross. The only thing I care about… is the value of the target."
Master Bross took another sip of tea. "And why does that matter to you?"
"Because killing a homeless man for a hundred gold is not the same as killing the King of Luulax," Nathan said simply. "So give me something. A few details. Let me determine the price. And if you try to sell me water as vodka... you will regret making an enemy of the Pain of Butchers."
The wizard nodded slowly, tapping a crooked finger to his temple in thought before snapping his fingers.
"He's not married, as far as I know. Lives in Kurkizaan. Not a noble. He's just a Fang. That's all I've got. I swear it," he said, raising a trembling hand as if taking an oath.
Nathan stared at him in silence, weighing the words. The old man's forehead began to sweat, and he quickly wiped it with the sleeve of his robe. His gaze dropped to the desk.
"Three hundred twenty-five," Nathan finally said. "With a seventy-five percent increase if I uncover anything that boosts his value."
"…Fine," Master Bross muttered. "You've got yourself a deal, Mister Nathan."
He reached forward to shake hands—only to find the space in front of him empty. Nathan was gone. Vanished like smoke.
The wizard let out a slow breath, then gave a small nod to the empty room. With aching bones and heavy thoughts, he rose to retire for the night.
He was tired of everything.
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Three days later, using his contacts and subtle inquiries, Nathan finally located the man he had been hunting. Mister Yarn was living in Ola'Sadurn, the capital of Kurkizaan—though far outside the city's bustling center. Like the wizard who had hired Nathan, Yarn preferred some degree of solitude. His home wasn't a cottage, but a typical Kurkizaanian tile-roofed house. It had a wide garden overgrown with vines crawling along the walls, giving it the eerie charm of an old ghost story. The house stood two stories tall, with faded brown roof tiles and ivy shadowing its windows.
Nathan had been stalking him for two days now, memorizing every movement, every habit.
Each morning, Yarn jogged at precisely 8:30. He returned around 9:00, often joined by one or two neighbors for breakfast. They usually left around 10. At noon, Yarn went to work and came back by 3:00. After that, he headed to town, spending a few hours wandering the streets or meeting friends. By 6:00, he had his evening meal. At 7:00, he read a book. At 8:00, he went to bed.
An easy target, it seemed.
The simplest method would be to strike while Yarn slept. Yet something gnawed at Nathan's instincts—a tightness in his neck, a crawling sensation under his skin. This wouldn't be an easy kill. He knew it.
As the last candlelight in Yarn's home dimmed and the fireplace's glow faded into embers, Nathan waited. He gave it time. Hours, even. Watching. Waiting.
Then he moved.
He crept silently through the overgrown garden, climbed to the roof, and found the window to the master bedroom. There Yarn lay, sleeping under a red blanket, his chest gently rising and falling. Two pillows supported his head. Everything looked normal. Too normal.
With the flick of his wrist, Nathan picked the window lock and slipped inside like shadow given form. He stood above his target, dagger drawn, a breath away from the kill.
Then—light exploded around him.
Brilliant, blinding light filled the room, banishing every trace of shadow. From behind curtains, closets, and even beneath the bed, four figures in brown cloaks and reinforced leather armor emerged, each bearing the bear sigil of the Kurkizaan Peace-Force.
They had laid a trap—and he'd walked straight into it.
Before Nathan could react, magic chains erupted from the air, glowing red and sizzling with enchanted force. They coiled around his limbs, wrapping him from neck to toe. He struggled, but they held firm—cast by the Peace-Force members and sustained by their focus and power.
The moment the chains struck, Mister Yarn leapt from his bed, retreating behind one of the guards—a captain, clearly. The captain was a tall druid with pointed ears, bluish skin, and long white hair. He wore a calm, gentle smile and placed a reassuring hand on Yarn's shoulder.
"Good work, Master Yarn," he said softly. "You played your part perfectly. We've got him now."
Nathan didn't speak. He was too furious with himself—for making such a rookie mistake.
As Master Yarn cried out in shock and fled the room, the Peace-Force captain turned his focus back to the assassin.
"By the order granted by the Great Shaman, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of Yarn Icob. How do you plead?" the captain asked, his voice firm and commanding.
"If you don't release me," Nathan growled, his voice like iron, "everyone in this house will be dead except me. If you value your life… leave."
"You don't threaten me, assassin," the captain replied coldly. "You're going to rot in prison. Take him to headquarters."
With that, the captain turned and exited the room, leaving his underlings to bind and escort the criminal.
Downstairs, two other Peace-Force members were stationed with a visibly shaken Yarn. He sat in his pajamas, trying to calm himself in a cushioned chair, breathing heavily.
"Don't worry, Mister Yarn. It's over now," the captain said, descending the staircase.
"I'm still shaking," Yarn admitted. "I was just trying to live a normal life. Why me?"
"It's a good thing you came to us when you suspected someone was watching you," the captain replied. "We'll take it from here. Do you have somewhere else you can stay for the night?"
Master Yarn rubbed his long ears nervously and bit gently at one of his canine teeth before speaking."My girlfriend… maybe she can take me in."
"Thank you for being bait, Mister Yarn. It was the only way to catch him," the captain said sincerely. "Now, I want you to gather some clothes. My officers will escort you—"
Before he could finish, a loud crash echoed from upstairs.
Everyone froze.
The noise was unmistakable: furniture thrown, glass shattering, a struggle unfolding above. A moment of paralyzed silence fell over the room. Then something tumbled violently down the stairs—a body. It was one of the Peace-Force officers, hurled with such force that he smashed through the stair rail and hit the floor with a sickening thud like someone tossed it. He landed face-down on Master Yarn's green carpet, blood spreading around him like spilled ink. His back was riddled with puncture wounds—dozens, maybe more.
He was dead.
Yarn screamed in horror. The Peace-Force members stared in stunned silence, rooted like trees, unable to react.
Then—he appeared.
Nathan landed atop the corpse with the grace of a predator. In his hand was a curved dagger, still dripping with fresh blood. Its blade glinted in the candlelight—just like his cold, glowing eyes. He rose slowly, standing tall on the body he had just slain. His neck rolled with a quiet crack as he stretched, then he looked down at them—silent, ominous.
And in that moment, they all knew:
He had warned them.
Nathan hurled his dagger like lightning—fast, precise, and merciless. It struck Master Yarn square in the forehead. The Fang's lifeless body slumped from the chair to the floor with a dull thud.
Target eliminated.
Now came the aftermath. The remaining Peace-Force officers froze in place, caught between duty and terror. They were sweating like pigs, breath ragged and shallow. Fear had gripped their limbs—but somewhere beneath it, there still flickered determination. They were sworn to uphold justice. They wouldn't run.
But it wouldn't matter.
The captain acted first, roaring with fury as he conjured a spell. A fireball ignited in his palm, its glow dancing against his blue skin. But Nathan was faster—so much faster. In a blur, Nathan reached behind his back and summoned a spear. The moment the captain tried to hurl the fireball, Nathan lunged, thrusting the spear straight through it. The flame vanished in a puff of steam.
Pivoting with fluid grace, Nathan pirouetted to the left and, with a reverse grip, plunged the spear into the captain's chest. It struck true, piercing his heart.
The captain crumpled without a word.
Nathan's gaze turned immediately to the last two. One was a human. The other—a small Ice Troll, no taller than a child. Neither flinched. They knew this was it. Fight or die. The troll acted first, summoning a spear of pure glacial ice—deep blue, jagged, and heavy as stone. It hovered in the air, ready to be hurled with devastating force. Beside him, the human snapped his fingers, chanting under his breath. Each snap sparked tiny bolts of lightning, crackling along his arms and fingertips.
Nathan didn't wait.
With a swift kick, he knocked the captain's body off his spear and launched himself forward with a front flip. Just in time—the troll's ice spear shot past him and shattered the dining table behind. A lightning bolt zipped under him and scorched the floorboards.
Mid-air, Nathan's spear began to shimmer and warp. It wasn't made of metal at all—it was water.
The weapon dissolved in his hands, the liquid shifting form between his fingers. Half of it flowed into his right hand, reforming into a dagger. The other half took shape in his left—a short-handled axe, smooth and curved. He landed lightly, crouched for half a breath—and then struck.
In a single fluid motion, he hurled both weapons.
The axe spun through the air and cleaved the human's head clean off. The dagger drove through the troll's chest, pinning him to the wall with such force that the stone cracked behind him. The troll twitched once, then slumped.
The room fell silent.
In less than ten minutes, Nathan had killed every living soul in the house
As the Master Assassin prepared to flee the blood-soaked scene, something caught his eye—a painting hung on the wall to his right, just beside the troll he had pinned like a trophy. Nathan turned toward it, curiosity momentarily halting his retreat.
It was… impressive.
He stepped closer, studying the brushstrokes, the composition, the subtle use of color. A work of real skill. Whoever painted it had talent beyond the ordinary. Then something else caught his attention.
A loose paper lay on the ground near the troll's foot, its corner curled like it had been recently disturbed. Nathan knelt, noticing the official Peace-Force seal stamped faintly on the top. Perhaps it had slipped out of a pocket when he hurled one of the guards from the upper floor. Usually, he'd ignore such scraps—bureaucratic junk. But one word, half-visible beneath the fold, made him pause. A name. He picked it up carefully, eyes scanning the letter. As he read, a chuckle slipped from his lips—not of amusement, but bitter irony.
Then his expression darkened. Not with rage. Not with hate. With disappointment. Someone had lied to him. Fed him falsehoods. And now?
That was going to cost him.
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The wizard of Luulax was in his study, busy with his potions. The old man stirred a thick brew in a blackened cauldron, carefully ladling the steaming liquid into empty glass bottles. He smiled to himself and hummed a quiet ballad from his youth. Outside the window, the magical owl Spring basked in the golden sunlight, enjoying the quiet forests.
Master Bross was in higher spirits than usual. Brewing potions felt more rewarding than writing dusty scrolls all day. Though the mixture in his cauldron looked like poison, it was a muscle tonic meant to aid the elderly with deterioration. His deep-blue coat bore fresh stains from spills, and as he waved his hand beneath the pot to snuff the flame and cool the mixture, he suddenly felt a presence behind him.
"Ah… you've returned," Master Bross said calmly, without turning around.
Nathaniel didn't answer.
"I assume the deed is done, young man?"
Without a word, Nathan reached behind his coat and pulled out the severed head of Mister Yarn. He tossed it into the cauldron, sending a splash of thick, warm liquid over Master Bross's robes and the nearby table. The old man flinched, visibly irritated by the assassin's delivery—but not surprised. He looked at the head with morbid interest, inspecting the lifeless eyes, the shriveled, plum-like skin. A hollow, cruel end.
"You lied to me," Nathan said, voice low.
"Excuse me?" the wizard replied, finally turning. His glowing eyes flickered with restrained anger. "Can we speak of this over tea—?"
"You devalued him."
"What are you implying?"
Nathan stepped forward, his presence now sharp and dangerous. If the wizard spoke another lie, he'd end up like the man in the cauldron.
"You didn't tell me you had feelings for Arla," he said, voice cold. "You called yourself her patron. You tried many times to meet her, and when she turned you down—reasonably, politely—you began harassing her. Threatening her. Lying to get her work. When Master Yarn discovered your little scheme, he burned the stolen painting and reported you. And like the coward you are, you threatened him."
Master Bross said nothing. No shame. No guilt. Just a hard stare, and a flicker of wounded pride beneath the surface.
"You told me you didn't care for backstories, Mister Nathan," the wizard said, voice now stripped of its grandfatherly charm. "So why are you acting like some vigilante, desperate for righteousness?"
"I don't care about justice," Nathan replied. "But you panicked. You sent another assassin after Yarn. You spooked him. That forced him to seek protection from the Peace-Force. You made my job more difficult."
"So?" Bross snarled. "I know your kind. You assassins live for this. You enjoy it—slitting throats, cutting down lives like weeds. Don't speak to me of right and wrong. I may want the embrace of a woman—even if I'm old—but you, you're filth. Useful filth."
Nathan didn't flinch. He wasn't offended. Because the wizard was half right… and half very wrong.
"We're tools," Nathan said simply. "But tools don't choose who to kill. The sword doesn't decide who dies—it only decides if the price is worth being wielded"
Master Bross chuckled. His face twisted into something grotesque. There had never been a kind old man behind the robes—only a bitter, lustful creature pretending to be wise. He clapped mockingly, then smiled wide, revealing his intent.
"And when did you realize I wasn't going to pay you?"
Nathan turned his head slightly. "I smelled the tea, Master Bross. You planned to poison me."
He looked the wizard directly in the eye.
"I can smell Bonesucker glands in your brew. Most people can't. Assassins can. We always smell the poison."
That was the signal. Master Bross thrust his hands toward Nathan and shouted a spell aloud. For a moment, nothing happened inside the cabin. Nathan's eyes flicked around, alert—but then he felt it. Something outside was moving.
With a thunderous crack, two massive tree branches—thicker than logs, taller than any man—smashed through the cabin walls from both sides. They moved with terrifying speed. Nathan didn't have time to dodge. The branches collided, crushing him between them with a sickening crunch.
His body went limp. No breath, no twitch. Nothing.
To Master Bross, the infamous assassin was dead. Broken. Flattened like a leaf beneath stone.
The cabin was wrecked. The walls cracked, floor splintered, dust and plaster filling the air. He'd have to fabricate a story—about how a crazed assassin attacked him, and he barely escaped with his life. The kind of tale the Knights and guards could believe.
But for now, he turned away from the crumpled corpse and let a self-satisfied grin stretch across his face. Master Assassin? Rubbish. Just a man in a cloak. All flair, no substance. He began moving toward the door, already planning his next steps—alert the guards, clean the scene, maybe even get Arla to paint him another portrait...
Then, behind him, came a soft, low chuckle.
He froze.
Slowly, he turned. The body was gone. Panic bloomed.
Impossible. That spell should've crushed anything. Even the lizardfolk of the west wouldn't have survived. Frantically, Bross cast a detection spell. But his vision warped—not from magic—but from mist. Inside the cabin.
His stomach dropped.
"You… you're a mage" he muttered.
No answer. The mist thickened. He couldn't see the walls, the cauldron, his desk—nothing.
"You can't defeat me, boy!" he shouted. "I wield arcane power beyond your comprehension! "
Still silence. But the mist responded.
"I'm nothing like you" said a voice—everywhere at once.
Slash. A blade kissed his back. He staggered forward, snarling in pain. He spun, hurling a fireball into the fog. It vanished instantly.
"You call me a coward? And yet you hide in the mist?!"
Slash. His left thigh. Then slash. His stomach. Shallow, painful cuts. Blood dripped freely. Nathan could've killed him quickly. He was toying with him. That would be his mistake.
Bross roared and shouted a new incantation. Fire burst around him in a blazing aura. It left his clothes untouched, but sealed his wounds shut. Now he stood like a living bonfire. The floor beneath him blackened. Walls scorched. Bottles exploded. Smoke filled the air.
And then—he released it.
A fiery shockwave ripped through the cabin, vaporizing the mist. Everything burned—his scrolls, his collections, his potions. Even the painting. Gone. But sacrifices had to be made. He could rebuild. Arla would paint again. First, kill the bastard.
"Where's your mist now?" he sneered. - "Does the so-called Master of Pain of Butchers really need fog to hide? Pathetic."
He began a final spell, one that would end the assassin once and for all.
"You misunderstand, Master Bross" came the voice, low and steady. "I don't need the mist…"
Then silence. In a blink, the mist returned—thicker, colder, filled with dread. Bross braced himself—too late. Pain bloomed across his body: his leg, his arm, his back, his gut, his neck. Dozens of shimmering blades—made of water—pierced him all at once.
"I am the mist."
The daggers vanished. Bross collapsed to the floor, still breathing—but barely. His body trembled. Blood poured from everywhere. He tried to crawl, to speak, to cast—but the pain was too much. Panic overtook him.
Right before his eyes, the mist began to twist and gather. It coiled into a humanoid shape—vague at first, but then taking clearer form. The haze darkened, sharpening into lines and textures. A black hood emerged. Then silver armor. A leather-wrapped grip. And glowing eyes, cold and merciless.
Nathan was formed
Master Bross gasped, stumbling back in terror.
"The Ritual of Jarvinia… No! How dare you!"
Nathan gave no answer. He stepped forward in silence. From the air around him, moisture gathered to his right hand. It lengthened and solidified—into a gleaming silver scythe with a leather-bound handle. The weapon shimmered, beautiful and deadly.
He didn't speak. But Bross felt his judgment. It poured from Nathan like pressure. Heavy. Absolute. Mercy was not coming.
With a trembling voice, the wizard asked his final question:
"What… are you?"
Nathan didn't respond with words. He swung the scythe. It tore cleanly through the already-wounded throat of the old man, silencing him forever.
The burning house would cover everything. When the Knights of Luulax came, they'd find ashes. Maybe a body. But the truth? It would be long gone.
Nathan had one last thing to do before he left.
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Nathan was finally relaxing after a long day's work. He still wore his hood and armor, but his gloves had been set aside. In his right hand, he held a silver chalice filled with white wine. From a Parzian record player, soft Kurkizaanian music played gently in the background, washing over the quiet of the house.
He sat in a large, cushioned chair, legs stretched out on a pillowed footstool. His glowing eyes were fixed on a Arla's painting—the spoils of a job well done. His reward.
END