I leaned back against the lone tree that remained standing amidst the wreckage I had wrought. The others lay shattered, splintered remnants of my unleashed fury. Around me, silence reigned—no birds sang, no beasts prowled, not even the hum of insects dared disturb the stillness. My screams of anguish had driven them all away.

Tears poured freely, carving hot trails down my face before falling to the soil, darkening it with their grief. Yet, in the midst of my despair, I laughed—a hollow, bitter sound that seemed to echo in defiance of the emptiness surrounding me.

This was not the first time life had betrayed me, crushing me under the weight of its cruel whims. I knew the path ahead, the one I’d walked too many times since little: gathering the broken fragments of myself, rising from the ashes like a scarred phoenix but unyielding.

But knowledge brought no comfort. Understanding my duty to endure did nothing to lighten the burden or dull the ache that hollowed out my soul.

'Kirion, report. What was the offer and the details of that mission again?' I sent a telepathic query to the base as soon as I calmed a little. The afternoon breeze brushed against my face, offering little solace to my tumultuous thoughts. Instead of finding the peace I sought, I was met with the clamor of unresolved emotions.

'My Lord, weren’t you supposed to head home for your brother’s coming-of-age ceremony? Why are you considering a mission so soon after returning? Shouldn’t you take some time to relax before diving back into work?' Kirion’s reply was swift, laced with concern.

'There are a few more days until the ceremony,' I responded, my tone clipped. 'If I return home now, I may end up doing things I’ll regret later. I need to cool my head first.'

'You went to the apartment, didn’t you?'

'Yes.'

'Damn it. I told you not to go there. But no—you never listen.'

'Patience was never among my virtues.' My gaze fell on the ring I still held, its intricate craftsmanship a painful reminder. With a sigh, I stored it away. 'Now, the mission details, Kirion.'

A pause lingered before his reply. 'Lord Azyen, if you continue pushing yourself like this, working and training relentlessly, you’ll break. You know that, don’t you?'

'If I break, I’ll just rebuild myself,' I said sharply, cutting through his sentiment. 'Tell me about the mission. I need something to focus on—preferably something I can destroy.'

'It’s the opposite, I’m afraid. The offer comes from Amu Habiri, Shikken of the Fujiwara Clan. He oversees the Gohon region in the Roshin Kingdom. It’s a protection mission.'

'Roshin Kingdom? That’s so far away. And protection? Of all things?'

'Yes,' Kirion confirmed. 'The Fujiwara Clan is hosting a high-profile gathering in a few days, ordered by none other than the Klausvarner Clan. The purpose of this gathering is to test the head of the Fujiwara Clan. If he survives the event, he’ll secure a seat in the Great Hall. If he’s killed and the assassin isn’t caught within two days, the one who provides proof of the deed will claim the seat instead.'

'Sounds like a political nightmare,' I replied with a scoff. 'Why did the Fujiwara head specifically request me? Don’t they have their own elite mancers to handle this?'

'They do,' Kirion answered, his tone shifting. 'However, the Shikken also sought external reinforcements. Notably, he requested assistance from several prominent mercenaries. Your offer was suggested by two signatories: Amu Habiri himself and his nephew, Irma Fuji.'

I exhaled sharply, a bitter laugh escaping. 'Irma. Of course. So, it wasn’t the Shikken’s idea, but his meddlesome nephew’s.'

'Exactly,' Kirion said knowingly.

'How much are they offering?' I asked, contemplating the merit of accepting.

'A thousand crystal nodes as a down payment, and an additional three thousand if the mission is successful—meaning if Amu Habiri remains alive. The base contract spans three days, with an optional two-day extension if the Shikken dies. There are also performance bonuses for eliminations and tactical contributions, though those details are reserved for on-site negotiation. To be accepted, you’ll need to pass a preliminary test.'

'A test?' My tone darkened. 'Do they seriously expect me to grovel for their mission?'

'Not exactly, but they’ll expect you to demonstrate your capability.'

'No tests. If anyone attacks me, I’ll kill them outright. I’ll present myself at the Fujiwara Clan by tomorrow at 7 PM. Is that acceptable?'

'Unfortunately, no,' Kirion replied hesitantly. 'Tomorrow is the day the guests arrive. You were supposed to report to the Fujiwara estate by today at 8 PM.'

I frowned, considering the logistics. 'What’s the closest portal we control to that region?'

'Too far,' Kirion admitted. 'We’ve yet to establish a foothold in Klausvarner territory. However, the Fujiwara Clan has offered to send an XTR plane to pick you up from any certified airfield if you accept.'

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'Fine. Inform them I accept the mission. No down payment—5,000 crystal nodes upon success. I’ll negotiate terms directly with the Shikken. Tell them to send the plane to Lunar Airfield in Lefeer Kingdom. I’ll be waiting.'

. . .

** The XTR touched down with a calculated bounce, its thrusters hissing as the vibrant blue neon glow dimmed into darkness. The sleek aircraft stood like a predator at rest, exuding an aura of precision and power.

To many, flying with such advanced technology was a symbol of status, a marvel of modern engineering. For Azyen, who favored the instant and secure travel of portals, it was merely adequate. Sharing the skies with airborne monstrosities and relying on machines was not his preference—but given Midnight’s lack of portals in Klausvarner territory and the complimentary ride, it sufficed.

The small airfield was alive with silent vigilance. Warriors clad in tailored black uniforms surrounded the landing zone. Their high-collared leather jackets, matte and resistant to blade strikes, bore the Fujiwara clan crest—a mountain crowned with a delicate flower—subtly embroidered in silver thread. The same emblem adorned the headbands each man wore with pride.

Their attire spoke of functionality and readiness: metal armguards on their left hands, tactical pants reinforced at critical points, and sleek cross-body scabbard systems housing their swords. Each warrior carried additional throwing knives, their movements fluid and precise, combat boots with split-toe designs grounding them for agility. Yet amidst their unity, one figure stood apart.

He approached the aircraft flanked by four men, his black kimono and hakama whispering tradition and authority. The contrast between the warriors’ sleek modernity and this man’s timeless garb was striking. His every step carried weight, his presence commanding respect.

The pressurized door of the XTR released with a sharp hiss, and Azyen emerged. His own attire prepared for the unexpected. His boots, sleek with thin soles, allowed silent movement while offering perfect balance, even in precarious situations.

Tactical pants hugged his frame, their utility matched by a thigh holster holding an array of eight flying knives. Above them, a maroon v-neck shirt added a subtle touch of color beneath his black knee-length coat.

The coat, crafted from snake leather with a scale-like texture that seemed to devour the light coming from the watchtowers, swayed with his movement, radiating menace and elegance. Fingerless gloves reinforced with a flux conductive alloy covered his hands, while a storage ring rested inconspicuously on his middle finger.

In his left hand, his sword remained sheathed, its hilt pulsating faintly with a green light beneath the wraps. His glacial gaze swept over the gathered warriors before locking onto the man in the black kimono.

“Irma,” Azyen said, his voice low but carrying an unmistakable authority as he descended the steps.

“Azyen.” Irma’s face lit up with a smile, his tone warm despite the formal setting. He extended his hand, which Azyen accepted in a firm shake, leaving on it an unnoticed imprint. “Welcome to the Fujiwara Clan. It’s unfortunate that we only meet for matters of work.”

“I consider it fortunate that we meet at all, regardless of the reason,” Azyen replied, his expression unchanging but his words carrying sincerity.

“Fair enough. Come, my uncle is waiting,” Irma said, gesturing forward. He led the way with practiced ease, the four escorting men falling into step behind them.

The garden they traversed was a masterwork of design—winding paths like serpents split into various directions, each leading to distinct parts of the estate. The air was fragrant with the scent of blooming flowers, though Azyen paid it little mind.

“It’s impressive, isn’t it?” Irma asked, breaking the silence. “But rest assured, the estate is secure. We have extensive surveillance systems in place. Your focus will be solely on my uncle's protection.”

“Surveillance systems fail against seasoned professionals,” Azyen remarked, his tone cold and matter-of-fact.

Irma chuckled nervously. “Right, I forgot your... extensive experience in protection.”

“And in infiltration, objective capture, and assassination,” Azyen added, his voice unwavering.

Irma nodded, falling silent. Behind them, one of the escorting men exchanged a wary glance with his comrade.

They came to a stone-paved alley flanked by tall grass walls, leading to a secluded section of the estate. The path ended at a backyard surrounded by walls of neatly trimmed grass. On the engawa of the house, three men awaited them, the one in the center immediately identifiable as Amu Harabi, the Shikken. His ornately embroidered robes marked his elevated status.

Traversing almost half the distance, Azyen stopped abruptly, his sharp gaze fixing on the grass lining the path. His body tensed, and his presence suddenly turned oppressive.

“If you attack, I will rip the lungs from all ten of you,” he declared, his voice cutting through the tranquil air like a blade.

Hands behind his back, Amu Harabi narrowed his eyes. “A sensory type?” he asked in a low voice.

Azyen remained still, his attention unwavering. A faint sound, like the crackle of electricity, broke the silence, and a slim metal projectile deformed against the mental power barrier surrounding Azyen's body.

The projectile was aimed at his shoulder, not at a vital organ. But in any case, it was meant to cause him harm.

So before the metal piece could reach the ground, Azyen moved. His left foot slid back, pivoting his body with fluid precision. Without hesitation, he struck one of his four escorts. The man barely registered the movement before Azyen’s open palm slammed into his side, the impact expelling the very breath—and spirit—from his body.

The air trembled as Azyen’s flux infused cry erupted, a forceful “WHRA!” that rippled through the garden. It startled everyone, but froze those in close proximity to him, buying him enough time to draw his sword. In one fluid motion, he unleashed an aero blade, its luminous arc streaking through the air toward Amu Harabi.

Amu’s senses, honed by years of mastery, ignited at the sight of the swift attack. His palm shimmered with flux as he raised it, intent on crushing the aero blade with his bare hand. But to his surprise, while the blade failed to pierce his palm, it resisted his crushing grip, vibrating with relentless energy.

A flicker of frustration crossed Amu’s features as he swept his other hand forward, dispelling the attack in an explosive burst of light. Behind him, a young woman in a white kimono was revealed, a pistol clutched tightly in her hand.

The man Azyen had struck earlier with a palm collapsed to the ground, motionless, while the remaining three bodyguards recovered their composure. They lunged like wolves, their blades glinting in the faint light.

Azyen’s eyes narrowed. Calculating. Efficient. He chose not to waste energy slaughtering them. Instead, with a flicker of thought, he activated the soul mark he had placed on Irma during their handshake. In an instant, he vanished, reappearing beside Irma a few steps away.

With precision, he seized Irma’s arm and drew his sword through the kimono’s fabric, halting with the blade’s tip pressed lightly against his friend’s neck.

Gasps rippled through the backyard as the ten ambushers emerged from the shadows of the trees. **