Drakon left the slums as he made his way back to the main streets. He turned, waving his hand in farewell to the small figures huddled in the doorway of their ramshackled home. Melissa stood there with her younger siblings clustered around her legs, their eyes wide and hopeful as they waved back.

The old warrior's heart felt heavy as he walked away. His visits to the orphans had become a bright spot in his otherwise cynical existence. The hours spent in their company brought a warmth he hadn't felt in years. He'd sit with them, sharing stories of his adventures, carefully omitting the bloodier details. The children would hang on his every word, their faces alight with wonder.

Sometimes, they'd play simple games. Drakon would fashion crude toys from bits of wood and scraps of cloth, delighting in the children's laughter as they chased each other through the cramped alleyways. On market days, he'd accompany Melissa, teaching her to haggle and helping her stretch their meager coins to buy ingredients for a hearty meal.

Drakon marveled at Melissa's strength. Despite the crushing weight of responsibility on her young shoulders, he'd never seen her crack. She carried herself with a quiet dignity. If she mourned her parents, she did it in private, away from the watchful eyes of her siblings who looked to her for guidance and comfort.

The old warrior's mind drifted to the countless times Melissa had thanked him for his visits. Her words always tinged with surprise that anyone would bother with a group of orphaned street kids.

Drakon's jaw clenched as he recalled the hollow-eyed stares of passersby, averting their gaze from the ragged children huddled in doorways. The casual cruelty of their indifference burned in his gut. He'd seen battlefields less brutal than the daily struggle these kids faced.

His thoughts turned to the meager meals he'd shared with them. Watery soup stretched thin to feed too many hungry mouths. The way the younger ones would eye his portions, hope warring with shame in their gaunt faces. Melissa always made sure they ate first, taking only what was left.

He remembered teaching them to play knucklebones with pebbles scavenged from the street. For a moment, they'd been allowed to be children again, free from the weight of survival.

Drakon thought of the bruises he'd seen on Melissa's arms, poorly hidden beneath her tattered sleeves. The fire in her eyes when she'd lied, claiming she'd fallen. He knew the truth – she'd taken a beating meant for one of the little ones.

He recalled the night he'd found her crying silently in the side. She'd wiped her tears away quickly, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm fine," she'd insisted. "Just tired." The lie had hung heavy between them, neither willing to acknowledge the depth of her pain.

Drakon's chest tightened as he remembered the fierce protectiveness in Melissa's gaze when she looked at her siblings. The way she'd place herself between them and any perceived threat, making herself as a living shield despite having a thin frame. She'd die for them without hesitation.

His mind conjured images of the future that awaited these children. The boys, destined for hard labor or crime if they were lucky enough to survive to adulthood. The girls, facing an even bleaker fate in the brothels or as servants in wealthy homes. Melissa's intelligence and spirit slowly crushed beneath the grindstone of poverty.

He'd seen too much in his years as a warrior to believe in easy solutions or happy endings. But something in him rebelled against accepting their fate as inevitable. He found himself wishing he could do more. Provide them with a real home, education, a chance at a better life. But such dreams were beyond the means of an aging, exiled warrior. All he had to offer were fleeting moments of kindness and the skills to survive in a harsh world.

As Drakon reached the busier streets, he couldn't shake the image of Melissa's face from his mind. She was barely into her teens, yet she showed a resilience that put many grown men to shame. Life had dealt her a cruel hand, but she faced each day with unwavering strength.

The sounds of the city washed over him – merchants hawking their wares, the clatter of cart wheels on cobblestones, the shouts of dockworkers unloading ships. It all seemed trivial compared to the quiet toughness he'd witnessed in that run-down hovel.

Drakon's thoughts turned to Lucian, his headstrong pupil. The boy was probably preparing for the mission by now. A pang of guilt struck the old warrior. He should be there, offering guidance and support. But something about those orphans kept drawing him back to the slums.

After this mission, he'd leave it all behind. The fighting, the drinking, the aimless wandering. He'd find a way to give Melissa and her siblings the life they deserved. Maybe in doing so, he'd find a life for himself as well.

Drakon snorted at the thought. Him, settling down? Playing house with a bunch of street kids? It seemed absurd. He was a drunkard, a troublemaker, a man with more blood on his hands than he cared to remember. Not exactly role model material.

But he could change. He had to change. For their sake, if not for his own. It wouldn't be easy. Old habits died hard, and he had a lifetime of bad ones to overcome. But looking at those kids, seeing their hope and resilience in the face of crushing poverty, made him want to try.

He'd start small. Cut back on the drinking. Find honest work instead of relying on his fists or loaded dice. Learn to be patient, to listen, to offer comfort instead of violence. It was a daunting task, but no more impossible than the battles he'd faced as a warrior.

Drakon felt a spark of something he hadn't experienced in years. Hope. Not the false bravado of a drunk man boasting in a tavern, but a quiet, blissful hope. A belief that maybe, just maybe, he could make a difference in these kids' lives.

He'd give them the childhood he never had. Teach them to read, to write, to think for themselves. Show them there was more to life than just surviving day to day. And in doing so, maybe he'd find some peace for himself.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. Who would have thought that a bunch of ragged orphans could change the heart of an old, jaded warrior? Life had a way of surprising you when you least expected it.

One last mission. One last adventure. Then he'd hang up his sword and start a new chapter. It wouldn't be easy, but nothing worth doing ever was. The future stretched out before him, uncertain but full of possibility. For the first time in years, Drakon looked forward to what tomorrow might bring.

He continued walking, maintaining his pace. He turned a corner, ducking into a secluded spot away from prying eyes.

"You can come out now," Drakon called out. "I know you're watching."

A shadowy figure sprang from a rooftop nearby. Drakon remained facing away, but he could hear the stranger's approach.

"Impressive that you knew I was following you," the man said, his voice muffled by the cloak covering his face. "Since when did you knew?"

"I knew it from the first time I left the slums."

He finally pivoted to confront his pursuer, who was completely covered in a dark cloak. His face was hidden, but the knives at his hips and the sickle and chain slung across his back were visible. This was no ordinary Spartan soldier, that much was evident.

"I assume you're not here for some normal visit," Drakon said. "In fact, from your getup, I'd say you're an assassin. Am I right?"

The stranger inclined his head. "Correct."

Drakon folded his arms across his chest. "So, what's the deal? You here to kill me?"

The assassin chuckled. "If I wanted you dead, old man, you'd be dead already."

"Then if you're not here to kill me, you must be here to learn my weaknesses."

"Very observant of you," the man said. "I assume this isn't your first time being hunted."

"There have been others who've tried to kill me," he admitted. "Wanted me dead for one reason or another."

"And what happened to them?"

"They're all dead."

The assassin laughed. "Maybe they weren't a challenge for you."

"Maybe. But what makes you any different from them?"

The man shifted into a fighting stance, his cloak rippling with the movement. "Let's test it, shall we?"

Drakon cracked his neck, then his knuckles. "Sure, why not? I haven't been in a good fight for a while." He raised his fists, settling into a familiar stance.

The assassin tilted his head, eyeing the old man’s empty hands. "You don't have a weapon."

Drakon smiled and replied, "I won't need one."

The assassin let out a barking laugh. "You're pretty confident for an old man."

"Enough talk. More fighting."

The man bowed with a flourish. "As you wish."

In one fluid motion, he reached behind his back and pulled out his main weapon, the chain rattling as it unfurled. He spun the sickle, the blade whistling through the air, and settled into a low crouch.

Without warning, they lunged at each other, closing the distance in a heartbeat. The assassin struck first, hurling his sickle at the old man’s face. Drakon twisted mid-step, feeling the rush of air as the blade passed inches from his cheek. But he continued his charge, his fist cocked back, ready to strike.

The assassin yanked on the chain, the sickle arcing back towards him, and raised his arm to block Drakon's punch. The impact sent a shockwave up Drakon's arm, but he pressed on, launching into a series of rapid attacks.

A low kick, then a high one. Two fast jabs, followed by an uppercut. The assassin parried each blow with smooth and efficient movements before he retaliated with two high kicks of his own, forcing Drakon back, then transitioned into a spinning roundhouse which almost caught the old man. The assassin then flicked his wrist, sending the chain whipping towards the Spartan’s face to which Drakon sidestepped, feeling the metal whisper in the air as it grazed his stubbled cheek. He couldn't help but grin. This guy was good. Very good.

Drakon fell back into a defensive stance, his eyes locked on his opponent. "Not bad," he said. "Not bad at all."

The assassin twirled his sickle before copying his opponent’s stance. "I'm just getting started."

"So am I."

"Then let’s get serious."

"No problem there."

The assassin started to spin his sickle, the curved blade gleaming in the fading light. Drakon kept his eyes locked on his opponent, fists raised. They circled each other, muscles tense, each waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The standoff lasted mere seconds before both men exploded into action. The assassin moved first, his sickle whistling through the air as he unleashed it, then alternated between high and low kicks, forcing Drakon to constantly shift his guard. The old warrior found himself giving ground, backing away from the onslaught.

But Drakon was far from outmatched. His eyes darted, tracking every movement, every twitch of muscle that might betray his opponent's next strike. He'd faced countless foes in his long career, and this assassin, skilled as he was, was no different.

There - a slight hesitation, a fraction of a second where the assassin's weight shifted at wrong angle when he swung his weapon. Drakon saw his chance and seized it. As the sickle came slashing towards old man’s face, he twisted his body focusing all his strength towards defense, bringing up his arm in a lightning-fast block. The blade skimmed past, so close Drakon felt the sting as it nicked his cheek.

The assassin, caught off-guard by Spartan’s sudden counter, tried to regain the initiative with a vicious knee strike. But the old warrior was ready and pivoted, his leg snapping up to intercept the incoming knee. The impact jarred both men, but Drakon recovered first. Without hesitation, he surged forward, driving his forehead into the assassin's face with a sickening crack. The hooded man staggered back, momentarily stunned by the force of the strike.

Drakon pressed his advantage, closing the distance between them. The assassin, still reeling from the headbutt, fumbled for his sickle, trying to throw it again. But Drakon was faster. Before the weapon could leave the assassin's hand, Drakon planted his foot squarely in the man's stomach.

WHAM!

The kick landed with bone-shaking impact, sending the assassin flying through the air. He slid for several feet before finally collapsing into a crumpled heap.

Drakon stood over his fallen opponent, chest heaving. Blood trickled down his cheek from where the sickle had grazed him, but he paid it no mind.

"Get up," he growled. "I know that didn't put you down for good."

The man groaned, rolling onto his side. His hood had fallen back, revealing a young face twisted in pain. "Fuck," he spat, clutching his stomach. "You kick like a goddamn mule."

"You're lucky I pulled that kick," Drakon snorted. "If I'd put my full weight behind it, you'd be pissing blood for a week."

The man struggled to his feet, swaying slightly. "Don't do me any favors, old man. I can take whatever you dish out."

"Is that so? Then why are you favoring your left side? And don't think I didn't notice how you're keeping your weight off that back foot."

"I'm fine," he snarled, snatching up his fallen sickle. "Let's go another round. I'll show you what I can really do."

"We're done here, kid. You've got skill, I'll give you that. But you're green. Raw. You telegraph your moves, overextend on your strikes. Against most opponents, you'd probably come out on top. But I've been fighting longer than you've been alive. Our skills have too much gap in it."

"Are you saying I'm not good enough to kill you?"

"I'm saying you're not good enough to survive trying, and I’m not even using any weapons. Now, you want to tell me who sent you? Or should we skip the chat and get back to me kicking your ass?"

The assassin had made no attempt to respond, his face a mask of pained defiance as he struggled to his feet. For a moment, the two men locked eyes. But then, without warning, he suddenly whirled and darted back into the shadows, his dark cloak swallowing him up like a wraith disappearing into the night.

"Hmph, smart kid," Drakon muttered to himself, touching the shallow cut on his cheek. The sting was a minor irritation, a small price to pay for the unexpected skirmish.