The heavy wooden door of "The Weeping Cellar" groaned shut behind Lencar, cutting off the damp, moldy air of the underground black market. The night air of Nairn felt crisp and clean in comparison, though Lencar knew his hands were metaphorically stained.
Inside his cloak, a heavy pouch of coins rested against his hip. It was the payout for Garrick "The Spark." The informant, a greased-up weasel of a man named Jareth, had looked at the severed head with a mix of disgust and professional appreciation before handing over 70% of the bounty.
"Clean cut," Jareth had muttered, counting out the gold yuls. "You didn't burn the face. Good. Makes identification easier. Most hunters just bring me ash and expect me to take their word for it."
Lencar had taken the money without a word. It wasn't a fortune, but in a town like Nairn, it was enough to buy supplies, better food for the Scarlet household, and perhaps some higher-quality paper for his mapping.
He walked through the sleeping town, his footsteps silent on the cobblestones. The adrenaline of the hunt had faded, replaced by a strange, hollow fatigue. It wasn't physical—his body was forged to endure much more—but mental. Kenji Tanaka had been a data analyst; Lencar Abarame was becoming an assassin. The transition was efficient, but the human soul inside him still felt the friction.
He slipped back into the Scarlet house through the back door, moving like a shadow. He hid the gold under the loose floorboard in his room, keeping only a few copper coins in his pocket to maintain the illusion of a struggling dishwasher.
The next morning, the cycle resumed.
"Lencar! Marco is stuck in the chimney again!" Rebecca screamed from the kitchen.
Lencar looked up from his breakfast porridge. "Again?"
"He said he wanted to see if Santa was real!"
Lencar sighed—a long, human sound of exasperation. He walked to the fireplace, used a precise burst of [Wind Magic] to cushion the soot, and pulled a coughing, black-faced Marco out of the flue.
"Santa comes in winter, Marco," Lencar said, dusting the boy off. "And he prefers the front door in this economy."
"You're weird, Lencar," Marco coughed, grinning.
By the fourth day, the novelty of having a "big brother" had worn off for the kids, replaced by an boundless, chaotic familiarity. They climbed on him. They asked him a thousand questions. They demanded entertainment.
Lencar, usually the master of efficiency, found himself cornered. He was sitting on the rug in the living room, surrounded by Marco, Pem, Luca, and even baby Noah, who was chewing on Lencar's shoe.
"Tell us a story!" Luca demanded, tugging his sleeve. "A cool one! With explosions!"
"Yeah! And monsters!" Pem added.
"And princesses!" Mia squeaked.
Lencar rubbed his temples. He knew the history of the Clover Kingdom, but those stories were dry political treatises about noble houses. He didn't know any local fairy tales.
But Kenji Tanaka knew stories. He remembered the Disney movies his nieces used to watch. He remembered the books of Grimm and Andersen he had read to understand Western cultural archetypes.
"Fine," Lencar said, holding up a hand. The commanding tone silenced them instantly. "If I tell you a story, will you stop trying to set the cat on fire?"
"Yes!" the chorus rang out.
Lencar leaned back against the sofa. He lowered his voice, adopting the tone of a narrator.
"Long ago, in a kingdom far, far away... there lived a girl named Cinderella."
He began to weave the tale. He didn't just recite it; he performed it. He used tiny, imperceptible bursts of [Wind Magic] to create sound effects—the swish of a broom, the clack-clack of steps, the whoosh of a fairy godmother's wand.
He told them about the wicked stepmother (painting her as terrifyingly as a Spade Kingdom devil). He told them about the mice who turned into horses (Pem laughed until he hiccuped). He described the transformation of the pumpkin into a carriage with such vivid detail that Marco's jaw dropped.
"But she had a rule," Lencar whispered, leaning in, his eyes wide. "The magic had a limit. When the clock struck twelve... everything would break."
The room was dead silent. Even Noah had stopped chewing the shoe. The kids were enraptured, hanging on his every word.
Lencar glanced at the clock on the wall. It was past their bedtime.
"She arrived at the ball," Lencar continued softly. "She looked more beautiful than the stars. The Prince saw her from across the room. He walked toward her, took her hand, and..."
Lencar stopped.
He stood up and stretched. "And that is where we stop for tonight."
"WHAT?!" Marco screamed. "NO! What happens?! Does he kiss her?! Does the stepmom explode?!"
"Does the pumpkin eat them?" Pem asked, terrified.
"It's late," Lencar said, his face a mask of immovable authority. "The story continues only for children who are asleep in the next five minutes. If you are awake in six minutes, the story is canceled forever."
The threat was nuclear.
"GO GO GO!" Marco yelled, grabbing Pem and Noah and dragging them toward the stairs. Luca and Mia scrambled after them, diving into their beds with frantic speed.
Lencar suppressed a smirk. Psychological warfare: Successful.
He turned to blow out the candles in the living room. That was when he saw her.
Rebecca was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. She was holding a dishcloth, frozen in place. Her eyes were wide, and she looked... invested.
"You can't stop there," she whispered, her voice full of genuine betrayal.
Lencar looked at her. "Excuse me?"
Rebecca walked into the room, forgetting she was holding a dirty rag. "The Prince! He just took her hand! You can't leave it on a cliffhanger like that! Did they dance? Did the stepmother find out?"
Lencar blinked. He had calculated the story's effect on children aged 4-10. He had not accounted for a 16-year-old girl who likely had zero exposure to romantic fiction in a world dominated by grimoires and survival. To Rebecca, Cinderella wasn't a cliché; it was a brand-new, high-stakes drama.
"Rebecca," Lencar said slowly, fighting the urge to laugh. "It's a fairy tale."
"It's a good story!" she protested, her cheeks flushing pink. "Come on, Lencar. Just tell me the ending. Just a little bit? Does she lose the magic?"
She looked at him with big, pleading eyes—the same expression Luca used when she wanted a cookie. It was a look of pure, unguarded vulnerability.
For a second, Lencar felt his analytical shield crack. He wasn't looking at a "variable" or a "cover identity." He was looking at a girl who worked eighteen hours a day to feed five siblings, a girl who had probably never had a moment of fantasy in her life.
He felt a pang of helplessness. He couldn't just brush her off like an operative. But he also couldn't sit here telling bedtime stories to his landlady.
Lencar crossed his arms and let out a dramatic, exaggerated huff.
"Unbelievable," he grumbled, channeling his inner grumpy old man. "I am surrounded by children. Even the 'adult' is a child."
"Hey!" Rebecca pouted.
"Go to sleep, Rebecca," Lencar said, turning him away to hide the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You have the morning shift tomorrow. If you burn the eggs because you stayed up wondering about a glass slipper, the owner will dock my pay."
"You're mean," Rebecca muttered, but she smiled too. She realized how silly she sounded. "Fine. But tomorrow night... you better finish it."
"We'll see," Lencar waved her off. "Goodnight, Cinder-Becca."
"Don't call me that!" she laughed, throwing the dishcloth at him (which he caught without looking) and running up the stairs.
Lencar listened until her door clicked shut.
The smile vanished from his face instantly. The warmth in the room seemed to evaporate, replaced by the cold, blue light of his mana.
He walked to the kitchen. The sink was full of dirty pots from dinner.
Lencar didn't scrub them. He flicked his wrist.
[Water Utility Magic]: [Flowing Scour]
[Wind Utility Magic]: [Dry Cycle]
Water swirled silently in the basin, scrubbing the grease with centrifugal force, followed by a blast of warm air. In thirty seconds, the kitchen was sterile.
"Domestic duties: Complete," Lencar whispered.
He pulled his hood up. The storyteller was gone. The Heretic was back.
[Spatial Magic]: [Coordinate Jump]
The air warped. Lencar stepped through the rift, leaving the home of fairy tales for the grim reality of the hunt.