Silently scaling the roof of the inn's third floor, Dara the "Shadow Assassin" allowed a cold, cruel smile to spread across his face.
As the leader of the Shadow Killers, his name was not one that echoed through the land—and that was precisely how he preferred it. After all, a killer who became too famous would never live to complete another mission. But anonymity did not equate to weakness. In the entire Kingdom of Wester, Dara prided himself on being among the top ten assassins in terms of skill and technique. Unlike those wandering ghosts who would kill for any price, however, Dara was not a mere mercenary. In truth, his family had served House Zachary for generations. Legend had it that the founder of House Zachary had fallen in love with a female assassin, who had become his most trusted lieutenant and loyal companion. To prove her devotion and protect her beloved's lineage, she had founded the Shadow Killers, an order dedicated to safeguarding House Zachary from all external threats.
But by Dara's generation, he had grown weary of this ancient duty. He had mastered the art of assassination to perfection—he had even been tasked with eliminating a High Swordsman once before. Though that target had possessed immense power, against the stealth and guile of a trained killer, even a High Swordsman's blade was rendered useless. Technically speaking, Dara's own combat prowess only ranked him as a Mid-level Swordsman, but he firmly believed his assassination skills far surpassed those of any High Swordsman. He was a killer, not a warrior—there was no honor in charging headlong into battle. Assassination was about precision, about striking once and killing instantly. In that regard, Dara was a master without peer.
*A High Swordsman...*
The memory of his foolish subordinates' awestruck whispers at the mere mention of the title made Dara scoff inwardly. Both his men and his fellow clansmen attributed his past success to blind luck, refusing to acknowledge his skill. It infuriated him to no end. Now, however, the perfect opportunity to prove himself had fallen right into his lap.
If killing one High Swordsman was luck, then what would killing two be? Would they still dare to dismiss his abilities then?
It was this burning desire for vindication that had driven Dara to single out Blake as his personal target. In his eyes, the young man was barely twenty—even if he truly possessed the strength of a High Swordsman, what of it? Young men were always reckless and hotheaded. Finding an opening to strike would be child's play.
In the blink of an eye, Dara had silently dropped down beside the guest room window. Holding his breath, he peered inside. Blake lay sprawled on the bed, sound asleep, his chest rising and falling in a deep, steady rhythm—completely oblivious to the danger creeping upon him. Worse still, his sword rested on a table far across the room. If attacked now, there would be no way for him to grab his weapon and defend himself in time.
*Amateur.*
Dara sneered to himself. He pulled a slender dagger from his belt and slid it into the gap between the window and its frame, quickly flicking the latch open with a practiced motion. Then, like a sleek black cat, he slipped inside. The wooden floorboards were old and warped, liable to creak at the slightest touch, but Dara's movements were so light and precise that not a single sound escaped him as his feet touched the ground.
*Perfect.*
His eyes scanned the room, searching for hidden traps or guards. Finding none, his confidence grew. From the moment he had witnessed Blake's ostentatious entrance in the border town, Dara had dismissed him as an arrogant upstart with a modicum of talent and an overinflated ego. True, the power of a High Swordsman was impressive, but not all who wielded such power possessed wisdom or restraint. Many grew conceited and careless after reaching such heights—and Dara had dealt with his fair share of such fools. Blake, in his estimation, was cut from the same cloth. Too young, too powerful, too reckless. He thought himself invincible, untouchable. That hubris would be his undoing.
*Another High Swordsman to add to my list...*
Dara moved along the wall, creeping closer to the bed. Moonlight streamed through the open window, illuminating Blake's youthful face. His eyes were still tightly shut, as if he were dreaming a sweet, peaceful dream... a dream that would soon turn into a permanent nightmare.
*Sleep well. May you never wake from this slumber.*
Dara's lips twisted into a cold sneer. He raised his obsidian dagger, its blade glinting faintly in the moonlight, and aimed it directly at Blake's throat.
Then, he struck—faster than lightning.
*Swish!*
Dara's speed was blinding, but Blake's reaction was faster. The dagger froze in mid-air, mere inches from piercing Blake's skin.
Dara's face paled. He stared in disbelief as two slender fingers clamped down on the blade, holding it immobile as if it were made of stone. He poured every ounce of strength into his arm, trying to drive the dagger forward, but it might as well have been embedded in solid steel. The blade, coated in a deadly poison that could kill a man in seconds, was utterly useless now.
*A trap!*
As a seasoned assassin, Dara's mind raced. He had no idea how Blake had detected him—he had been flawless in his approach—but one thing was certain: the assassination had failed. And for a killer, failure meant one thing: *retreat*. Blake was a High Swordsman, after all—Dara stood no chance in a direct confrontation.
Though he still harbored doubts about whether this young upstart truly deserved the title of High Swordsman, the fact remained that his weapon was now trapped. His assassination techniques had proven ineffective against this opponent. Whether Blake was a High Swordsman or not, staying here would only lead to his own death.
Dara made his decision in an instant. He released his grip on the dagger and leaped backward, abandoning all pretense of stealth. Speed was his only hope now. He was an assassin, not a martyr—he would never throw his life away for a failed mission.
*Especially not a mission against someone like this.*
He rolled across the floor, putting distance between himself and Blake, and whipped another dagger from his belt, hurling it at Blake to buy himself time. The entire sequence was executed in the blink of an eye—if he could just gain two more seconds, he would be out the window and gone.
But fate was not on his side.
A flash of black light streaked through the air.
Before Dara could even react, a searing pain exploded in his right palm. A tremendous force wrenched his arm backward, slamming him hard against the wall with a sickening *crack*. If he hadn't possessed the toughness of a Mid-level Swordsman, the impact alone would have shattered his ribs and killed him.
*No!*
Dara's eyes widened in horror as he looked down at his hand. The very dagger he had intended to use to kill Blake now protruded from his palm, pinning it firmly to the wooden wall behind him.
A wave of terror washed over him. His daggers were coated in a lethal poison—*instant death upon contact with blood*. So why was he still alive?
"An assassin? A killer?"
Blake's voice cut through the silence, calm and amused. Dara's head snapped up, his face contorted in pain as he forced himself to meet his opponent's gaze.
Blake was standing now, a lazy smirk playing on his lips as he twirled the second dagger— the one Dara had thrown at him—between his fingers. He walked slowly to the table, picking up his sword with casual ease.
"Your assassination technique is not half bad," Blake said, his eyes fixed on Dara. "Unfortunately, your control over your aura leaves much to be desired... Now then, killer. No need to look so tense. I have no intention of killing you. But I would appreciate it if you could call off your companions' futile attempts. Would that be possible?"
"Hmph!"
Dara let out a bitter snort, refusing to answer. Blake merely shrugged at his defiance. He flicked his wrist, sending the dagger in his hand flying toward the adjacent wall.
*Aaaagh!*
A scream of agony erupted from the next room before Dara could even process what was happening. At the same time, Blake drew his sword, a brilliant white soul-light blazing along its blade. He swung it casually—a crescent arc of soul energy tore through the wall with a deafening *boom*.
Through the gaping hole in the wall, Dara's eyes widened in despair. His men lay sprawled on the floor, injured and unconscious. The target they had been sent to kill—the young master of House Zachary—was also lying there, unconscious but unharmed. Dara had no idea what Blake had done, but one thing was crystal clear: their entire assassination mission had ended in utter failure.
"I'll give you one chance. I don't want to kill anyone tonight," Blake said, sheathing his sword and turning back to Dara. He let out a sharp whistle.
The door to the room swung open.
Ophelia stepped inside, her face a little pale. She shot Blake a reproachful glance.
"My lord, the next time you decide to stage a dramatic ambush, would you mind giving me a heads-up first? This sort of thing is terrible for my heart. It's positively terrifying."
"Don't worry," Blake replied, waving a hand dismissively. "You're already dead once. It's not like you can die of fright again."
He turned his attention back to Dara, his smirk widening.
"Now then. No need to look so worried. I mean you no harm... I simply wish to make a deal with your master."
"Huh?"
Dara blinked in confusion, his mind struggling to comprehend Blake's words. A deal? What was this young man playing at? Weren't they supposed to be escorting the young master back to House Zachary? His mission was to eliminate the boy—so what kind of deal could Blake possibly want to make?
"Go back and tell your master this," Blake said, ignoring Dara's bewilderment. He nodded toward the unconscious young master through the hole in the wall.
"I have delivered the goods safely. If he wishes to claim them, he will have to come and negotiate with me in person."
"And if my master refuses?" Dara asked, his voice hoarse with pain and suspicion.
Blake smiled, his eyes glinting with amusement as he glanced at the unconscious young master and his guards.
"Then I'll simply have to contact other interested buyers."
He said it casually, as if he were discussing the price of vegetables at the market.