'And done,' thought Cier as he quietly made his way toward Aron's lifeless body.
Moving with practiced precision, he slipped on a pair of gloves before crouching next to the corpse. His hands moved swiftly, searching through the man's pockets and belongings. The room was deathly silent, save for the faint rustle of clothing and the occasional clink of metal.
After a brief moment, Cier stood up, examining the items he had gathered. Resting in his hands was a small leather bag filled with silver coins—around seventy by his rough estimate. Alongside it was a glass bottle containing a murky green liquid, its contents unfamiliar yet intriguing. Finally, there was a crumpled note, slightly stained, which caught his attention.
"Let's see," thought Cier as he carefully unfolded the crumpled note, his eyes scanning the uneven handwriting.
"Take your gang underground for a month. The Halton family has started to purge smaller forces tied to us. Lay low and avoid drawing attention until further notice."
Along with these words, a green symbol resembling a whirlwind was imprinted at the bottom of the note.
'So, the one who published the task was from the Halton family,' thought Cier.
The Halton family was no small name. They were considered a behemoth in the outer city and a dominant force in the inner city, ranking just below the four absolute powers—the City Lord, the Ignel Family, the Borh Family, and the Blackhoof Trading Company.
Still, it was all meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Without the consent of these four forces, even the Halton family couldn't openly destroy the Gale Brotherhood, no matter how much they wanted to. Doing so would destabilize the already chaotic outer city, something none of the major forces were willing to allow.
And even more so, as most of the prominent outer city forces had ties to one of these four behemoths.
Still, the Halton family commanded a certain level of respect. Even the four dominant powers had to give them some face, as long as their actions didn't cross any major lines.
Thus, a subtle game of power and influence was formed between them.
The ones who bore the brunt of this conflict were the small subordinate forces tied to the Gale Brotherhood, mere pawns sacrificed.
Shaking his head, Cier continued checking the bodies one by one.
The first few yielded nothing of significance—just a handful of silver and copper coins. Frustration started to creep in as he stood up, preparing to move to the next body.
Suddenly, an icy chill raced through his entire body.
A sharp pain erupted in his chest, stealing his breath. Confused, his eyes drifted downward, only to see the glint of a dagger piercing through his chest, its tip dripping red.
Time seemed to slow as a sudden, searing pain gripped Cier's neck. His vision spun violently, and he realized—horrifyingly—that he was seeing the world from midair.
Through the spinning haze, he caught sight of a figure cloaked in black, a hood concealing most of the man's face. On his chest glinted a badge etched with the symbol of a green whirlwind.
In each of the man's hands was a dark green dagger—one still protruding from Cier's chest, the other mid-swing, blood dripping from its edge as though it had just finished its deadly arc.
With his fading vision, Cier watched as his headless body collapsed to the ground. Darkness enveloped him entirely.
Watching Cier's headless body collapse to the ground and his severed head land a short distance away, its lifeless eyes still wide in shock, the assassin sneered with disdain.
"Tsk, these rats really dare to challange our Gale Brotherhood," he muttered, his voice tinged with irritation.
He had been watching the entire scene unfold ever since Aron had entered the warehouse. Patiently waiting in the shadows, he struck only when Cier's guard was at its weakest—a clean, effortless kill.
"Bah, just because we don't dare touch the Halton family doesn't mean any random rat can dance on our heads," the man grumbled, spitting in disgust toward Cier's now motionless body.
Stepping toward the corpse, he knelt and began rifling through the belongings with practiced efficiency. Most of it was mundane—silver coins, copper coins, and one particularly notable find: a small bottle of translucent green liquid.
The assassin's eyes widened with surprise before a sly grin crept across his face.
"Heh, seems answering the gang's orders brought me more profit than expected. Ninety silvers and… well, would you look at that? A low-grade healing potion," he chuckled, holding the bottle up to inspect it more closely. "This alone costs about 8-9 gold coins. Didn't think that fool Aron had it in him to get his hands on something this valuable."
He smirked to himself, recalling the orders from the Gale Brotherhood. The gang had assigned some of their men to keep watch over a few subordinate forces, just in case anyone dared to cause trouble. He was specifically told to keep an eye on the Clemine gang and deal with any "mouse" that dared to oppose them. It was their way of sending a message—reminding everyone that not just anyone could challenge the Gale Brotherhood and get away with it. This fool had learned that lesson the hard way.
Smirking at his gain, he took one last look toward Cier's fallen body.
But his smirk froze. Shocked, he realized that where the headless body had been lying was now a headless toy puppet. The severed head too was no longer human but a puppet head, its face twisted into a creepy smile that seemed to mock him.
Alarm bells rang in his mind. Instincts flared, and without hesitation, he activated his ability. As he ran forward, his movements became silent, his footsteps no longer making a sound. His already impressive speed doubled, propelling him toward the door with unnatural swiftness. He had witnessed Cier's terrifying abilities firsthand—there was no way he would dare face them head-on.
He wasn't foolish enough to die here with the Clemine gang. Even if there were tens of Clemine gangs, all of them together wouldn't be as important as him.
In an instant, he had crossed twenty meters, the distance closing between him and freedom. But just as he neared the exit, something went wrong. His foot slipped, his leg taking an unexpected turn, and before he could react, his body was sent crashing to the ground.
The speed of his fall carried him a few meters, his momentum propelling him across the rough, unforgiving floor. His hand, unprotected, scraped against the ground, a sharp sting coursing through him as blood poured from the gash.
Though he was an evolved human—stronger, faster, and more resilient than an average man—the impact still took its toll. His enhanced body was better equipped to handle the force, but it wasn't invincible. His bones didn't snap, but they groaned under the pressure. His palms were shredded, blood staining the ground beneath him. The pain in his arms and legs pulsed with every heartbeat, and his spine ached, the shock of the fall seizing him momentarily.
Despite his strength, he could feel his body protesting. His mind, still sharp, tried to push past the pain, but the fall had left him disoriented and vulnerable.
He tried to get up, but his body refused to cooperate, the pain from the fall still crippling him. His muscles screamed in protest, and the blood loss made his vision blur. He could barely lift himself, the weight of his own injuries too much to bear.
Suddenly, there was a whizzing sound in the air—sharp and cutting through the silence. Before he could even open his mouth, a dozen knives and blades seemed to appear out of nowhere, slicing through the air with deadly precision. They struck him all at once, each one embedding itself deep into his body.
The force of the impact caused his body to shake, the pain hitting him like a wave. He tried to move, tried to scream, but his breath caught in his throat. The blades were relentless, and within moments, they had rendered him immobile, pinned to the ground.
His body shuddered one last time as the pain surged through him, and then, all at once, everything went quiet. His eyes, once filled with defiance, slowly lost their light, and he fell into a still, silent state, his life fading with the flicker of a flame in the dark.