Chương 89: B2 - Prologue

(New POV for Prologue / Interlude / Epilogue of Book 2 that will replace Leonard's!) The man beneath Kaelen let out a final, wet gasp and fell still, a trickle of blood escaping his lips. Across the old warehouse, amidst the bodies of his comrades, a lone survivor sat slumped against a wooden crate. He was trembling, breathing in ragged pants while clutching a bleeding wound in his chest. His gaze traveled from Kaelen's short dark hair down to the jagged 'X' scar on his cheek.

Kaelen spun the dagger in his right hand, his forearms resting on his knees as he remained seated on the dead man's chest.

"So," he began, his flat voice cutting through the room, "are you going to tell me what I want to hear?"

"H-he left two days ago for Henmont," the injured man stammered, wincing with every syllable.

"He knew th-the Empress would send Black Reapers a-after him."

Black Reapers, Kaelen thought, a flicker of contempt crossing his features. People gave the title far more weight than it deserved. He was a mere acolyte of those well-known assassins, not yet worthy of the name and likely never would be—and he didn't care. The fame and higher pay meant nothing when the title simply made you a more valuable slave. A disposable weapon for the Empress.

"Where in Henmont?"

"The adventurer outpost," the man gasped, fresh flecks of blood spattering his lips.

"He was going to hire protection. People that would dare face the Empress' men." With a sigh, Kaelen pushed himself off the corpse and walked toward the survivor, the dagger still rotating in his palm. The man's eyes widened with dawning horror.

"N-no, I—I told you what you wanted—" Before he could finish his plea, Kaelen's blade flashed across his throat. Blood sprayed in an arc, painting the splintered floorboards of the warehouse. The man fell to his side, his body convulsing for a few moments before finally going limp. His eyes rolled back into his head. As if hiring a few adventurers would make a difference. Just as Kaelen knelt to wipe his blade clean on the dead man's tunic, a door creaked open behind him.

A woman with the same dark hair, the same brown eyes, and an almost identical scar slicing from her left eyebrow to her cheek stepped inside. She was clad in dark leather armor, two daggers sheathed at her hips. Floria, his twin sister.

"Found anything?" she asked, cracking her neck.

"I killed all mine by accident before they could say anything useful."

"I have what we need," Kaelen answered, rising and sheathing his now-clean blade. As he walked past her toward the exit, she fell into step beside him.

"So, where is he?"

"Henmont." His sister threw her hands up in exasperation.

"Why in the hell does everyone run so far away? Don't they know by now that it's useless?" Kaelen rolled his eyes. Floria was always complaining, always acting on impulse. It was why she would likely never become a Black Reaper either—though unlike him, she desperately craved the title. Fame and recognition were all she wanted. That and vengeance. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

They both exited the warehouse, leaving the stench of blood behind and entering into a dark, narrow alley. They wove through the desolated neighborhood for a few minutes before emerging onto a more populated street. To the crowds they passed, they were likely just another pair of young adventurers; twins on their way to hunt a beast or fulfill a contract. No one would guess the two of them had just slaughtered twenty men for a single piece of information.

Kaelen was passing between two merchants when a large, bulky man barreled toward him. The man's shoulder slammed into his with a heavy thud, sending him stumbling to the side.

"Look where you're walking, midget," the man spat. Floria spun around, her hand dropping to the dagger at her thigh, though before her fingers could even touch the hilt, Kaelen's hand clamped her wrist. She glared first at the bulky man already walking away, then shot a look of fury at her brother.

"What are you do—""Let's go," Kaelen said, cutting her short before pulling her away. Floria strained against his grip, every muscle in her body wanting to dash back and carve a red line on that man's neck, but Kaelen knew her frustration was pointless. He was her supervisor on this mission; she had to obey. More than that, she simply didn't have the Strength to break his hold. He was Peak-Iron, and she was only Rank 35. The gap was too large to overcome.

"Why are you always like this?" Floria hissed once they were a dozen steps away, yanking her arm free as her brother loosen his grip.

"Letting people disrespect you when you could kill them in a heartbeat?" Kaelen kept walking, moving through the throng of merchants and passersby.

"It makes my work easier if no one fears me," he finally answered, his voice low.

"If they think I'm weak." His sister's lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line as she looked away. A few minutes later, a colossal palace came into view ahead, encircled by a high wall with a single, massive gate. Above the gray stones, a shimmering dome of aether pulsed with raw power. The castle's nine towers stretched toward the sky, their spires nearly scraping the clouds and making it clear this was a place for the empire's elite.

As they passed through the gate, Kaelen and Floria nodded to the two guards in the colors of the Bridan Empire, whose hands rested on long halberds. Inside, they immediately turned left, heading for a dark, dilapidated building that stood in stark contrast to the surrounding luxury. It was a sprawling, ramshackle barracks, threatening to collapse under its own weight. They stepped inside and walked to the far end of a long, dim hall, stopping before a door marked with the number '506.'

Kaelen pushed it open, revealing a spartan room with little more than two rusted-iron bedframes, their mattresses stuffed with what looked like dried weeds. As he was about to step inside, a tingling sensation shot up his spine. He spun, his hand instinctively reaching for his dagger. A figure had appeared in the hall, moving with a silence that defied the creaking floorboards. The man was cloaked and hooded in black, two large scythes strapped to his back.

Floria frowned at her brother's expression before finally realizing someone had crept up on them. It wasn't surprising she hadn't sensed a thing—very few Irons could detect the presence of a Gold-Tier Black Reaper, even from this close. Despite his uniquely high aether sensing, Kaelen had only managed to catch a faint ripple, like a drop of ice sliding into his veins.

"Kaelen, Floria," the man's voice was a dry rasp from the depths of his hood.

"Prepare your things. We're going to see the Empress." Always giving orders without a word of explanation, Kaelen thought, keeping his face neutral. He was supposed to feel grateful to that man since the Reaper had taken him and his sister in after their village had been raided and their parents slaughtered. But that gratitude had long since rotted. Especially after he'd learned the Black Reaper already knew who the culprit was… and had kept that information from him.

Likely because the one behind it was probably the relative of some higher-ups. As if that would stop Kaelen from killing them. The second he uncovered that person's name, he would hunt them down and slice their throat without any hesitation. The Empress and her little weapons can all be damned. Floria raised an eyebrow, her blunt nature taking over.

"Is it about our mission, sir?" Kaelen remained silent beside her. He knew it wasn't. Their mission was trivial, just another name on a long list of people one of the Empress' daughters wanted dead for some petty slight.

"No," the Black Reaper said before letting the silence stretch for a moment.

"It's about something else. She wants both of you and all the other acolytes to join a military squad."

"Soldiers from the army?" Floria asked, confusion etched across her face.

"Why, sir?" The man turned toward her, the shadows of his hood hiding most of his features. What little could be seen was utterly devoid of emotion.

"Because we're going to war."