Lord of Mysteries: The Assassin's Dark Path

The hooded figure across from Varina barely lifted their eyelids, glancing at the contract he had presented.

With a dismissive tone, they said:

"Employer? You sure think highly of yourself.

Let me make this clear: we have clients, not employers. We're not some errand boys.

And as for attitude, why should I care? You're paying the fee, but I don't see a single penny of it. Don't expect me to lick your boots."

After the rebuttal, the hooded figure's tone softened slightly:

"So, what are you here for?"

Varina didn't take offense at the attitude. As long as it didn't interfere with his business, it was tolerable. Suppressing a twinge of unease, he replied calmly:

"I said it already—I'm dissatisfied with your organization. I'm here to cancel the contract."

The hooded figure burst out laughing:

"Ha! I thought as much.

"You know, someone came to me this afternoon, claiming their contract was stolen. And now, here you are tonight, canceling a job."

"And what does that have to do with me?" Varina feigned ignorance, then added pointedly, "Are you trying to back out of the deal?"

"Back out? Absolutely not!"

The hooded figure shook their head repeatedly. "We're a reputable organization—our credibility is paramount.

"And you're right, someone losing their contract has nothing to do with us. I only acknowledge the contract holder, and since it's in your hands, that makes you the client."

They affirmed Varina's status as a client and began following protocol:

"According to Clause 3 of the supplementary binding terms, the client has the right to cancel the contract at any time before its completion. Your request will be honored."

They extended a hand, motioning for the contract.

After taking the document, the hooded figure carefully read it from start to finish before confirming:

"The contract was established eight days ago. If you cancel now, per the terms, I can only refund two-thirds of your deposit. Is that acceptable?"

"Not really," Varina countered. "If it's been eight days, why am I losing two days' worth of the refund?"

"Rules are rules," the figure said flatly. "Or would you prefer we calculate down to the hour and minute?"

"Fine, I'll accept it," Varina relented.

The hooded figure nodded and asked for final confirmation:

"Are you sure you want to cancel the contract?"

"One last question before I decide," Varina interjected. "If I confirm, will I receive my refund immediately?"

"Of course."

"Then I confirm."

The hooded figure took out a specialized square stamp, pressed it onto the contract, and filed the paperwork away. Only then did they speak again:

"The deposit was 250 pounds. Two-thirds refund means 166 pounds, 13 soli, and 4 pence."

Before Varina could finish mentally calculating, the hooded figure had already done so.

They rummaged through their wallet, producing a 150 pounds bearer cheque, followed by 16 pounds in cash. Then, they asked:

"Would it be alright to count the remaining amount as a service fee?"

"No, that's too much," Varina objected, fishing out 7 soli from his pocket. "Take this, and keep the extra 4 pence as a tip—buy yourself a Southville beer."

"Stingy."

The hooded figure grumbled unhappily but still handed over a 1 pounds note to make up the difference.

Outwardly composed, Varina pocketed the largest sum of money he'd ever seen, though inwardly, he was ecstatic.

"Anything else?" the figure asked, noticing Varina lingering.

"Just curious—what's your organization called? Is this your only contact point? It's so remote that coming here is quite a hassle."

"For your own good, don't ask what you don't know." The figure's tone turned icy. "You can leave now."

Recognizing the warning, Varina nodded and left.

Upon exiting the VIP passage, he returned the cloak he'd borrowed, thanks to a reminder from the attendant, and walked home, humming an unfamiliar tune.

Unbeknownst to Varina, his movements in and out of the VIP passage hadn't gone unnoticed. He had become Kirk's primary target of suspicion.

---

At the Docks

At the border of the Dead Eel Gang's and the Gray Rats' territories, tensions reached a boiling point.

A negotiation between the two gangs had collapsed, and a street brawl was imminent.

Mad Ghost Kent, leader of the Dead Eel Gang, had marched onto his turf with over a hundred men, ostensibly to settle scores. At least, that's how Eugene, the Gray Rats' boss, interpreted the situation.

Kent was typically a cunning and composed individual, but he was also prone to bouts of irrational madness—like now. This unpredictability had earned him the moniker Mad Ghost Kent.

Eugene, backed by an even larger group, tried one last time to negotiate:

"Kent, I'm telling you one more time—I didn't send anyone to steal from you!

"Look around. This is my turf. I've got more people here! Are you trying to get your men killed?"

Behind him, his gang members roared in support, adding weight to Eugene's words.

Across the street, Kent's face twisted with anger, his muscles twitching in barely contained rage.

He didn't believe Eugene for a second. All he knew was that his pride had been bruised, and he needed to hit back twice as hard.

Otherwise, how could he maintain his authority as a leader?

Kent shouted back:

"Eugene, you cowardly rat!

"There's nothing to talk about. I'm taking this block tonight! If you care about your men, retreat now, and I promise not to chase you down."

Negotiations collapsed entirely.

Two nearby constables, sensing trouble, quietly slipped away. Later, they would report that they had tried their best to mediate the conflict but that Kent's madness made peace impossible.

The gangs clashed violently, and the sounds of battle echoed through the streets.

Residents in the area, already accustomed to such chaos, had locked their doors and windows long before the fighting began. Though frightened, they remained relatively unharmed—it wasn't their first time witnessing such events.

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