Part 1: Retirement (3)

Fathom walked along the docks.

The sky was clear and blue, and the sea was calm, without a single wave. Fishing boats lined up in an orderly fashion, as quiet and still as sleeping children.

‘This damned weather…’

Fathom clicked his tongue inwardly.

Although the weather was pleasant, the cold was brutal.

The salty sea breeze felt as sharp as a razor blade. It wasn’t the beard but his skin that seemed to be getting sliced.

Each breath he exhaled came out in a puff of white steam.

Fathom quickened his pace.

As he glanced around, he spotted the person he was looking for.

The man was standing at the end of the breakwater, staring blankly at the sea.

His personality was hard to understand, but his habits were easy to predict. He seemed determined to live up to his name.

Clark was always at this spot at this time of day.

Despite standing in the middle of the biting winter wind, Clark didn’t seem the least bit cold.

Fathom couldn’t tell if he was pretending not to be cold or if he genuinely didn’t feel it.

What was certain was that Clark was one of the guild’s most peculiar individuals.

His assassination skills were exceptional, but his social skills? Zero.

Human relationships? Also a failure.

Wheeeet!

Fathom whistled as he approached Clark from behind. It was his way of signaling, ‘I’m a comrade, don’t attack.’

Standing beside him, Fathom said, “Spacing out again today?”

“No, I’m training.”

“Training? Spacing out is a form of training now? Some kind of meditation?”

“I’m training to read the sea.”

Clark’s reply was curt, but it didn’t make much sense.

How could a person read the sea?

The old saying, You can know the depths of water but not the depths of a person’s mind, was clearly false.

There was nothing easier to understand than people. Humans were always selfish.

On the other hand, the sea was ever-changing and unreadable.

“Soon, the anchovies will leap.”

“What are you, telepathic with anchovies?”

“If you observe, you’ll see.”

Fathom was about to scoff, but he stopped short, startled.

A school of anchovies leaped out of the water, just as Clark had said. Reflecting the sunlight, they formed a shimmering silver rainbow.

Fathom suddenly felt the need to amend his earlier thought.

Understanding people might be easy… but only if Clark wasn’t one of them.

“You returned from your mission yesterday, right?”

“I did.”

“What was it about?”

“I killed a priest who assaulted a devotee.”

“Hah. Priests are all the same, aren’t they? Always calling on their god with their lips while scheming behind everyone’s back.”

The conversation ended there.

It wasn’t going anywhere.

But Fathom wasn’t one to give up so easily.

“Feeling bored? Want to try a tarot reading?”

“Tarot cards? What’s the point? If you keep asking the same question, you’ll just get different answers every time.”

“Don’t take it so seriously. It’s just for fun.”

Fathom pulled a deck of tarot cards from his robe pocket.

It was his habit to read his fortune before going on a mission.

Shff! Shff! Shff!

He shuffled the cards and held them out to Clark.

“Pick one yourself. It has to have your energy.”

Clark drew a card and flipped it over.

The card showed a skeleton in a black robe holding a scythe, with a gloomy graveyard in the background.

It was Fathom’s least favorite card.

“Tsk, tsk. The Death card, huh? Your luck’s terrible today. If you’ve got a mission, you might want to avoid it. You could die, you know.”

Clark said nothing.

As Fathom was collecting the cards, his eyes met Clark’s.

For a moment, Clark’s pupils seemed to glint with a violet hue.

A mysterious energy swept through Fathom’s body, leaving a damp sense of hostility behind.

It was an indescribable gaze.

“You’d better watch out for bird droppings,” Clark said suddenly.

“Bird droppings? Out of nowhere?”

“Just a feeling.”

“Well, well. Looks like you can make jokes. Too bad they’re awful.”

Fathom clicked his tongue.

“The Master’s looking for me, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. I don’t get why he always wants to see you.”

“It’s better you don’t know.”

The two began walking side by side.

At the end of the breakwater, they parted ways—Clark heading east toward the guild’s headquarters, and Fathom going west toward the market.

As Fathom glanced back at Clark’s retreating figure, he thought about how, even after three years of knowing him, Clark was still an enigma.

What was he thinking? What did he feel? Fathom had no idea.

Sometimes, he wondered if Clark wasn’t a person at all, but a ghoul in human guise.

Lost in thought, he failed to notice…

Splat!

Startled, Fathom looked at his shoulder.

A sticky, unpleasant sensation greeted him.

Turning his head, he saw it: white, slimy bird droppings smeared on his shoulder.

An expert assassin, hit by something as mundane as bird poop.

If that wasn’t humiliating, what was?

Cursing under his breath, he pulled out a handkerchief to clean it off.

He considered using his dagger to bring the offending seagull down, but it was already long gone, crying mockingly in the distance.

‘What a way to start the day.’

Grumbling, Fathom suddenly remembered Clark’s words.

Clark had said he might get hit by bird droppings.

At the time, Fathom dismissed it as a silly joke. Yet here he was, living proof of Clark’s prediction.

Whipping his head around, Fathom searched for Clark.

But Clark was already gone.

*  *  *

‘Not bad.’

Aiden, watching from a distance, nodded in satisfaction as Fathom dealt with the bird droppings.

He had used The Eye of Insight on Fathom.

The Eye of Insight allowed him to glimpse a person’s immediate future.

To others, it might seem like an incredible power, but to Aiden, it wasn’t particularly remarkable.

Among the abilities he possessed, it was just average.

In the guild, Aiden was known as Clark, an expert-ranked assassin.

But his name, his rank, and his identity were all fabricated.

Only the Master knew Aiden’s true self.

Step. Step.

Aiden began walking again.

As the sun rose and morning broke, the city stirred to life. Shopkeepers busied themselves arranging displays or sweeping their courtyards.

On his way to the guild, Aiden’s thoughts wandered back to the tarot card.

Of course, he didn’t believe in trivial card readings, not even for amusement.

But regarding the Death card he had drawn himself…

Regarding death…

For once, it gave him something to ponder.

Aiden wasn’t afraid of death.

He owned nothing and desired nothing, so he could die at any moment without regret.

The desires and emotions that an ordinary person should naturally possess were absent in Aiden.

To survive, he had to annihilate the human parts of himself.

But this led to an ironic outcome.

Aiden survived, but he couldn’t be certain he was truly alive.

Through the erosion of blood, death, and corpses, Aiden had become like a weathered rock.

He was already strong enough, but he did harbor a desire to grow even stronger.

Though, strictly speaking, it wasn’t a desire in the human sense. It was a mechanical yearning, devoid of emotion.

It was like…

The impulse to sharpen a blade further.

For Aiden, strength wasn’t about self-fulfillment; it had a purely functional significance.

Who could possibly kill someone like him now?

If such a person existed, he would like to meet them.

Just as his thoughts began to veer into unnecessary directions, Daniel’s tavern came into view.

Aiden stepped inside.

The previous evening’s commotion had vanished entirely.

The tavern was silent.

“Clark, good morning. The Master’s looking for you,” Daniel greeted warmly from behind the counter.

“I know.”

“Want something simple for breakfast?”

Aiden shook his head.

“Now that I think about it, I’ve never seen you eat anything… Don’t tell me you’re secretly living off dew like a fairy.”

“You caught me,” Aiden replied dryly as he walked past the counter and into the kitchen.

He pushed against the northern wall of the kitchen, and with a creak, it pivoted open.

A dark passage was revealed.

After traversing the damp, eerie corridor and descending a spiral staircase for some time, Aiden arrived at a wooden door.

He entered the Master’s office.

The Master stood with his hands behind his back, examining a map of the continent.

“Reporting back from my mission.”

“No need. The rumors from the Grand Duchy are faster than any report,” the Master said, turning to face him.

[Father of Rogues]

Rogue Master Fleta locked eyes with Aiden.

Fleta was a lean, middle-aged man.

His appearance and demeanor were so unassuming that even seconds after meeting him, one might feel as though they were seeing him for the first time.

But to Aiden, Fleta was the only person on the continent he respected.

Fleta was shrewd and decisive.

He was the first to recognize Aiden’s talents.

He was like a father, supporting Aiden through thick and thin to achieve his current prowess.

“The Duke… He caused quite a stir even before the suppression squad returned. Sent out messengers to broadcast their ‘achievements’ everywhere. Meanwhile, the ones who actually put in the effort get no recognition.”

“I didn’t work that hard either,” Aiden shrugged.

“You’re not hurt, are you?”

“If I couldn’t handle a 29th-ranked demon, I’d have quit long ago.”

“I’ve known you since you were barely more than a kid, but I never imagined you’d become this strong. Treating high-level demons like goblins… Time really flies and spares no one.”

“And what about the suppression squad? Were they unharmed?” Aiden asked, shifting the focus.

The survival of the squad, led by the Swordmaster’s youngest son from the Magna family, was the mission’s true crux.

“About thirty were injured, they say. That’s because the monsters under Astaroth weakened after his death.”

“I only asked just in case. I was worried the young heir might have acted recklessly.”

“And you’re old now?” Fleta quipped with a faint smile.

Only the Master knew Aiden’s real age.

“Let me ask you one thing,” Fleta said suddenly.

“Anything.”

“If I had faced Astaroth myself, how would it have gone?”

“You might’ve struggled, but you’d have defeated him,” Aiden replied confidently.

“Am I still fit for active duty?”

“There’s no one in the guild who can match you in assassination, aside from me,” Aiden answered matter-of-factly.

He wasn’t trying to flatter Fleta.

Aiden’s way of speaking was simple: state only what was true.

“Any missions for me next?”

“You just returned yesterday, and you’re already looking for another mission?”

“A wheel has meaning only when it’s rolling,” Aiden replied.

“A person isn’t a wheel.”

“And a wheel isn’t a person,” Aiden shot back.

His response reflected exactly how he viewed himself.

For a moment, a flicker of complicated emotion crossed Fleta’s face.

“I suppose I can’t put this off any longer. Fine. I’ll give you the mission you want so badly.”

“……”

“As of today, you’re retired. Pack your things and leave the guild immediately.”

Fleta’s terse order left a long silence in its wake.

In the heavy stillness, their gazes clashed, tangled, and locked again in cycles.

Eventually, Aiden broke the silence.

“Master… You’re not joking, are you?”
 

To be continued

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