"So?... how are you going to make your first move?" I asked, leaning against a railing on the rooftop of an office building.
Below us was a construction site, a perfect place for an ambush.
The two Black Hand assassins, a man and a woman, were down there, patrolling the area. They thought they were the hunters. They didn't know that they were the prey.
Ron, now fully armored and masked, was crouching beside me, peering over the edge of the building. He had been silent for the past ten minutes, just observing, planning.
"I... I'll go down and... confront them?" he suggested, his voice uncertain.
"No," I said sharply, barely able to resist slapping him behind the head. "That's what an idiot would do. You are not an idiot. You are a predator. Predators don't announce their presence. They stalk. They wait for the perfect moment to strike."
"Then... what should I do?" he asked, a hint of frustration in his voice.
"Think, Ron," I said, my tone patient but firm. "Use your environment. Use your strengths. What are your strengths?"
"Stealth... and daggers," he answered after a moment.
"Good," I said. "And what are their weaknesses?"
"They... they don't know I'm here," he said, a glimmer of understanding in his voice.
"Exactly," I said. "They're overconfident. They're not expecting an attack. They're just... patrolling. They're vulnerable. Now, how can you use that to your advantage?"
He was quiet for a long time, his masked face turned towards the construction site below. I could see the gears turning in his head, the boy assassin slowly piecing together a plan.
Finally, Ron spoke.
"The woman is staying close to the main building while the man keeps circling the outer perimeter," he said slowly. "They separate every few minutes."
"Go on." I raised an eyebrow.
"If I take out the man first, the woman won't notice immediately. The construction equipment blocks her line of sight." His plan was taking shape.
"Interesting." A small smile tugged at my lips.
Ron pointed toward a stack of steel beams.
"I can climb down the unfinished elevator shaft, move between the containers, and get behind him."
"And then?"
"I kill him."
Simple.
Direct.
Efficient.
I liked it.
"Then what?" I pressed.
"I..." He hesitated.
"The woman investigates when he misses his next check-in," he answered.
"Wrong," I said.
"Huh?"
"Assassins don't investigate missing partners immediately. They assume incompetence first. Trust me. The Black Hand recruits many things. Competent people aren't always one of them."
Ron nodded slowly.
"Watch." I pointed toward the construction site.
Down below, the male assassin checked his communicator.
Nothing.
He shrugged and continued walking.
Exactly as expected.
"They grow comfortable," I explained. "Routine creates blindness. Blindness creates openings."
These two I specifically chose to be Ron's 'first' human kill; they were mid-to-low D-rank with no awakening skills. Not too weak to be a waste, but not strong enough to pose a real threat.
Moreover, they have a reputation for arrogance and sloppy execution.
Perfect training dummies.
Ron stared at the target. His hands, I noticed, were steady now.
I could practically hear his heartbeat from here.
Excitement.
Fear.
Determination.
'Good,' I thought.
Fear kept people alive. The moment you stopped being afraid was the moment you got careless.
"The man first," Ron said.
"The man first," I agreed.
"And the woman afterward."
I nodded.
"Now you're thinking like a killer."
The compliment made him straighten slightly.
"Go," I commanded softly.
Ron didn't hesitate.
He simply slipped over the edge of the rooftop like a shadow given form, descending the unfinished elevator shaft with surprising grace. The new armor clung to him, dampening every scrape of metal and rustle of fabric. I remained above, watching with crossed arms, my white eyes glowing red as I activated my "Vampire Sight" skill.
I could see the heartbeats of the two assassins below. One steady, one slightly faster.
And further below the ground floor, I could see a dozen rats.
According to the memories of the two cyborgs I ate.
This place is a warehouse for the Black Hand. Inside are monster cores they illegally obtained and, of course, drugs.
Our spoils of war.
But for now, I must focus on Ron, and to make sure nothing goes wrong, I ordered Umbra to slip inside his shadow. My panther will not intervene unless Ron's life is in immediate danger.
Ron reached the ground floor, crouching behind a large shipping container.
His movements were slow and measured now. He showed no fear or hesitation about what he was doing; instead, there was a strange kind of rhythm in his steps.
The reason was simple.
I suppressed his emotions using a special drug that came with the armor.
I mean, how could an eighteen-year-old boy possibly kill someone without crying like a baby?
I couldn't give him a chance to develop a conscience. Mercy was a liability. Hesitation was a death sentence. So I'd chemically cauterized that part of him, temporarily.
All that remained was cold, calculating purpose.
His target was less than twenty meters away, pacing the perimeter with a bored, arrogant swagger. He was a broad-shouldered man with cybernetic arms glinting in the dim light. Low-tier. Cheap chrome for muscle, not finesse.
Stupid enough to die.
Ron chose his moment.
His target turned to inspect a faulty floodlight on the far side of the site.
It was the opening Ron needed.
He slipped out from behind the shipping container, moving with a fluid, silent speed that almost made me proud. The distance between him and the broad-shouldered assassin closed rapidly.
Ten meters. Five meters. Three.
Ron reached into his thigh sheath, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of his black dagger.
But as he raised the weapon to plunge it into the junction where the man's neck met his cheap cybernetic shoulder, his boot caught on a rusted piece of rebar jutting out from the dirt.
'Of course.' My brow twitched. 'Perfect execution, right up until amateur hour.'
Instead of a clean, cinematic execution, Ron forward-tripped into an utterly ungraceful, pathetic stumble. His arms flailed wildly, and his shoulder slammed hard right into the assassin's lower back. The impact sent both of them crashing heavily into the dirt with a loud, dust-kicking thud.
"What the fuck—!" the assassin roared, spinning around on the ground in a blind panic.
It was an absolute mess of an ambush, a complete failure of stealth. Yet, this was where Ron's absurd 'dodge luck' manifested in the most bizarre way. As the assassin scrambled backward, his mechanical right arm instinctively whirled around, a hidden blade extending from his wrist aimed straight for Ron's throat.
At that distance, it should have decapitated him.
But because Ron had tripped so spectacularly, his momentum caused him to awkwardly slide forward on his stomach, his chin scraping the dirt. The deadly wrist-blade whistled a mere millimeter above the back of his helmet, slicing nothing but empty air.
To anyone else, it looked like a clumsy accident. But through my Vampire Sight, I saw the terrifying truth. The probability of that blade missing a prone target at point-blank range was practically zero, yet the universe had bent itself to accommodate his clumsiness.
"What is this? A luck law or something?" I whispered to myself.
Before the assassin could register the miss or raise his heavy cybernetic arm again, Ron's drug-induced, cold focus took over. He didn't panic. Capitalizing on his awkward position on the ground, he lunged forward from his knees like a striking snake, driving his left dagger upward, straight under the man's jaw.
The enchanted blade tore through flesh and bone, burying itself deep into the man's brain.
"Urk—" The assassin's eyes widened, the faint blue light of his cybernetic implants flickering violently before going completely dark. His massive body went limp, pinning Ron's arm for a brief second.
Ron didn't waste time processing what just happened. He pulled his dagger free, rolling the heavy corpse off himself, and immediately dragged the dead man by his mechanical legs into the dark gap between the shipping containers.
He didn't shake. He didn't gasp. The emotion-suppressing drug was doing its job perfectly; his mind remained a flatline of cold execution.
Wiping the blood off his blade on the dead man's jacket, Ron peeked around the corner of the container.
Across the construction site, near the main building, the female assassin was still pacing. The noise from the scuffle had been muffled enough by the distant city traffic that she hadn't noticed a thing. She stopped near a concrete pillar, lighting a cigarette, her face illuminated by the tiny orange flame.
Ron blended back into the shadows, navigating the terrain with extreme caution this time, making sure to watch his step. He moved past a massive excavator, using the heavy machinery to block her line of sight, closing the distance like a ghost.
She took one step, and Ron stepped out from the darkness to meet her.
This time, there was no tripping.
The woman's eyes widened as she caught sight of the terrifying, angular metal mask and the narrow, glowing red eye slits. Her hand flew toward the mana-infused machete at her waist, her mouth opening to scream.
But Ron was already in motion.
He lunged, his short sword unsheathed from his back in a fluid, silver arc. The high-quality blade sliced through the air, cutting her cry short before it could even form, burying itself deep into her chest. The sheer momentum of the thrust slammed her hard against the concrete pillar behind her.
She thrashed for a split second, her fingers clawing weakly at the reinforced material of Ron's armored forearms, but her strength quickly vanished. Her head snapped back, her eyes rolling into her head as life left her body.
Ron pulled the short sword out with a wet, heavy schlick, letting her corpse slide down the concrete pillar into a crumpled heap.
Silence returned to the construction site.
I pushed myself off the rooftop railing and vaulted over the edge. My body landed softly on the balls of my feet, not making a single sound as I touched down behind Ron.
Ron turned to face me, his chest heaving slightly from the physical exertion, but his expression—hidden behind the mask—was entirely calm. He reached up, unbuckling the helmet and pulling it off. His face was pale, sweat matting his hair to his forehead, but his eyes were completely steady. No tears. No regret. Just a blank canvas waiting to be painted.
"I... I did it, Sister Azariel," he said, his voice flat, devoid of the boyish hesitation he usually possessed.
"The first one was an absolute embarrassment," I said, walking up to him and crossing my arms. "A disciple of mine tripping like a toddler?"
"I will correct my footwork." Ron lowered his head slightly.
"But," I continued, a slow, predatory smile spreading across my lips as I reached out and patted his armored shoulder. "The second one was flawless. Fast, silent, and decisive. You didn't hesitate. You didn't show mercy. You behaved like a true predator."
Hearing my praise, a tiny, subtle spark of pride broke through the drug's suppression in his eyes.
"Clean your blades and strip them of their storage rings," I commanded, turning my gaze toward the basement entrance of the unfinished building. "We have a warehouse full of monster cores and credits waiting for us downstairs. The Black Hand wanted to play the role of hunters, but tonight, we take everything they own."