"I strongly advise against it, Your Highness," Roman said, his voice low and steady. "You’ve just insulted the Fourth Prince’s faction in public. If the Ragos family takes offense, retaliation won’t take long."
He paused to let the aning settle.
"They’re known for their assassins... and they rarely miss."
Fenric sighed and ran a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated.
"Tch... so we’re just heading back now?"
Myria stayed quiet. Roman didn’t argue.
They walked in silence back to the carriage that waited outside the estate gates. Fenric stepped inside first, followed by Myria and Roman. The carriage began to roll down the cobbled path, the city slowly passing by outside the windows.
A few minutes later, as they crossed into a quieter street, Myria’s eyes narrowed. She shifted slightly in her seat, her hand already resting near her weapon.
"Sothing’s wrong," she said calmly.
Fenric straightened. "What is it?"
"Killing intent," she replied. "Soone’s approaching fast."
Roman glanced through the small rear window. "We’re being followed."
Fenric was about to respond when movent flickered outside.
Figures appeared—black-clad and masked—slipping out from alleys and rooftops, closing in on the moving carriage from all directions. They weren’t shouting or making a scene, just approaching with quiet, practiced steps.
"Assassins," Roman confird, drawing his sword. "Ragos style."
"Hmm, they are too untrained if even I can see them," Fenric muttered.
’I don’t think, they are here to Assassinate ’ Fenric thought, from the book he knows if the rciless Butcher is numbe one in assassinations, Ragos family is number two.
The carriage ca to a sudden stop as the driver likely noticed the threat. Myria opened the door and stepped out imdiately, calm and alert.
Twelve enemies.
Six from the sides, four on the rooftops, two already close, pretending to be part of the crowd.
Fenric though just calmly looked, as he he is now sure of it.
These weren’t here to kill him; they were here to scare him.
{Brat, are you just going to sit there while your guards do all the work?} Duserdis’s voice echoed in Fenric’s head, dry and sarcastic.
’What do you expect to do?!’ Fenric shot back. ’I’m barely at Soldier level—I’d be dead in a second out there!’
{At least you know your limits,} A low chuckle followed. {You’ve got the blood of three powerful people in you. Stop acting like a bystander. Train harder. In a year—or even six months—you’ll be strong enough to kill these types on your own. Until then, stay alive.}
Fenric nodded as he added, ’I know that, thanks for stating the obvious!’
{Exactly. And when you’re king, I’ll accept a nice palace room as paynt.}
Before Fenric could say anything else, one of the assassins moved.
No warning—just fast, clean motion—a curved blade aid for Fenric’s throat.
A silver flash.
The attacker collapsed instantly, head severed from his body. Myria had moved in the blink of an eye, her sword appearing in her hand as if by magic.
Roman was already gone from Fenric’s side.
One of the assassins flew backward, his chest crushed from a powerful strike. Roman stepped out of the recoil, calm and ready for more.
Ten attackers left.
They paused, reconsidering.
That hesitation was fatal.
Myria moved again, striking with precision. Each motion targeted weak points—joints, vital organs, nerves. She moved fast, clean, and without hesitation.
Another tried to throw a smoke bomb.
Roman intercepted him mid-air with a kick that shattered his ribs. Without wasting a second, he turned to the next.
Three ca at him.
He stepped forward.
All three were down in monts—broken necks, collapsed lungs, cracked spines.
Myria slashed through two others; one didn’t even realize what had happened before falling.
Only one assassin remained.
A young woman, her eyes glowing faintly with red mana. She hesitated. Her dagger shook in her grip.
Neither Roman nor Myria moved.
She turned to run.
She didn’t make it far.
A silver needle shot through her neck—fast, quiet, and precise.
She fell instantly.
Twelve attackers—not a single one escaped.
Fenric stayed inside the carriage, staring silently.
It was over.
Roman wiped blood from his gauntlet. "No hard feelings," he muttered.
Myria calmly sheathed her sword; she hadn’t even been touched.
"They weren’t top-tier," she said. "Their timing and positioning were off. Most likely sent as a test."
"Disposable," Roman agreed. "The ones behind this wanted to see how we’d respond."
"...This was a warning, actually," Fenric muttered.
Roman turned toward him. "A warning?"
"Yes," Fenric nodded. "The Ragos family knows that if they kill outright, the other factions will co down on them. So they didn’t send their best—they sent weaklings to make a point: to tell , if I ddle in the wrong place again, like with Drake... I’ll die."
Roman and Myria exchanged looks. Roman placed a hand firmly on Fenric’s shoulder. "Don’t worry. You have us. We’ll always protect you."
Fenric gave a small nod, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
The slaves I brought... so of them can be trained into powerful Warriors, but that’ll take ti. I need imdiate protection—sothing stronger, a backup plan.
He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, letting the rocking of the carriage calm his mind.
anwhile, Myria and Roman spoke telepathically.
"Isn’t His Highness... a little too calm?" Myria asked.
"Yes," Roman responded. "Back in training, one of the new recruits fainted just seeing a severed head, but he just watched a dozen die—and didn’t flinch."
Curious, Myria intentionally sent a severed assassin’s head sliding toward Fenric’s feet, just to test his reaction.
But when she looked over, Fenric was still as stone. His expression hadn’t changed at all: calm, cold, detached, like the head ant nothing.
"He’s not just any prince," she said, rembering his reaction at that ti. "His mind is already sharper than most veterans."
But the truth wasn’t entirely that simple.
Fenric had flinched—internally—when he saw the head.
The only reason his face remained composed... was because of a Trait tied to his class. It suppressed all negative emotions—fear, anxiety, and hesitation—keeping his mind clear and stable under pressure.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t afraid, but that fear couldn’t reach him.
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