The tavern was deathly quiet, the usual raucous noise smothered under a blanket of shame and failure. Alister de Clein stood rigid, his polished boots stark against the grimy floorboards as he surveyed the wreckage before him.
Hansel and Jonny stood with their heads bowed, clothes disheveled and stained. Behind them, a small army of thugs—at least three dozen—shifted uneasily. More than half were dusted head to toe in white flour, giving them the look of pathetic, haunted pastries.
Some cradled broken arms in makeshift slings. In the back, the massive brute held a melting block of ice to his head, his face pale. Even Hansel, their leader, bore the unmistakable, rounded mark of a cast-iron skillet on his temple.
Alister's gaze was a physical weight, his eyes simmering with a sheer, unreadable tension that was more frightening than any shouted curse.
"A pot… falling from the sky?" he repeated, his voice dangerously low and laced with disbelief. "A rolling pin?" He scanned their battered forms, waiting for the punchline to a joke he wasn't in on.
"What the hell do you mean," he snarled, the words cracking through the silence like a whip, "you got defeated by three people when I gave you enough coin to hire this… this army?"
The thugs flinched. Hansel swallowed hard, finding his voice. "My Lord, I… I think that Cassian Ahn has some sort of portable inventory. The cookware, the way it appeared out of nowhere—"
Alister waited a beat, then threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, barking sound with no humor in it. "Hah! A portable inventory?! That costs five platinum, you idiot! Even I don't have one! The Ahn family, drowning in debt, how could they possibly afford that?!"
"But the way they materialized—"
"Shut up!" Alister roared, the laughter vanishing instantly. "Give me an excuse that's even slightly believable!"
Jonny, desperate to defend himself, tried to speak. "My Lord, the thin—!"
He was cut off as Alister's fist, fueled by pure, incandescent rage, slammed into his face. The impact was sickeningly loud. Jonny staggered, a sharp cry escaping him before he choked it back, not daring to utter another word.
"And you! You fucking dimwit!" Alister seethed, shaking his stinging hand. "Do you have any idea what you've done? Do you think you have the right to speak? How dare you mention my name out there?!" His furious gaze swung to Hansel, who could only stare at the floor, knowing the professional sin was unforgivable.
"Do you fuckin—!" Alister raised his hand again, ready to unleash his fury fully.
A calm, smooth voice cut through the tension like a blade, freezing Alister mid-sentence.
"Now, now, Lord Alister. Do calm down. I must apologize for my subordinates'… profound failure."
Every head in the room, including Alister's, snapped toward the source. From the deep shadows of a corner booth, a man emerged. He was tall, draped in a long black coat, its hood drawn up to shroud his face in darkness. Yet, his presence was instantly recognizable, a chilling pressure that filled the room and stole the air.
"B-BIG BOSS!" the thugs chorused, bowing their heads in unison, their fear of Alister instantly eclipsed.
"The Black Knight…?" Alister muttered, his anger momentarily stunned into submission.
The Black Knight. A name spoken in whispers. The man was a living rumor, a specter of the capital's underbelly. It was said he was once the right hand of the Capital Protector himself, a prodigy with a blade who had sworn an oath to uphold justice.
But something had shattered that oath, twisting him into the undisputed, fearsome master of the Northern Slums, a man who commanded more loyalty and terror in the shadows than most nobles did in the sun.
The man glided forward, the sound of his boots on the floor the only noise. "Everyone," he said, his voice devoid of all emotion, "except for Hansel and Jonny. Get out."
The room emptied in a frantic, silent scramble. Within seconds, only the four of them remained. Hansel and Jonny stood petrified.
"Jonny," the Black Knight began, his hood tilting slightly. "What is the first rule in our field of work?"
"T-to keep the identity of our customer secret, sir," Jonny stammered, his body trembling.
"That's right. Bingo." The words were soft, almost conversational. "So, can you tell me what you did today?"
"I did wrong! But sir, I swear I will never do it agai—"
A flicker of steel—a blade so fast it was barely a gleam in the dim light. A wet, tearing sound followed.
Jonny's plea became a choked, gurgling scream as unbearable pain erupted in his mouth. Blood poured over his lips, splattering the floorboards as he collapsed to his knees, clutching his face. Hansel and Alister watched, frozen, saying nothing.
"Good," the Black Knight said, the blade already vanished. "With that, you won't have to make the same mistake again."
He knelt, bringing himself to eye level with the writhing Jonny, and whispered into his ear, the sound carrying perfectly in the dead silence. "Consider that a warning. For your nonsense-spouting mouth. Next time...well, there won't be one."
Alister watched the scene, the coppery tang of blood now thick in the air. A cold dread, entirely separate from his earlier rage, trickled down his spine.
'This man... even I can't control him,' he thought, his mind racing. 'I hired his organization, but I can't command him. He moves like a shadow and cuts like an executioner. If he ever turned that blade on me...'
As if reading his thoughts, the Black Knight rose smoothly from Jonny's shuddering form. The twisted, unseen smile was audible in his voice.
"This reflects poorly on my organization's reputation, Lord Alister. As an apology, I will personally oversee the reimbursement of your payment. And I will finish this job myself."
Hansel, still kneeling, jerked his head up, his eyes wide with sheer disbelief.
'The Boss himself... taking a field assignment?!' Hansel's mind reeled. 'He hasn't done that in years! Not since... the incident. A Duke with a private army wouldn't survive that. The only two in the capital rumored to be his match is the Capital Guard Knight Commander and the Capital Protector, the Emperor and Empresses' own shadow... What kind of hell is he about to unleash on that noble boy?'
Alister, shaken from his thoughts, latched onto a shred of his wounded pride. "Hmph. You expect me to trust you again? Your men couldn't handle a single noble. Perhaps I should have hired the Brutus gang from the south from the start. I hear they're far more—"
He never finished the sentence.
The air in the tavern didn't just grow cold; it became solid, suffocating, and thick with the promise of death. No windows broke, no tables shook, but every hair on Alister's arms stood on end.
The very light seemed to dim as an enormous, invisible aura of bloodlust pressed down on him, so potent he could taste iron on his tongue.
The Black Knight hadn't moved a muscle, but his hood seemed to cast a deeper darkness. His voice, when it came, was dangerously, impossibly calm, each word a shard of ice.
"I said... I will finish it. Right?"
It wasn't a question. It was a final verdict.
Alister's blood ran cold. All arrogance drained from his face, replaced by the primal instinct to submit. He managed a slow, nervous laugh, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "O-of course. My apologies. I'll... I'll leave it in your capable hands."
He didn't wait for a reply. Turning on his heel, he practically fled the tavern, the oppressive aura lifting only as he burst out into the evening air.
His personal guard, waiting by the carriage, opened the door for him. Alister practically fell into the plush seats, his heart hammering against his ribs.
As the carriage lurched into motion, the clip-clop of hooves a steady rhythm against the cobblestones, he let out a shaky breath, his fear curdling back into vicious anticipation.
"That fool Cassian," he muttered to himself, a nasty grin spreading across his face. "He has no idea what's coming for him now. He's a dead man walking."
Just then, his guard leaned in through the carriage window, holding out a folded letter. "My Lord, this arrived for you just moments ago."
"Where did it come from?" Alister snapped, still on edge.
But his question died in his throat as his eyes fell upon the wax seal pressed into the parchment. A stylized imperial dragon. The Royal Seal.
His eyes widened. With hurried, slightly trembling fingers, he broke the seal and unfolded the letter, his gaze devouring the elegant script as the carriage carried him away from the slums and back toward the gleaming lights of the noble district.
* * *
The Ahn Manor...
The study was silent, the air thick and heavy as incense smoke. Lady Yuhwa Ahn sat behind her grand mahogany desk, a statue of composure as Adrine delivered her report.
With each word—the ambush, the flour dusted alley, the thugs and the mysterious pot Adrine saw—the temperature in the room seemed to drop a degree. When Adrine finished, the silence that followed was deafening.
Then, a single, sharp CRACK shattered the stillness.
Lady Yuhwa's palm had slammed onto the polished mahogany with such force the heavy desk trembled. The sound was a gunshot of contained fury. Her knuckles were white, but her voice, when she spoke, was dangerously level, her eyes locked on Adrine.
"Is. My. Son. Okay?"
"Yes, my Lady," Adrine affirmed, bowing her head slightly. "As I reported, the Young Master is unharmed. Though, under circumstances neither he nor the maid Ione will explain, it seems they were able to… decisively dispatch the remaining threats."
Lady Yuhwa leaned back, the storm in her eyes receding into thoughtful calculation. A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. "Hmmm… Well," she murmured, a mother's fond exasperation momentarily softening her regal features. "He is at that age where he starts keeping secrets from his mother, isn't he? As long as he is safe."
The softness vanished as quickly as it came. Her gaze sharpened into twin daggers. "You said the one who ordered this was Alister de Clein?"
"Yes, my Lady. That is the name the first dispatch of thugs I dealt with confessed."
A cold, terrible finality settled in Lady Yuhwa's expression. "I see," she said, the words frostbitten. "He believes he can lay hands on my son and simply walk away." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper that promised a storm. "He will find he is gravely mistaken. I will have… words with his family."
With a heavy sigh, the weight of her title and her fears pressing down on her, she leaned back in her chair. Her eyes fell upon a single, ornate letter resting on her desk, its wax seal a bold, crimson dragon—the Imperial mark.
She picked it up, breaking the seal with a quiet, deliberate precision. Unfolding the heavy parchment, her eyes scanned the elegant calligraphy. She read it in silence, her expression unreadable.
Finally, she looked up, her gaze distant, fixed on some point far beyond the study walls.
"The Princess's coming-of-age Royal Banquet?"