Three people sat around a table made of dark wood. The only light came from a single candle in the center, casting long shadows across their faces. None of them had touched the wine that had been poured an hour ago.
"He's still alive," the first one said. Their voice was flat, stating a fact rather than expressing emotion.
"I'm aware," the second replied.
"That makes two failures."
"I can count."
The third person leaned forward, fingers drumming against the table. "The dungeon should have killed him. We accounted for every variable."
"Apparently not every one." The first pulled a folded paper from their coat and spread it on the table. "Report came in this morning. All four party members emerged alive."
The second person picked up the report and scanned it. "How did they manage the Wraiths with limited holy magic?"
"Unknown. The Church observer didn't enter the dungeon. Only confirmed their exit status."
"This changes the calculation." The third sat back, arms crossed. "If he can survive an E-Rank dungeon as expendable support, he's more capable than we thought."
"Or lucky," the first countered.
"Luck doesn't clear four floors of undead with a rationed paladin."
The second set down the report. "Luck or skill, the result is the same. He's still breathing. That's unacceptable."
"Agreed." The first refilled their wine glass but didn't drink. "We need a different approach. Direct methods have proven insufficient."
"The poison should have worked," the third muttered.
The second person tapped the table. "What do we know about his abilities? Concrete information, not speculation."
The first flipped through another report and adjusted his glasses. "He copies skills from defeated enemies. Multiple derived abilities confirmed."
"How many?" the second asked, voice tightening.
"At least ten. Possibly more after the dungeon."
The third leaned in. "That's the problem. Every time he fights, he gets stronger. Every enemy he defeats gives him new tools. We're making him more dangerous by forcing him into combat situations."
"So we stop forcing him into combat," the second said.
"And do what instead?"
"Remove him from the equation entirely. Different method."
The first shook their head. "He's under Church protection now. The expendable system gives him baseline security. We can't just walk up and stab him."
"I wasn't suggesting we do it personally."
"Then what are you suggesting?"
The second person was quiet for a moment. When they spoke again, their voice was careful. "There are people who specialize in problems like this."
"Assassins," the third said bluntly.
"Professionals."
The first considered this. "The risk is different. If it's traced back to us..."
"It won't be. That's what we're paying for."
"And if they fail too?"
"Then we accept that he's either incredibly lucky or genuinely skilled, and we pursue the fourth option."
The third frowned. "What's the fourth option?"
"We stop trying to kill him and focus on containing the damage. Redirect attention. Bury the connection. Make sure whatever he knows stays irrelevant."
"That's not a solution," the first said. "That's surrender."
"That's pragmatism. Two failures mean we're either working with bad information or underestimating the target. Continuing the same approach is stupid."
Nobody argued with that.
The third person picked up the report again, reading more carefully. "It says here he collapsed after exiting the dungeon. Medical emergency. They rushed him to a healer."
"Status?" the second asked immediately.
"Unknown. The report was filed before the outcome was determined."
A pause settled over the room.
"If he dies on his own, this conversation is irrelevant," the first said slowly.
"True. But we can't rely on that."
"Why not? Natural causes. Dungeon contamination. Either could kill him without our involvement."
The second shook their head. "And if he survives again? We've wasted time waiting when we could have acted."
"So we wait seventy-two hours," the third suggested. "See if the problem resolves itself. If he's still alive after three days, we hire the professional."
"Seventy-two hours is a long time."
"It's also careful. Rushing got us nowhere."
The first nodded slowly. "Agreed. Three days. If he recovers, we move to the next option."
"And if he doesn't recover but doesn't die either?" the second asked.
"Then we evaluate. A crippled target is different than a dead one. Might not need killing if he's no longer functional."
They sat in silence, each considering the possibilities. The candle flame wavered, making the shadows dance across the walls.
"What about the rest of his party?" the third asked. "The swordsman, the mage, the paladin. They're witnesses to whatever happened in that dungeon."
"Irrelevant," the first said. "They don't know what we know. They're just amateur heroes who got lucky. They wouldn't have noticed anything significant."
The second person stood, pushing their chair back. The wood scraped against the floor. "Three days. We wait. If he lives, we hire the professional. If he dies, we confirm it and move on. Agreed?"
"Agreed," the first said.
"Agreed," the third echoed.
The candle flickered as the second person moved toward the door. They paused with their hand on the handle but didn't turn around.
"And if the professional fails?"
Neither of the others answered.
They left without waiting for a response.
The first and third remained at the table, staring at the papers spread between them. The report. The notes. The record of what hadn't worked.
"Do you think he knows?" the third asked quietly.
"Knows what?"
"That someone's trying to kill him. That the dungeon assignment wasn't coincidence."
The first was quiet for a long moment. "If he does, he hasn't acted on it. Either he's oblivious or he's very good at pretending."
"Which is more dangerous?"
"Pretending. By far."
The third nodded and stood as well. "Three days then. I'll monitor the situation. Let you know if his status changes."
"Do that."
They extinguished the candle on their way out, leaving the room in complete darkness. The papers remained on the table, invisible but present. Evidence of planning. Of calculation. Of what had failed and what waited in reserve.
Somewhere across the city, Hiroshi lay unconscious in a healer's quarters, his body fighting a battle he didn't understand against an enemy he couldn't see.
The people in the dark room didn't know if he would survive.
But they were prepared either way.