The next day…
The marketplace was alive with energy. Stalls lined the streets, their wooden counters filled with fresh produce, exotic spices, and shimmering fabrics. Merchants shouted over one another, calling out their best deals, while children ran through the crowds, laughing.
Aeron walked through the lively scene, his hands tucked into his pockets. Despite the vibrant surroundings, his mind was clouded with frustration.
"It's been a month, and I still haven't found anything," he muttered to himself.
His brow furrowed as he sighed, his gaze shifting from one unfamiliar face to another.
"That damn guy… at the very least, he could've told me his name."
He groaned, rubbing his temples in frustration.
A few passersby turned to glance at him, raising their eyebrows at the sight of a man talking to himself.
Realizing this, Aeron quickly forced a sheepish smile, scratching the back of his head in embarrassment.
"My only option is to keep wandering around. Maybe I'll run into him one day."
Just then, a commotion erupted down the street. A growing crowd began to gather, murmuring with excitement.
Curious, Aeron stepped closer, weaving his way through the bustling market.
"What's going on here?" he asked a man standing nearby.
"The king is visiting!" the man replied, his voice brimming with enthusiasm.
Aeron's eyes narrowed. "King Tharil Di Vorn? The king of Eryndor?" he thought, his interest piqued.
The townspeople crowded into the central square, waiting with eager anticipation. The sound of hooves against stone echoed through the streets as an armored procession approached.
At the heart of the formation, a regal figure sat atop a grand black steed, surrounded by royal guards clad in polished armor, their long spears gleaming under the midday sun.
King Tharil Di Vorn.
Despite his noble title, there was something unsettling about him. His presence carried a sinister weight, as though a shadow loomed behind his every step. His dark cloak billowed slightly as he moved forward, his cold gaze sweeping across the gathering townsfolk.
Beside him walked his advisor, Tharok, a slender man draped in elegant robes, his expression unreadable.
King Tharil's lips curled into a smirk as he surveyed the town.
"This town's economy is growing impressively," he remarked, his voice smooth yet laced with an air of calculation.
"Yes, sire," Tharok responded with a nod. "Thanks to the vast trading routes and the river that connects it to other continents, the townspeople are prospering. Additionally, the town has been attracting a fair share of tourists."
King Tharil let out a low chuckle.
"Then increase the tax rate here," he ordered, his smirk widening.
Tharok bowed slightly, his tone unwavering. "Yes, sire."
"Tsk… that damn king, making us suffer!" a voice muttered bitterly from within the crowd.
"Shh! Don't say that, or the king—" Before the man beside him could finish, the first speaker vanished in an instant.
A cold silence fell over those nearby, their faces frozen in horror. No one dared to speak.
Aeron stood among the crowd, his sharp gaze fixed on the king.
"So this is the king of Eryndor," he thought, studying the man with narrowed eyes.
As he observed, a sudden movement caught his attention—a shadow darting across the rooftops near the king's entourage.
Before anyone could react, four masked figures leaped down from above.
With precise, merciless strikes, the assassins cut down four guards in an instant. The remaining guards barely had time to register what had happened before another attacker emerged from the shadows, lunging straight for the king with a gleaming blade.
Aeron's instincts kicked in. He moved without thinking, dashing toward the scene.
Just as the assassin's blade was about to slit the king's throat, Aeron grabbed the attacker's wrist, stopping the strike mid-air.
For a brief moment, their eyes met.
Aeron's breath hitched.
It was him. The assassin he had been searching for.
"Defensive barrier!" The advisor, Tharok, raised his hand, casting a shimmering protective shield around the king and himself.
"Eliminate them!" Tharok barked, his voice filled with cold authority.
The guards, regaining their composure, charged forward with weapons drawn.
Seeing the barrier and the approaching reinforcements, the assassin swiftly disengaged, leaping back onto the rooftops.
Aeron clenched his fists. "You're not getting away this time!" he growled, launching himself after the fleeing figure.
"Don't let them escape!" King Tharil bellowed, his voice echoing through the streets.
The remaining assassins, seeing their opportunity dwindling, vanished into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared.
The assassin leaped effortlessly from rooftop to rooftop, a shadow moving against the sunny sky. Below, Aeron ran along the crowded streets, struggling to keep pace.
"Damn it, he's fast."
"I'm not here to catch you!" Aeron called out, dodging carts and pushing past merchants. "I just want to ask you some questions!"
The assassin didn't even glance back. He kept running.
The chase led them to the docks, where the scent of salt filled the air. The assassin had abandoned the rooftops, now sprinting through the streets.
Aeron, still behind, shoved past bystanders, knocking over crates and baskets. Angry voices cursed at him, but he ignored them, keeping his eyes locked on his target.
Then, he saw the assassin had stopped.
Aeron slowed his pace, his breath heavy. "Why did he stop?"
Then he noticed—the assassin wasn't stopping. He was cornered.
Royal guards had surrounded him on three sides.
Aeron halted just in time, his heart pounding.
A firm voice called out from behind.
"Catch him too."
Aeron turned sharply. "What?"
Before he could react, guards surrounded him as well, their weapons drawn.
"Wait! I'm not with them!" Aeron protested, raising his hands. "In fact, I stopped him!"
The sound of armored boots echoed against the wooden planks. A man approached, his presence commanding immediate respect.
Sir Aamon.
The Royal Knight. One of the strongest swordsmen on the Eryndor continent.
His silver hair glistened under the sunlight, and his golden eyes held an almost unnatural intensity. Dressed in a pristine white knight's uniform, he looked stunning.
He stopped in front of Aeron, staring down at him with an unreadable expression.
"You stopped him?" Aamon repeated, his voice laced with amusement.
Then, he chuckled. "Don't make me laugh." His tone carried a dangerous edge.
"That man is the most wanted criminal in the kingdom. The assassin who murdered the previous king. A relentless killer." Aamon's golden eyes burned into Aeron's. "And you expect me to believe you stopped him?"
"I'm telling the truth," Aeron insisted, his voice steady.
In an instant, Aamon's hand shot forward, gripping Aeron's jaw.
The air around them seemed to grow heavy.
"Say one more word, and I'll cut your head off."
Aeron's body stiffened.
The killing intent was suffocating.
He had faced death before. But this—this was different.
Aamon wasn't making a threat. He was making a promise.
Aeron's mind raced. If he ran now, he would forever be marked as a traitor. He would never be able to clear his name. More importantly—he would never get another chance to speak to the assassin.
He had no choice. Aeron surrendered.
The guards moved in, shackling both him and the assassin.
From the crowds, four other assassins watched in silence.
Then, without a sound, they vanished.