Drovian didn't answer immediately. He picked up a damp rag from the counter, his movements methodical and agonizingly slow. He began to wipe the iron-bound edge of his chopping block, the red smears vanishing into the fibers of the cloth."The intel was wrong," Drovian said, his voice as calm as a summer breeze. "But your presence is the real error here. You’re trespassing, and you’re bleeding on my floor."The tall assassin clutched his side, his breath hitching in his chest. "You think this ends with me? The guilds—the Iron Ring, the Mercantile Union—they’ve got your prints on every ledger from here to the capital. They don't want your life, Drovian. They want the 'Symmetry of the Cut.' You know what they’d pay to have that technique turned into a martial manual?"Drovian looked at the man, his eyes devoid of malice, which somehow made them infinitely more terrifying. "I have no technique. I have a knife and a deadline. The shop opens at dawn. You’re currently in the way of my morni

"You don't understand," the man gasped, his voice thin, rattling. "You think you're protecting a shop. You're protecting a tomb. My name is Kaelen, and I was just the scout. The others… they’re already dead, aren't they? I can smell the iron in the air."Drovian didn't break his rhythm. He picked up a sharpening stone, his thumb testing the edge of his favorite cleaver with the casual indifference of a man checking for a dull spot on a carrot. "Dead is a strong word, Kaelen. I’d prefer 'decommissioned.' And your smell is wrong. That’s not just iron. It’s the marinade for the evening roast. You’re ruining the atmosphere.""You’re insane," Kaelen whispered, pulling his knees toward his chest. His eyes were glued to Drovian’s hands, watching the rhythmic scrape of steel against stone—a sound that, in this quiet shop, carried the weight of a death sentence. "They sent the best of the Iron Ring. They sent men who can track a shadow in a monsoon. You haven't just killed them; you've erased

"The Merchant Union is a hobbyist club compared to who is actually signing the warrants now," Kaelen wheezed, his eyes darting to the heavy wooden door that led to the street. "They don't want your money, Drovian. They don't even want your shop. They want the 'Method.' They know what you did in the Northern Campaign. They know why the Obsidian Legion stopped dead at the River Aethel. They don't think you’re a butcher. They think you’re a library."Drovian didn't stop wiping the counter. He moved with a hypnotic, repetitive grace, his movements as practiced as a monk’s morning devotions. "A library is a static thing, Kaelen. It sits in a square and gathers dust. I am a man who serves customers. If the regional guilds want a book, they should go to a bookstore.""They're not sending scholars!" Kaelen spat, a spray of red flecks landing on the sawdust-covered floor. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a desperate, jagged hiss. "They've pooled their resources. The Guild of Cuttings,

"You’re not listening!" Kaelen scrambled to his feet, swaying, his hand clutched to his bruised ribs. He gripped the edge of the butchery counter, his knuckles white against the dark, blood-stained mahogany. "You’re not listening, Drovian! This isn't just about some back-alley debt collectors or local street thugs looking to make a name. This is a regional mandate! Lord Valerius has authorized the local garrison to treat this entire street as an active combat zone. They aren't going to knock and ask for your ledger. They’re going to burn the building down with you inside, and then they’re going to sift through the ashes to find your 'Method.'"Drovian finally stopped his rhythmic wiping. He dropped the rag, the fabric hitting the floor with a wet, heavy thud. He looked at Kaelen, his eyes as flat and unreadable as a polished stone. "Valerius. The man who imports the finest cuts of boar for his quarterly banquets?"Kaelen stared at him, incredulous. "You’re worried about his dinner par

"It’s not just the funding, Drovian! It’s the implication!" Kaelen practically shrieked, his voice cracking against the low ceiling of the shop. "If the Lord is bypassing the Guilds to equip his own assassins, it means he’s planning a coup. You’re the centerpiece of his recruitment drive. He wants your 'Method' to train his own elite guard so he doesn't have to rely on the city’s established mercenaries. You’re not a target, you’re an ingredient. He’s going to slice you up and cook your techniques into his soldiers."Drovian didn't flinch. He sheathed the cleaver with a sharp, metallic click that cut through the tension like a guillotine. He walked to the window, peering through the grime-streaked glass at the quiet, cobblestone street of Oakhaven. It looked peaceful, yet he could spot the shadows shifting in the alleyway—two men in nondescript leathers, keeping their heads low, their hands hovering near their belts."He’s ambitious," Drovian remarked, his tone conversational, as if h