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Chapter 3 - Chapter 2: The Scent That Never Fades

"Some names mean nothing to the world… yet to a certain heart, they mean the end."

And Elyan… was one of those names.

The iron gate creaked open slowly.

Kayzlan crossed through with measured steps, his body taut as a drawn bowstring, his eyes fixed ahead. He did not glance to the sides, did not greet, did not feel.

He carried a small satchel containing:

A poisoned dagger of the "Hellclaw" type

A vial of medicine to stop internal bleeding (for use if vital organs were struck)

A black cloth, to cover faces after death

A hemp rope, for dragging bodies without leaving a trace

And his sword… wrapped in deerskin, showing neither blade nor glint of steel.

The Road:

He mounted his black horse and took the side path that wound through the forest of Howal — a forsaken place known among assassins as the "Naked Passage," for one enters it burdened… and leaves it stripped of everything, even oneself.

The road was silent. Too silent.

Kayzlan rode on, replaying the mission in his mind:

Target: Elyan, age uncertain, living with an old guardian named Rain.

Threat level: Possible descendant of the long-extinct Craid family.

Location: Outskirts of the town of Delora.

Everything was clear.

And yet… he was not at ease.

In his head, the name echoed: Elyan… Elyan… Elyan…

Like a broken sentence that refused to finish.

Midnight – On the Outskirts of Delora:

He reached a hill overlooking the small town.

He lit a cigarette of narcotic herbs — a rare habit for him — but tonight he needed to still the restless stir within.

Why does this name… hurt?

No answer came.

But when he closed his eyes for a heartbeat… the old vision returned:

A woman screaming… fire… a hand reaching toward him… and a boy's voice calling out:

"Brother…"

He snapped his eyes open.

Damn you, memory…

Inside the Town:

He moved like breathing — soundless, steady, measured.

The house marked on his small map lay at the town's edge, with a modest garden and a broken fence.

He dropped from the rooftop and crept to the window.

Peering inside, he saw a man in his forties, fit and broad-shouldered — likely Rain — training a youth.

But that youth… froze time itself.

Silver hair…

Ash-gray eyes…

A dark birthmark on the left side of his neck — the shape of an inverted blade.

Kayzlan almost choked.

No… this is impossible.

The Inner Stirring:

His heart began to pound — not from tension, but from an inexplicable grief.

Is this the target? Elyan? But how…?

His hand rose to touch his own neck… where the same mark lay.

The same burn. The same cold fire.

He and I… bear the same mark?!

The Decision:

Then came the voice in his mind… his old master's voice:

"Emotion… is weakness.

Resemblance… is deception.

Hesitation… is betrayal."

He clenched his fist, steadied his breath. His mind had been trained to close the doors of doubt a thousand times over.

The target is the target.

Elyan… will die tonight.

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