Saigo hated training the new recruits. He hated taking them on missions even more. Each time felt like a knife scraping against his nerves.
But the Head's orders were ironclad: not to be discussed or challenged. And the weight of responsibility for their inexperienced lives lay on his shoulders like a stone slab.
On a mission, anything could happen. Like today: one had nearly plunged into the abyss on the approach to the camp, and the second – that very same hothead – had almost botched everything by losing sight of a guard.
If Saigo hadn't thrown his knife in the last instant, just as the guard reached for the signal horn… the local scum would have raised the alarm, and instead of a clean operation, it would have turned into a bloodbath.
'What kind of assassins are these?' – the thought slid through with bitter irony. 'Five of them – and they can't silently eliminate two dozen smugglers dead drunk?' Though… what did it matter to him, really?
He'd note it all in the report – the stupidity, the carelessness, the failures. The Head would decide. Let him figure out what to do with this… expendable material. The last phrase surfaced in his memory – cold, cynical, as always from the Head. Saigo had heard it more than once.
From the night silence below, from the maze of stone buildings of the hideout, came a sudden screech of steel on steel, a muffled cry, then another. A dull groan.
'So, they noticed. Woke up.' Saigo stood on a rocky ledge overlooking the valley, motionless as part of the night itself. 'Should I help? Intervene?'
'No…' – he answered himself after a couple of icy seconds. – 'I can explain my position to the Head. If drunken smugglers slaughter them all here… that's no longer a question of skill to address. That's a question of selection.'
Such an outcome would even spare him further torment. A cruel thought, but honest. He hadn't always been like this. Once, someone had seen a spark of talent in him. But what is talent without thousands of hours of sweat, blood, and pain? Without trials on the edge? Exactly. A beautiful lily tossed onto a biting frost. It withers before it can bloom. And they… were lazy. Idle. Hothouse plants, ignorant of the value of life – neither their own nor others'. Expendable material.
Saigo raised his face to the moon; cold light washed over his features. He removed his hood and half-mask, revealing thick, ash-gray hair and skin white as porcelain, devoid of life's blush.
But the main thing was his eyes. They burned in the dark with a barely perceptible, poison-green fire – a consequence of the magical adaptation granted by the Clan for night vision. Now, they held only weariness and dull irritation.
The sounds of fighting died down as suddenly as they had begun. A deep, oppressive silence settled over the valley.
'Over? So, they managed. Took them long enough.' Too long for a basic cleanup. Soundless as a shadow, Saigo launched himself from the cliff. His figure merged with the gloom, only a faint rustle of cloth betraying his movement.
In a couple of seconds, he covered several dozen meters and landed on the slanted roof of the largest warehouse. From here, the hideout lay spread out like a map.
His subordinates scurried below like black ants: dragging corpses into piles, hauling brushwood, pouring sticky, black tar from barrels onto the walls and ground. The stench was unbearable – a mixture of blood, tar, and the bitterness of Heavenly Herb.
"Brother Saigo." The voice behind him was cautious, maintaining a respectful distance. It was that same youth who'd missed the guard. He'd approached along the roof ridge. "The intel was confirmed. All the warehouses… stuffed to the rafters with the Herb. Also found a processing workshop. Equipment almost new."
Saigo didn't turn. "Casualties?" he asked in an icy tone, looking down at the bustle.
"None. But… Brother Shen is injured. Broken ribs."
"Where is he?"
"In the main house. The mess hall."
'Understood.' Saigo finally turned. His green, torch-like eyes fixed on the youth's face. The young man involuntarily took a step back. "Prepare everything for destruction. Collect valuables – money, valuables. Leave the Herb. It burns well."
Without waiting for a response, Saigo stepped off the roof down into a narrow courtyard. His landing was soundless. He entered the gaping doorway of the mess hall.
The air was stale, smelling of sour food and… fear. Against the far wall, legs drawn up and clutching his side, sat Shen in black. His face beneath the hood was gray with pain, sweat trickling down his temples. Another assassin, Kunl, was fussing beside him, trying to apply an improvised splint made from a table fragment.
"How?" Saigo stopped before the wounded man. His voice was level, but each syllable cut like a blade.
Shen only groaned, unable to speak. His partner, Kunl, nervously jabbed a finger towards the corner. There, among overturned benches, lay a heap of meat and bone – a huge brute in a filthy leather jacket. The dead man's hand still clutched a hefty wooden maul wrapped in a rusty chain. The thug's throat was neatly slit, one clean stroke, but the cut hadn't been deep enough.
"The opponent was weak," Saigo hissed, his gaze sliding from the dead brute to Shen. "No magic. No enhancements. Just brute strength. And you managed to step into his swing?"
Under the mentor's cold stare, Shen shivered and shrank. Saigo sighed heavily, almost irritably. His hand slipped inside his black garment, retrieving a small clay vial filled with blood-red liquid. He tossed it to the wounded man. Shen barely caught it.
"Drink. You still have to descend. If, of course, you wish to live?" Saigo's voice held an unspoken reproach: You've already cost us time and risk.
Shen nodded eagerly through the pain and greedily took a swig from the vial. Color immediately began returning to his face. Saigo turned and walked back into the yard. The stench of tar and burning herb was even stronger now. The black, foul liquid almost squelched underfoot.
The smugglers' corpses were gone – dumped into the buildings that were to become their funeral pyres. At Saigo's whistle – sharp and short, like a night bird's cry – the others rushed to him instantly. Shen emerged behind them, leaning on Kunl, but staying upright – the elixir was working.
The squad leader – that same sluggish youth from the roof – respectfully extended a torch thickly coated with tar towards Saigo.
The curator merely waved him away with contempt. He bent down, picked up an ordinary, fist-sized cobblestone from the ground. Squeezed it in his palm. Muscles tensed under the fabric of his forearm.
The stone crackled, a web of thin, glowing cracks spreading across its surface. Acrid smoke wisped from them, and suddenly…
Piuu! – The stone shot into the air. A bright, white-yellow spark, visible to the naked eye, burst out and streaked downwards, towards the nearest puddle of tar by the entrance to the main warehouse.
An instant – and the hideout ignited. Not gradually, but all at once, fiercely. Fiery tongues lashed towards the sky, devouring the tar, dry wood, and tons of forbidden Heavenly Herb with a loud hiss and crackle.
Heat washed over the faces of those standing at a distance. An orange glare illuminated the stone-faced assassins and Saigo's impassive features. His green eyes reflected the dancing flames, but held no warmth, no satisfaction. Only work completed.
He turned his back on the apocalyptic inferno. His shadow, giant and black, fell across the frightened faces of the young assassins.
"Mission complete," his voice cut through the roar of the fire, cold and clear. "We return home. Shen, if you fall behind – we leave you." The wounded man lowered his eyes to the floor, his expression deathly.
And he stepped into the night, not looking back, not checking if the others followed. They were expendable material. But while they were alive – they needed to be useful.