After a moment, his eyes harden.
At least make something out of this, he thinks.
These men weren't just thugs, they were bandits hiding inside the city, living off extortion and fear. If there was one thing Aiden was sure of, it was that people like this always hoarded what they stole.
He pushes himself off the wall and starts moving through the house.
Room by room, he searches carefully. He opens drawers, checks beneath loose floorboards, and pries open small chests hidden behind shelves. Inside, he finds scattered silver coins, a few gold pieces, cheap jewelry, and some low-grade pills wrapped in oil paper. Nothing extraordinary, but valuable enough.
In one corner, he finds a locked box. A sharp kick breaks the latch. Inside are neatly stacked coins and a small leather pouch that jingles softly when he lifts it.
As Aiden searching the room, his hand catches on a drawer that doesn't slide smoothly. He frowns and pulls harder. The wood scrapes, then comes free.
Inside, tucked beneath a layer of old cloth, is a folded letter.
He pauses, then opens it.
As his eyes scan the contents, a faint light flickers in them.
It's a contract.
A kill order.
The handwriting is neat and deliberate, outlining a single target and a promised payment, one hundred gold coins. A clean job, by the looks of it. No mention of mercy, no room for negotiation. At the bottom of the letter, one line stands out.
The client will arrive tonight to discuss the details.
Aiden exhales slowly.
Since coming to this world, he's already accepted something about himself, he isn't a good person. Not anymore. Maybe he never really was.
This world doesn't reward kindness. It devours it.
Here, it's dog eat dog. Hesitate, and you die. Try to be righteous, and someone will put a blade in your back. Aiden learned that lesson when he was in earth, and he has no intention of relearning it the hard way.
Besides… he likes money far too much to pretend otherwise.
A small smile tugs at his lips.
"I guess," he murmurs, folding the letter and slipping it away, "you're my client now."
His thoughts return to Lira.
He finds her a few minutes later, calmer now, clothed and sitting quietly. Without saying much, he escorts her out of the house, keeping a steady pace and a watchful eye on their surroundings. The streets are quieter as evening approaches, shadows stretching long across the stone.
When they reach the inn, Aiden makes sure she's settled safely inside before turning to leave.
"I'll be back later," he tells her. "Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone."
She nods, gripping the doorframe, eyes filled with exhaustion, but also trust.
Aiden steps away and disappears into the fading light.
Night is coming.
And so is the client.
Aiden summons his weakest undead once more, the same skeleton he used to scout the mountain earlier. Its presence is faint, barely drawing mana, just enough to do what he needs.
"Take care of the bodies," he orders quietly.
The undead moves through the house without complaint, dragging corpses one by one, leaving no trail behind. Bloodstains are scraped away, rooms cleared, the stench reduced as much as possible. By the time it finishes, the house feels unnervingly empty, as if nothing violent ever happened there.
Aiden dismisses it with a thought. The undead dissolves into nothing, and the house returns to silence.
He takes a seat inside the leader's room and waits.
Time passes slowly. The light outside dims, shadows stretching across the floor as night settles in. Aiden remains still, breathing steady, senses sharp.
Then, footsteps.
They're careful. Measured. Not the sloppy steps of thugs.
Aiden's eyes narrow.
Whoever is approaching hesitates in the hallway. He can almost feel the confusion through the door. The client was clearly expecting guards. Noise. Something.
Instead, there's nothing.
The handle turns.
The door opens.
The man freezes.
His posture shifts instantly, alert and tense, eyes sweeping the room. There are no bodies. No minions. No signs of life, except for Aiden.
And he isn't alone.
Two figures stand inside the room, dressed in dark, layered clothing meant to conceal everything. Their outfits cover them from head to toe. Masks hide their faces completely, leaving no skin exposed, no hint of identity.
One of them is seated calmly, legs crossed, hands resting loosely on their lap. The other stands behind them, silent and unmoving, clearly a subordinate, or a guard.
The client's breath catches for just a moment.
"…This isn't what I expected," he says cautiously.
Aiden doesn't respond right away. He simply watches.
The seated figure tilts their head slightly, as if amused.
"You came to discuss a contract," Aiden finally says, his voice even. "You're on time."
The client's gaze moves slowly around the room.
The walls are cracked, the floor still bears faint stains that weren't fully scrubbed away, and the air carries the lingering smell of violence. Anyone with half a brain can tell something bloody happened here.