"What?" The Master suddenly felt ice-cold, as if he'd leaped naked into the Ice Floe Bay outside his window. He could scarcely believe those words had come from Richard—a twelve-year-old boy, one who, though quiet, was hardworking, diligent, and driven. Suddenly wanting to learn how to kill?

  Instantly, every painting Richard had ever done flashed through the Master's mind. Thinking of those lines pulsing with hidden power, the Master abruptly realized he had been wrong—wrong to have consistently seen Richard as an ordinary little boy. In the educational systems of the great human nobilities, some twelve-year-olds were already quite mature, and fifteen was the recognized age of adulthood. Beyond the human-dominated regions, children in certain beastkin tribes were considered adults at six or seven.

  At this thought, the Master sat up straight and asked seriously, "I do know someone like that, a true expert in killing. But first, I need to know why you want to learn."

  "Since Rune Crafters are creators of war," Richard said calmly, "only by learning to kill can one create better Rune Knights."

  Richard's answer once again left the Master feeling helpless. It took several deep breaths to barely suppress his frustration before he said slowly, "A fine reason, sounds almost true. But it doesn't matter; any plausible reason will do. The man's name is Naya, though many years ago, almost everyone called him 'Disaster Blade'. You should be able to get what you want from him."

  Richard nodded, once again assuming a proper posture to bow to the Master, then handed over a piece of paper.

  The Master assumed it was another assignment, but it turned out to be a payment slip signed by Richard, confirming the number of hours the Master had taught him that month. Most of those hours, of course, had never occurred. But with this slip, the Master could claim gold coins from Deepblue—the amount fabricated reaching ten thousand, a sum even he couldn't ignore. The process was quite safe; payment for individual tutoring was ultimately settled by the student, and Deepblue would bill Richard for the amount. Since Deepblue's finances suffered no loss, there would naturally be no investigation.

  Seeing the payment slip, the Master's mind spun again. Was this a bribe?

  "Richard!" the Master called out as the young boy was about to leave, ruffling his own messy hair. "Why did you ask me for help?"

  "Because it felt like it would be the easiest way."

  "And what if I hadn't agreed to help you? Who would you have gone to?" The Master couldn't quite let it go.

  "Blackgold."

  The Master understood instantly. So, in young Richard's mind, those involved in art and those involved in money were equally unreliable, which was why he'd chosen this path for his breakthrough. But he desperately wanted to know the other answer, so he called out, "Hey! Young Richard, who would you have gone to last?"

  Richard replied without hesitation, "Those Grand Magisters who only care about teaching students!"

  Late at night, Richard left the main tower of Deepblue and entered the cluster of auxiliary buildings commonly known as the Fringe District.

  The main tower housed numerous mages, each requiring at least twenty or thirty people to serve them directly or indirectly. Most of these service personnel lived in the Fringe District, as the rent and land prices in Deepblue's main tower were utterly beyond the means of any mage below level ten—not even for a room barely large enough for a bed.

  The Fringe District itself was divided into several zones of differing status based on their distance from the main tower. The ring-shaped zone closest to Deepblue housed many mages, most below level ten. They couldn't afford Deepblue proper but could barely manage to settle right next to it.

  Wrapped in a dark cloak, Richard passed through several zones, heading straight for the outermost edge of the Fringe District. Along the way, he felt various gazes—from arrogant level-eight mages, the ill-intentioned stares of shadowy figures, and mostly, simple curiosity. People who spent all day wandering the same area mostly knew each other, or at least recognized faces; a stranger naturally drew attention. The level-three mage insignia visible on the corner of Richard's cloak spared him much trouble.

  At the end of a dark, deserted alley, Richard stood before a dilapidated small tavern. A large crack split the wooden sign, on which the crudely drawn image of a half-naked woman was barely discernible. A few dim rays of light seeped through the cracks in the tavern door. It was quiet inside—no clamor, no music—only the pungent reek of alcohol steadily wafting out.

  It was winter now, the cold omnipresent. Only Deepblue's main tower remained warm through magic, a warmth that radiated into the inner ring of the Fringe District. This was one reason for the soaring land prices and rents in the inner ring, and a source of both the residents' heavy burden and their sense of arrogance. But here, in this alley at the far edge of the Fringe District, the weather was already frigid. A small tavern of this size, even with its own heating system running, would only be marginally warmer than outside. To reach room temperature, a single day's energy costs would exceed the tavern's entire monthly earnings.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  That slight difference in warmth was significant to Richard's enhanced senses, but to most ordinary people, there wasn't much difference between minus thirty and minus fifty degrees.

  In this godforsaken weather and such a remote location, the small tavern was naturally devoid of customers.

  Richard reached out, pushed open the tavern door, and walked inside.

  The interior was small, with room for only three tables. Behind the bar stood a man of medium height and unremarkable appearance, his graying temples suggesting some age.

  At a corner table, two burly men in tattered clothes sat slumped against the wall, drinking sporadically. The alcohol smelled strong but acrid, indicating it was likely very cheap. Their accompanying snack was a small plate of thinly sliced dried meat—impossible to tell what kind, but so desiccated it looked completely unappetizing. Yet the two men carefully picked up a slice, placed it in their mouths, chewed hard for a moment, savored the taste, and only then took several large gulps of the cheap liquor. It looked as though that tiny plate of snacks would last them the entire night.

  Richard swept his gaze around, taking in the tavern's situation. The man behind the bar, while washing glasses, glanced at Richard and said, "Kid, didn't your mama tell you you gotta be an adult to drink? 'Course, if you got the coin, I don't mind pouring you a couple."

  Richard threw back the hood of his cloak. "I'm not here to drink. I'm looking for someone."

  "Who?" The man behind the bar seemed slightly interested.

  "Disaster Blade."

  The moment the words left his mouth, Richard felt as if he'd plunged into an ice cave, instantly frozen stiff, unable to move a single finger. Except for his head, his entire body seemed beyond his control. Moreover, the encroaching chill carried sharp, piercing sensations, like thousands of needles stabbing fiercely at his skin. This was Richard's first taste of killing intent.

  As if time had stopped, both men at the table froze. One remained poised, tilting a cup towards his mouth; the other held a piece of dried meat, so thin it was almost transparent, suspended delicately in mid-air. However, they clearly weren't immobilized like Richard; though their movements ceased, their eyes fixed on the young boy, their faces devoid of expression.

  The man behind the bar stopped wiping his glass, his gaze drifting upwards towards the flickering yellow candlelight on the wall, evidently lost in memory. After a moment, he refocused on Richard and said, "Disaster Blade was my old moniker. Haven't used it in a long time. Name's Naya now. Since you know Disaster Blade, I guess that makes you a friend. Though I'm curious what a kid who isn't even grown yet is doing here."

  "I want to learn how to kill," Richard stated, concise as ever.

  "Why?"

  "Because I have a feeling I might need it soon," Richard said.

  Naya nodded, not pressing for more reasons. Instead, he said, "This is Deepblue. Even the outermost edge is still Deepblue. So..."

  "I brought the tuition fee," Richard said.

  Naya grinned. "My lessons are expensive. At least five hundred gold coins per day."

  With that smile, the ice-cold killing intent vanished.

  Richard pulled out an exquisite enchanted leather pouch, opened it, and poured a pile of gleaming gold coins onto the bar. "I brought a thousand. So, teach me everything you know!"

  Naya glanced nonchalantly at the pile of gold, a playful smile on his lips. "A kid not yet of age, carrying this much coin, walking into an assassin's den... aren't you afraid I'll just swallow you whole? I know it was probably that fellow who loves painting women who sent you, but he's spineless, utterly unreliable. So, kid, give me a reason now why I shouldn't just kill you outright."

  "Because I only brought today's gold."

  Naya laughed, sounding even more pleased. "Smart kid! But better give me another reason. Sometimes I do things for money, sometimes I don't. So, just to be safe, best not guess if all I want right now is a bit of coin."

  Richard hesitated, then said, "My name is Richard. Richard Akmond. My teacher is Her Highness Helen Su, and my father is Gaton Akmond."

  The smile vanished abruptly from Naya's face. He spat forcefully onto the floor and roared at the two men at the table, "What do you say, old timers!"

  The man on the left lowered his cup. "Those two are both lunatics! If you do anything to young Richard, even if you flee to hell, that Gaton fellow will hunt you down. And then Her Highness will make you regret being alive for the next thousand years."

  The man on the right placed the dried meat back on the plate, looked at young Richard, and said, "Don't you think the kid's interesting? Teaching a little guy like this must be rewarding, plus there's money to be made! If you think it's too much gold, just hand it over to me. Anyway, Disaster Blade was over ten years ago; heaven knows if you can still handle a fast blade these days. And I happen to be short on cash right now!"

  "Redbeard, don't even think about it!" Naya bellowed, sweeping all the gold coins from the bar into his own pocket as if fearing any delay might change things. After pocketing the money, his gaze towards Richard finally shifted slightly. He mulled it over for a moment before saying, "What I'm going to teach you isn't just killing, but the art of destroying life. Let's begin now."

  At dawn, Richard returned to his residential area. On the way to his bedroom, he once again saw the battered steel mannequin, its unharmed, round head particularly conspicuous. Looking at this mannequin laden with pain, Richard suddenly sighed and muttered to himself, "Later... I won't need you anymore."

  Richard brushed past the mannequin, his left hand tracing an almost imperceptible arc, skimming past the mannequin's neck as he continued towards his bedroom.

  Clang!

  The mannequin's head silently detached from its body, fell to the floor, and bounced far away. The cut at the neck was as smooth as a mirror, as if severed by a razor-sharp blade.