Brask's entire family had been slavers for about 4,000 years. In demon terms, that equated to only three or four generations—demons aged slowly, but their dynasties endured like mountain roots.
In all that blood-soaked history, through generations of iron branding and cruel profits, not one member of their lineage had ever lost as many slaves as Brask.
Not one had ever suffered the disgrace of losing a slaver's license.
Now, Brask stood in front of the one demon whose disappointment cut deeper than blades—his father.
Bask.
Father and son were grotesquely alike—squat, round-bodied creatures, like bloated dwarves with no visible necks, their flesh folded in layers of indulgence. Their mouths brimmed with jagged, shark-like teeth, and when they spoke loudly—as they often did—it turned their voices into guttural echoes of beasts.
The chamber glowed with excess: gold-stitched drapes, crimson rugs soaked in incense, enchanted gems flickering on every pillar. Around them lounged the enslaved—demonesses, fae, elves—all too stunning to belong to creatures so monstrous. Their beauty was a cruel contrast to the demons' deformity.
Bask sprawled lazily on a throne stolen from the human realm, from a desert kingdom where date trees clung to dying wells, and sandstorms taught humility. He sipped from a goblet filled with something black and thick, like tar.
"You… have brought shame upon our blood!" Bask roared, slamming the goblet down. The wine hissed on the obsidian floor.
Brask stepped forward. "You have to understand, Father. The Colosseum Master—"
A hand rose.
Silence swallowed Brask whole.
"The Colosseum Master was old. Whether the Duke killed him or some assassin did is irrelevant," Bask growled. "He freed slaves. He gave them money. Then he died. That's all anyone will remember."
In the Demon Realm, 90% of deaths were murder. The only question was which method and who got away with it.
"The Duke is gone—meeting with the Demon Council. Now is the moment to strike. Track down the nuisance. Destroy what's left. Crawl to the new Colosseum Master and beg for forgiveness."
Brask twitched. "B-Beg…?"
He'd groveled for influence before—but begging?
Bask's eyes glowed faintly. "A demon keeps his pride. But he must never fear to bow. We are the puppeteers. We lie, deceive, kneel… but never break. Never bend your pride."
That was the demon creed: betray with a smile, apologize with a knife behind the back. Not every demon fit the mold, but enough did to keep the stories alive.
Brask left without another word.
His private quarters were no less lavish—velvet-lined walls, floors of polished obsidian, silver statues of chained angels that wept molten tears. He crossed to a drawer and slid it open.
Inside: a small black plaque with gold-etched runes—a Connector.
A connector was used to well...'connect' to specific lines outside of someones contact list.
The people who he wanted to interact with weren't the most extroverted.
He took his communication crystal and slotted the plaque into its socket. The interface hissed faintly as ancient magics connected.
He poured some mana into it.
Blue light shimmered across the room.
"I want to meet....The Men On The Mountain."
he muttered.
[Entry Accepted], the crystal replied.
Brask smiled. No further words needed.
The Assassin Guild—[Hassan]—had received the call.
From the moment he saw that defiant slave—Armin—he'd known the boy was dangerous. A rebellious ember. But an ember could light a profitable fire.
Now, he would snuff him out.
Let the assassins find him. Let them uncover who freed the others. Let them kill the weak and silence the brave.
And if Armin resisted?
Then Armin would die.
"And those children… they will be mine," Brask whispered to himself.
Dike and Eirene.
He still remembered the auction slip:
"Potential latent Veil Art. Human. Rare."
Humans with Veil Art were miracles. Slaves to some, weapons to others.
In the Demon Realm, they weren't seen as children.
They were currency.
They were gold mines.
Elsewhere…
Armin stood in the shadowed inn room, surrounded by darkness.
Outside, the moonlight poured through broken shutters.
Inside, the children slept soundly.
But he couldn't.
Because someone—somewhere—was throwing sleep aside in favor of killing him.
'Assassins…?' he wondered, the thought slicing through his mind.
'Did someone find out… that I'm the Hero?'
No answer came.
'No. No… it must be something else.'
The simple sword he'd bought was already beside him. He always kept it close. Drawing it from his storage would summon golden light—however faint—and he couldn't afford that kind of attention in the dead of night.
He whispered in his thoughts: 'Maton…'
[Yes.]
The voice answered inside his mind, cool and calm.
'Can I focus the swordsmanship skillset to enhance sensory capability?'
[Somewhat, yes.]
'Help me.'
[It will be done.]
Armin inhaled deeply. The Swordsmanship Skillset began to surge—etching artificial talent into muscle and nerve. It didn't make him a master. But it made mastery a possibility.
And it made awareness bloom.
Suddenly, the world became clearer.
Sound sharpened. Shadows gained detail. His vision adapted to the dark like a predator's. And for just a heartbeat—he felt them.
Just beyond the rooftop edge.
Four… maybe five. Moving silently. Clad in dark cloth. Blades coated in silent death. Their movements were like feathers on wind, but their intent was ice-cold steel.
Masters at their craft.
Armin glanced behind him. Dike and Eirene breathed quietly, tucked beneath thin sheets.
They had no idea.
He had to lead the danger away.
He focused his mind again. 'Maton… do something for me.'
[Yes. It will be done.]
Moments passed. Then Maton's work was complete.
Armin smiled, almost grimly.
Then stepped silently from the room.
Into the cold night.
"Time to confront them," he whispered.
_____________________________________
The Hassan.
To speak their name was to invoke silence.
The Hassan Assassin Guild was older than any known kingdom, founded during the Demon Realm's Second Sundering—a time when gods fell from heaven, and empires crumbled under betrayal. Their creed was simple: loyalty to the contract, not the client. They served coin, not causes. And yet, over time, they had become the bane of kings, the poison of politicians.
They did not seek glory. They left no calling cards, no signs. Only a scent of blood.
The Hassan had no public face,their headquarters and bases were hidden. But the moment you whispered the correct phrase into the right kind of crystal with the right kind of connector, they would find you.
They always found you.
And they would complete the contract.
Always.
Four shadows drifted across the rooftop tiles of the slums, moving like wind-stirred dust.
None spoke.
They had no names here.
Only masks.
The lead assassin wore an obsidian mask with narrow eyeslits and a single red line painted from brow to chin—a mark signifying he had personally ended over a hundred targets, none of whom had ever seen his face.
His name in the Guild's ledger was Silken Flame.
Behind him followed three more: Cold Tap, Feather Foot, and Third Whisper. They moved in absolute silence, each step calculated, each breath measured. Their light armor shimmered faintly with dark enchantments meant to dampen detection, even from Veil Arts specializing in detection. Of course,there was a limit.
The Hassan Guild gave the best tools to the best assasins.
Their target, Armin, was flagged as Yellow-Ranked Target—a human, yes, but rumored to possess latent combat potential and possibly a high level Veil Art. Normally, they wouldn't waste four relatively powerful operatives,relative to normal assasins of course, on a single ex-slave.
But the request came through a black gilded call sign. A sign of a regular.
And it included children. Two of them.
Possible Veil Art users.
That made the job delicate. Precision-based. Dangerous.
And profitable.
Silken Flame stopped on the edge of the rooftop, his red eyes narrowing through the mask as he peered through the broken shutters below.
"He knows," he whispered through a shared soul-link.
His voice echoed in their minds, inaudible to the world.
"I can feel his eyes prowling."
"Cursed luck," Cold Tap hissed mentally. "Is the boy armed?"
"Likely," Third Whisper replied. "He seems to a high intermediate to maybe even an advanced swordsman."
"He's bought himself time," Silken Flame said.
"Children?" Feather Foot asked.
".....I.."
"What is it?"
"I think they have detection dampeners as well." Silken Falme said.
Silken Flame had two Veil Arts. One being the normal Veil Art credited to almost all demons,[SORCERY] and the other was a Veil Art passed around his family line. [TARGET DETECTION]
Which allowed him to detect a person or a thing in a 5 kilometer radius if he had a piece of the persons clothing,hair or whatever or a part of the thing he was detecting.
Silken Flame stood. The wind tugged at his cloak but could not move him.
"We will use out normal strategy. Hide in the shadows and pounce on him. I'll check if the kids are there. You guys go attack him first."
"I will intercept if he flees....a three way pincer."
Four nods. Four shadows broke apart.
Silken Flame descended like falling cloth, landing silently outside the room's window.
His hand rested lightly on the curved dagger at his side—a blade forged from obsidian like steel. It had a sorcery put on it to make sure it had no glow or sound.
It could pierce most things that are not special metals or items blessed with mana.
He raised a finger and touched the window, and with no noise,opened it.
He stepped through.
And found the room empty.
No Armin. No children.
'Did he hide the children somehere?' he questioned.
Just the faintest, ghost-thin echo of a voice.
"Time to confront them."
It hadn't been spoken inside the room.
It had been spoken outside.
He had sent the three others and pointed them to his location.
'How did he move so fast?' he questioned.
"Reverse formation!" Silken Flame barked through the link.
But before he could leap, something fell between them and the escape.
A blade that glowed with a faint golden aura.
End of Chapter-024