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The crimson-clad assassin dashed along the rooftops of Ancii. His feet made not a sound as he ran along, chasing his target.

Meranze was the name of his prey, and he was worth quite a fortune if brought back alive. If dead. . . well, the assassin wasn’t going to let his target die, so he had no need to think of the alternative reward.

Apparently he’d been caught trying to . . . use the client’s wife, and so the assassin had been hired to deal with the scoundrel, and was promised more than double his usual pay.

He assumed the client wanted the scum to be kept living so that he could be put through hell before death, but he merely shrugged off the thought since it was none of his concern what happened after he was paid.

Gripping the shaft of his nearly black spear, he cleared his mind and concentrated, watching as the sick bastard ran along the rooftops. The assassin jumped up and hurled the spear at his target, sending it through the man’s leg, causing blood to splatter over the length of his spear.

The scoundrel let out a horrific scream of pain and terror as he fell forward, gripping at the spear while trying to pull it out. His efforts only caused blood to squirt from his wound, sending him into a new world of agony as the assassin approached.

Getting down beside the groveling man, the crimson-clad man violently pulled his spear out of the wound. Not caring for his prey’s continuous screams, he figured he'd need to shut him up. So he decided to beat the man until he was unconscious.

Once he was satisfied with his work, he bandaged the man’s leg and got up, wiping a cloth over the steel mask that hid his face beneath his red cowl. He wore it to conceal himself, so that none would be able to identify him or his Celean descent.

Throwing the wounded target over his shoulder, he flexed his wrists before scaling down the side of the building into a dark alley. He then began heading back to the meeting place that his client picked out.

It was a discreet location, located in an alley behind an abandoned clothing shop. The assassin arrived there in no time at all, and was relieved to see that his client was already at the site. Usually it took him well over an hour before the client would arrive, so the change in pace was nice.

“Ah, I see you’ve brought me my man!” the Celean said, grinning from ear to ear as he tossed a hefty coinpurse to the assassin, who immediately pocketed it after checking its contents.

“Correct,” he replied. He wasn’t a man of many words, however, he was a man of many thoughts. And at that moment, he thought he heard footsteps.

“Now, excuse me,” the assassin said before tossing the injured scumbag on the ground.

He then immediately turned and began to walk down the alley, with his red cloak flying in the wind, revealing steel platings that covered his chest and other vital organs, and which had been sewn into his clothes so they wouldn’t come loose.

Taking a rag from his pocket, he wiped the blood from his spear as he walked before tossing the blood-soaked thing to the ground. He didn’t want to take the chance of getting sick by carrying it on his person.

Turning the corner of the alley, he scanned the area, wondering why he’d heard footsteps. He then immediately saw the answer, for they were walking in plain sight.

An elder Celean was approaching, with two large goons walking behind him. “I thought you’d be around here,” the old man said whilst approaching the assassin.

“Oh really?” he asked, gripping the shaft of his spear tightly with one hand. He couldn’t tell if they were friend or foe. “And what made you think that?”

“Why your client told me of course,” the man replied before tapping one of his goons, who then walked forward and opened up a small chest of wealth. The assassin was certain that the chest held a fortune.

“A job?” the assassin said questioningly while approaching, loosening the grip he had on his weapon.

“Correct. You see, I’ve been running into . . . difficulties, with a clan of Tamvassa lately that have caused me some rather major annoyances with my operation. So I want you to deal with them. They’re located in the southern areas of their lands, and it's your task to make sure they never wake again. They’re called the Bursakke Clan, after their leader,” he explained, while for some reason leaving out what his operation was. Although, the more the assassin thought about it, the more he decided that he didn’t really want to know.

“I’ll take the job,” he said, turning to walk away. He’d need to make arrangements. “Meet me here at this time in two months, and the job will have been done.”

“Ahh, most excellent sir . . .” he trailed on, not knowing the assassin’s name.

“Call me Crimson,” he said before walking off.

Crimson -- Chapter 2

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