Chapter 55: Whisper [Time left: 00 : 00 : 00] [Your Mission has begun] [Your rewards will be doubled if you handle the assailants within a short period of time] [Number Of Assassins: 20/20] "It’s begun," Azel murmured. Far from where the young man stood, another voice broke the afternoon’s silence. "Check your masks, check your steel," Whisper said, tightening the black scarf over his mouth. His voice carried the quiet, clipped tone of a man who had accepted death as part of his profession. The mask hid most of his face, but not his eyes — eyes that were sharp, cold, and quietly unsettled. This was suicide. Even an assassin of his caliber knew it. The Starbloom Royal Palace wasn’t a place you infiltrated — it was a fortress of legends. The sort of place where the wrong shadow could get you killed before you realized it moved. But gold was gold, and their client was persuasive. Around him, nineteen others stood crouched on a rooftop not far from the palace walls, as much as he would love to have done it at night; the first Empress had said to strike at the afternoon. Each one wore the same black leathers, each one silent. Professionals. Their target was clear: the Second Empress, Edna Starbloom, who — according to their employer was hosting a tea party with her daughters today. They had been given the location and a layout of the inner palace. "And keep an eye out for a boy," the First Empress had said, her voice full of quiet venom. "Azel. Strong for his age, but nothing more than a child." Whisper had scoffed then, and he scoffed now. Strong in training doesn’t mean strong in killing. Killing wasn’t about skill — it was about heart. And the heart was what cracked first. He doubted the boy had ever even felt the heat of blood spray across his face. "Alright, men. Deploy." Whisper’s voice was low, but it carried. They moved as one. Twenty dark shapes blurred forward, almost melting into the afternoon air as their footfalls whispered over the tiles. "Anyone who dies doesn’t get generational wealth!" Whisper added with a razor-thin smile. The faint chuckle from his team didn’t hide their tension. The Royal Castle loomed closer, it was bright under the sunlight and they would be infiltrating it. The front gates were guarded by ten men in polished armor. The assassins didn’t slow down. Daggers flashed silver in the air. In the space of a heartbeat, steel met flesh. The ten guards didn’t even scream — throats opened too cleanly for sound. Whisper vaulted the gate, aura pooling in his legs as he scaled the wall like a spider. The courtyard unfolded before him, its cobblestones already darkening with fresh blood. ’The strong aren’t at the gate. They never are,’ Whisper reminded himself. The gates were a challenge to the bold, nothing more, it was like a dare on whether they had enough balls to go through with the madness. The real predators waited inside. The courtyard guards had already formed a line. Whisper leapt, body a streak of black against the sunlight, and sighed softly. Then he vanished. "Assassin’s Code," he whispered to himself, daggers inverted in his grip. "First Style — Whistling Phantom." The air stilled. A faint, high-pitched whistle cut through the air. Then came the carnage. Heads spun into the air, severed too cleanly for the victims to realize they were dead. Bodies crumpled without their crowns, blood pooling in dark, lazy circles on the stone. When Whisper appeared again, the other assassins were already pushing through what few guards remained. The First Empress’s intel was good — the courtyard was lightly manned. Still, the true danger was beyond these walls, she had said she would try to evacuate some if not all of them for smooth work, but she hadn’t told him how she planned to do it. At least, that was the plan — until the first arrow came. It wasn’t just fast — it was absolute. It cut through the air like it owned it, and when it struck, the skull it met didn’t break. It burst. The assassin’s head was gone in a spray of blood before the body even collapsed. The second arrow took George. George, who had been with Whisper since their first job, whose laugh was too loud for someone in their line of work. Whisper’s jaw clenched as his friend’s head vanished in a red mist. ’Damn it.’ "Move!" Whisper barked, and the team surged forward. The palace loomed like a sleeping beast, every window and shadow a potential mouth ready to bite. Whisper’s mind replayed the First Empress’s orders. She’d promised to keep the Emperor distracted. But she had never said a word about an archer this skilled here. ’I thought all of them were sword fanatics,’ He thought. Inside, the halls smelled of polished wood and faint incense. Servants screamed and scattered at the sight of them. The assassins ignored them — this wasn’t about servants. Any guard who got close died fast. One servant, a young woman with hair pinned high, came at Whisper with twin daggers. He didn’t bother countering her strike — he cut through her legs, sending her crumpling. Her screams followed him down the hall. They were close now. The place where the empress and her daughters were having lunch was just ahead. If they were fast enough, maybe — His foot slid. Whisper looked down. Soap. The tiles beneath him were slick with it, glistening faintly under the sunlight. Soap?! The realization came a second too late. Arrows. Not one, not two — dozens. They tore through the air, each one laced with lethal aura. Men screamed as shafts punched through armor, flesh, and bone. The soap turned the hallway into a killing field, making it impossible to dodge without losing balance. Whisper moved anyway, letting the slipperiness aid his shift out of an arrow’s path. Others weren’t so lucky. His numbers dropped fast. And still, no sign of the archer. He pressed on, he was the last one left. He could abandon the mission now but... he had already come so far. Whisper kept moving, his breath tight, his chest heavier than it should’ve been. He reached the door. His heart hammered as he shoved it open — Darkness. Not the absence of light, but something thicker. The room seemed alive... like the darkness was living, it was scary. The door slammed behind him. Whisper froze. He’d looked death in the eye before, but this... this was different. The shadows seemed to coil, and in them was a figure — a black cloak, silver hair that caught the dim light, and eyes the color of spilled wine. The boy. "Azel," Whisper hissed, lunging forward. Only — he wasn’t lunging. His body wasn’t moving. His vision shifted, tilting strangely. It wasn’t until the cold stone rushed up at him that he realized why. His head had been severed. "And that’s twenty..." The boy’s voice was low, almost amused. "Hehe... mission complete." Whisper never heard the thud his head made when it hit the floor.