Chapter Twelve: Please Think Carefully

Kevin truly settled down in the editor’s home, a rare occurrence for someone so accustomed to wandering. In his leisure time, he began working on a new book, but since his manuscript had been lost in the Samms Mountain Village, he had to reconstruct it from scratch. For an experienced writer, this was not too difficult, but it was undeniably vexing. Yet, there was no other choice.

Statt had considered making Kevin an editor as well, to help review manuscripts and such, but Kevin politely declined. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll just toss all those formulaic mainstream stories straight into the trash?”

“Weren’t you just advising others to write mainstream stories?” Statt was surprised.

Kevin simply shook his head. “I won’t be staying here long. Once I’m sure I’m safe, I’ll move on. Besides, I firmly believe that reading too many mainstream works dulls one’s intellect.”

“Are you insulting me?” Statt was displeased; he read thousands of mainstream stories daily.

“Of course not,” Kevin explained. “You’re a businessman. You read stories as products, judging their commercial value. I read for meaning—if I fill my mind with hollow things, my own depth will soon vanish.”

“You tell others to write mainstream, yet stubbornly insist on writing the unconventional yourself,” Statt shook his head. “Are you afraid someone will outdo you in nonconformity and steal your niche?”

“Do you take me for such a petty person?” Kevin laughed. “Those with true resolve won’t be scared off by a couple of words—besides, what I said is true. If someone lacks perseverance, there’s no point following this path. It’s like how you assigned Jill; she’d be better off selling salted fish.”

Statt didn’t press the matter further. He let Kevin stay without charging him, giving him a guest room. Kevin kept to himself, rarely stepping outside, and spent his days holed up in his room. He slept late, woke late, and his meals were irregular at best.

So, two more days passed. One night, as Statt finished reviewing a pile of manuscripts and prepared to rest, a young maid entered carrying a basin, a towel draped over her shoulder. “My lord Baron, I’ve come to assist you with your foot bath.”

Statt was taken aback. “I don’t recall seeing you before?”

“Oh, I’m new. You can ask the housekeeper,” the maid replied with a smile. As a baron, he hardly kept track of every servant. Sometimes new faces appeared, and while the housekeeper knew, the baron often did not.

“Open the main door first,” Statt instructed.

“That… isn’t appropriate, is it?” The maid’s face showed surprise.

“No! Open the door first! I have athlete’s foot and need to air it out,” Statt insisted.

The maid had no choice but to set down the basin and open the door. The corridor outside was pitch black and empty. She picked up the basin again. “Is that all right now?”

“Just leave the basin on the floor, and you can go,” Statt said, his expression stiff.

The maid stood silently, clutching the basin. Statt seemed afraid to speak, and the air froze between them. Suddenly, the maid smiled. “So, you’ve realized after all?”

Statt sat rigid, unable to speak.

“How did you know?” The maid seemed genuinely curious. “I observed your routine for a day, knocked out a maid just now, and borrowed her uniform to come in. I’m used to dealing with nobles, so there shouldn’t be anything amiss in my manners.”

Still, Statt didn’t respond.

“Was it when I mentioned your athlete’s foot? Did that give me away?” the maid wondered aloud. “But you seemed suspicious even before that. Why? Was my disguise so poor?”

After a moment’s silence, Statt finally gathered his courage. “You brought my face-washing basin, but said you’d help me wash my feet. That’s how I knew…”

“You use such a shabby basin for your face?” The maid was surprised.

“Help—!” Statt could no longer banter; he raised his voice, trying to call for help, but before he could finish, a blur of movement and a hand clamped around his throat. The door slammed shut with a gust of wind.

A wave of despair washed over Statt. He didn’t even know what was happening—suddenly, his life seemed to be over. With such a clear disparity in strength, he had no will to resist and could only close his eyes and await death.

But after a moment, he felt no pain, only the iron grip on his throat. He opened his eyes to see the maid hesitating with a dagger, as if unsure how to begin.

“Ahem, sorry,” the maid said awkwardly. “It’s my first time killing someone, and I’m a bit nervous.”

Statt: “…”

The maid took a deep breath. “All right, I’m ready now. Are you ready?”

Statt: “…”

“Don’t be afraid—fear is pointless,” the maid offered, as if to comfort him.

Tears streamed down Statt’s face. His mind went blank, and he could only ask himself over and over: Am I really going to die?

“Stop!” Bang! The door was flung open. Kevin burst in, startled at the sight of the maid. “Linda?”

It was clear: the maid in disguise was none other than the assassin, Little Spoon. She had actually arrived a day earlier, but being cautious by nature, she observed the situation first. Once certain that no one in the library was her match, she acted. She chose the night to avoid panic and minimize the impact—public killings were simply not an assassin’s style.

Kevin recognized her, of course. She was the first fan he knew of, and also the first person to attempt to kill him. As far as he knew, her name was Linda.

“It’s you?” Little Spoon was conflicted. She had finally decided to kill the editor and spare Kevin, but now Kevin had walked right in. Whom should she kill first?

Kevin had been sleeping late, not out of choice, but from inability. How could someone being hunted sleep soundly? At the slightest noise at night, he woke instantly. Since rest eluded him, he worked into the small hours. Earlier, though Statt had only managed a single cry, Kevin heard it while the other servants paid no heed. He got up to investigate, only to walk into this scene.

Kevin had considered that the baron might not be able to protect him, but never imagined the baron himself would become a target.

A tense silence filled the room, broken only by the sound of breathing. Three lives hung in the balance, and sweat beaded on the baron’s face, soaking his clothes.

With a creak, Kevin closed the door behind him, calmly walked to the table, and began pouring wine.

The clear trickle of wine and its aroma seemed completely at odds with the tense atmosphere. He poured two glasses, setting them apart, and spoke: “Last time, I left the tavern without saying goodbye. I apologize. You’re a reader of my novel, and I’ve not yet had a proper conversation with you. Why don’t we talk, at least for a while?”

Little Spoon hesitated, uncertain.

Kevin sat down. “There’s no rush to kill. Baron Statt is only a basic-level warrior, and I am even feebler. The two of us together wouldn’t be a match for you. You have nothing to worry about.”

After a moment’s silence, Little Spoon clamped her hand over Statt’s mouth and drove the knife deep into his thigh.

“Mm!” Statt gave a muffled groan, his whole body shaking with pain.

Little Spoon seemed unfazed. “Don’t make a sound! I only want to keep you from running.”

“Mm! Mm!” Statt nodded frantically, clutching his bleeding thigh in terror. Kevin’s heart pounded—he realized she was utterly serious.

Little Spoon was nonchalant. “It’s just a flesh wound. Let’s talk! The situation may be a bit odd, but the author is impressive—still calm with a knife at his throat.”

Kevin smiled. “Death comes for us all. My father was still cracking jokes at the end—I believe there’s something to learn from that.”

“Oh? Really?” Little Spoon clearly hadn’t done thorough research on Kevin and knew little about his past.

“Let’s talk about my novel.” Kevin steered the conversation back. “You said it was a great book, aside from the part where the Assassin Guildmaster eats dung. Can you say what makes it good?”

“It’s very funny! I laughed so hard at some chapters my face nearly burned,” Little Spoon replied. The editor on the floor looked back and forth between them, too miserable to speak.

“If you only see the humor, you’re missing the essence,” Kevin replied. “The novel is called ‘Chronicles of Assassins.’ For an assassin, it should be even more enlightening than for ordinary readers.”

“Oh? Is that so?” Little Spoon scratched her head.

“One chapter is set in the kingdom of Horrock, which suffered constant bullying by other nations. Until one day, a Sword Saint was born. To strengthen the nation, the government forced all adult women to bear the Sword Saint’s children, every day of the year. A year later, over two hundred babies with Sword Saint bloodlines were born.”

“I remember!” Little Spoon grew animated. “The Sword Saint would often sigh to the moon, ‘I feel drained.’”

“Every newborn was raised by the state and subjected to intense indoctrination. They had the best food, the harshest training, and were forced to obey the king’s orders without hesitation. The interests of the nation were placed above all else; their own lives counted for nothing,” Kevin sighed. “Ten years later, these two hundred children, now just ten years old, possessed powers of the seventh, eighth, even ninth rank. Soon, they would reach Sword Saint level and repeat the cycle. Such a nation would be invincible.”

“Yeah!” Little Spoon nodded. “Why don’t real countries do this?”

Kevin only smiled. “It’s fiction—don’t take it seriously. In reality, aside from problems of ethics, there’s the basic issue of food. Raising a Sword Saint isn’t something black bread can manage.”

“Oh, that’s true.” Little Spoon nodded. The editor remained on the floor, looking at them in anguish.

“At that time, the Assassin Guildmaster himself approached the king, gained his trust by any means necessary, and finally succeeded in assassinating the king. Then, posing as the king, he ordered all two hundred loyal warriors to go to the northern ice fields in search of the Dragon Pearl, forbidding them to return without it. They went, and every one of them froze to death. Other nations, alarmed by the kingdom’s madness, attacked and destroyed it that very year.”

“In truth, there was no Dragon Pearl. The other nations simply sent the assassin to get rid of these fanatics. The Guildmaster, without losing a man, assassinated the king and wiped out over two hundred loyal warriors in one move. Perhaps only the protagonist of the story could rival that achievement.”

Little Spoon fell silent, thinking of her own father.

“Of course, it’s just a novel, all imaginary.” Kevin returned to his point. “But if, among those loyal warriors, a few had doubted the ‘king’s’ order, perhaps things would have ended differently.”

“We often say people should be loyal to their country, and soldiers should obey without question. I suppose assassins are much the same. Most people aren’t wise enough to understand their leaders’ decisions, and leaders can’t explain everything, so obedience is considered enough,” Kevin continued. “But leaders are people too, and people make mistakes. Most of the time, their errors aren’t obvious, but sometimes, they’re simply absurd.”

“Three years ago, the Black Desert Mercenary Alliance had a civil war. Two large groups fought bitterly, hundreds died, all because of a verbal spat. One group mocked the other’s female leader, which led to a brawl. The alliance had to settle it, but the two groups are still mortal enemies. How are these leaders any different from children fighting in the street and calling for their cousins?”

“Six years ago, the king declared he would strip the nobility, making a host of useless layabouts into commoners. But the reform didn’t last a month; soon, the king reversed his edict. The very next day, he modified it again: now, any commoner could become a noble by serving two years in the army and making some contribution. I’m not criticizing the king, but his constant policy shifts are a fact.”

“The Lyon Empire and our nation signed a trade treaty: they sold us magic crystals, we sold them fertilizer and grain. Yet their import tariffs rose year after year, blatantly violating the treaty. We protested, but they only delayed. The treaty is just a piece of paper—so why sign it in the first place?”

“Fifteen years ago, my father and the editor’s father were burned at the stake. Only two years ago did the Church finally admit its error and offer an apology and compensation. But the truth is, those are just words on a page—the dead will never return.” Kevin finished, his tone heavy.

Little Spoon was silent. At sixteen, she understood little of the world and now found herself utterly lost.

“Are the orders of those in power always right?” Kevin asked. “If you knew an order was clearly wrong, would you still obey?”

“But…I’m an assassin…” Little Spoon’s voice was soft.

“An assassin should have honor. In my novel, I made it clear: if an assassin does not fight for justice, then what sets them apart from a summoned beast? If you can’t tell right from wrong, if you kill innocent after innocent, don’t you feel any guilt?” Kevin pressed.

“I…” Little Spoon was embarrassed.

“If you think I insulted the Assassin Guildmaster, in truth, I praised him! You traveled all this way to kill for a nonexistent reason—don’t you find that absurd? What are you fighting for, really?” Kevin asked again.

“This…”

“And finally, think carefully—if the author dies, if the editor dies, will there be any books left for you to read?” Kevin coaxed gently.

Little Spoon sat dumbfounded, completely at a loss.