Chapter Six: The Little Spoon

The Assassin Guild was governed by a strict hierarchy. In the early days of turmoil, the guild was divided into nine ranks and nine levels, and at that time, it was a vast organization, almost akin to a special forces unit of the kingdom. But after centuries of peace, assassination assignments dwindled, and maintaining such a massive guild became unnecessary, prompting several rounds of large-scale layoffs.

Now, only a hundred assassins in the guild are permitted to carry out assassination missions; the rest are merely intelligence gatherers. With only a hundred true assassins, the nine ranks and nine levels had become redundant. Thus, the system was reformed into a star-rating evaluation: the highest being five stars, the lowest being none. The current guild master is also the only five-star assassin.

The star ratings are related to an assassin’s strength, but not entirely so. Completing a major mission can earn one a promotion, regardless of their usual capabilities. If an assassin with the strength of a mere farmer successfully kills a sword saint solo, he becomes a five-star assassin. He might not be able to defeat a common guard in a fair fight, but that does not matter. Assassins are not meant for direct confrontation; a skilled assassin achieves the greatest results with minimal force. As long as he succeeds, it is a testament to his skill, deserving of honor.

But in these peaceful times, finding a task worthy of promotion is not easy. Domestic assassination contracts have not been issued in years; the last one, three years ago, was not even an assassination but merely an order to place a dagger on a noble’s bedside as a warning. Many assassins have attempted to accept assignments abroad, not for money, but to keep their skills from rusting.

As for domestic assignments, after three years of waiting, only a single contract arrived—to assassinate a bard. The man in black had no real intention of carrying it out, but with the guild master’s order, he dared not refuse.

After much deliberation, the man in black sought out the guild master’s daughter. The guild master, nearing fifty, had two sons and a daughter. Both sons had joined the army and now served as colonels in the kingdom’s forces. The daughter remained at home; a noble lady, naturally elegant and dignified, frequenting high society, with a touch of swordsmanship, admired by many noble youths.

But unfortunately, this was only a façade. To guard against assassination attempts, the guild master had long ago switched his daughter with the daughter of a maid. His true daughter had always worked in the kitchen, tending the fire, often ending up with soot on her face due to her clumsiness. Yet, she possessed the strength of a fifth-rank warrior; even the palace guards could not withstand her in a direct fight, though she herself might not realize it.

Though she was his daughter, the guild master trained her with utmost rigor. At sixteen, to have such strength was rare indeed. But as she had never undertaken an assassin’s mission, she remained a zero-star assassin.

At dusk, the man in black released a gray pigeon, carrying a coded message, which translated as: "Hope Little Spoon will come to the back mountain before midnight for a discussion." Signed, "Albatross."

Little Spoon was the guild master's daughter's codename; Albatross was the man in black's. Within the Assassin Guild, members used codenames, as they often infiltrated various departments, and their names changed, but codenames did not. The codenames were entirely arbitrary, but once chosen, they could not be changed—unless one became guild master, for then, the codename would simply be "Guild Master."

Midnight, in the woods behind the mountain. Little Spoon approached, broom in hand, still wearing her maid's uniform, smudged with a few black stains—likely from wiping her dirty hands on herself. Her eyes were large and lively in the night.

"I'm here. Come out," Little Spoon said casually. Whoosh! Albatross descended from the tree, silent as ever, masked and clad in black.

"My lady," Albatross said helplessly, "shouldn't you observe proper assassin etiquette when meeting? Black clothes, masked face!"

"Too much trouble. I'm at home, it's not necessary," Little Spoon retorted, urging, "Just get on with it. I still have chores to do—the backyard hasn't been swept."

"You still need to sweep at this hour?" Albatross asked.

"There's nothing in assassin etiquette about worrying over someone's sweeping when delivering a mission," Little Spoon shot back.

"Fine, fine," Albatross switched topics. "Let me recommend a book."

Little Spoon: "..."

"Have you read 'Chronicles of Assassins'?" Albatross handed her the book, which he had picked up after the guild master tossed it aside.

"I have," Little Spoon replied, taking the novel. "He actually wrote that my father eats dung. Intolerable."

"Well... The guild master in the novel is entirely unrelated to the real guild master," Albatross explained. "Besides, the novel is quite well written."

"You came all this way at night just to recommend a novel?" Little Spoon was surprised.

"Actually, the task is related to this book," Albatross hesitated for a moment. "But first, what do you think of it?"

Little Spoon eyed him suspiciously, but answered, "If it didn’t say my father eats dung, it would be a decent novel."

"Alright, the mission is to assassinate the author," Albatross finally admitted. "Your father ordered it himself; it was supposed to be me, but I don’t really want to do it, so it’s yours."

"Really?" Little Spoon looked at the book in surprise. "Even if he wrote about eating dung, is that enough to warrant killing? What’s gotten into Father?"

"I don’t know, but it’s a direct order. The guild master won’t change his mind," Albatross replied.

"Then I’ll have to ask Father first," Little Spoon answered. "I can’t just leave whenever I please."

Suddenly, both shuddered, dropping to one knee in unison. The guild master had appeared beside them, silent and inscrutable—maybe just arrived, maybe he'd been there a while. He wore pajamas, but his authority was undiminished.

"Guild Master." "Count." Even in private, Little Spoon never addressed him as father—it had become habit.

"Wearing a maid’s outfit, what assassin etiquette is that?" The Count glanced sideways. "You need only bow your head slightly."

"Ah, alright," Little Spoon stood up. "But I want to request a task."

"If you wish to request a mission, you must do so in proper assassin etiquette," the Count said coldly.

"Fine," Little Spoon knelt again, then paused, a bit embarrassed. "Oh, what was I about to say?"

"Guild Master," Albatross interjected, "I seek permission to transfer the mission to assassinate Kevin of the Empty Hall to Little Spoon."

The Count said nothing, seeming to weigh the matter.

Little Spoon quickly added, "Of the hundred assassins in our guild, I am the only zero-star. I have decent strength, and the mission is not difficult. I wish to earn merit."

"You want to go out and play," the Count replied calmly.

"Yes," Little Spoon answered bluntly.

After a brief silence, Little Spoon corrected herself: "No! I’m applying for this mission not just for personal honor, but also for personal vengeance. That wretched bard actually wrote that my father eats dung! Unforgivable!"

The Count: "..."

"And not only did he say my father eats dung, he said he used a spoon to dig it up, and my codename is Little Spoon. It’s as if he’s implying I feed my father dung. Unforgivable, absolutely unforgivable! Father—no, Guild Master! I demand to carry out the assassination, so he’ll learn that my father does not eat dung and I will never feed him dung!"

The woods fell silent. The two looked up, only to find the Count had already gone. By the guild’s custom, this was tacit approval.

"Only you dare speak to your father like that," Albatross smiled, rising.

"Hehe!" Little Spoon picked up her broom, beaming. "So I can go out? Haha! Hehehe!"

"Congratulations," Albatross replied politely, then vanished. He knew Little Spoon rarely left the estate, always practicing or working, seldom granted leave—especially for solo missions.

"Hahaha! Hahaha!" Her joyful laughter echoed through the woods, accompanied by the brisk sound of sweeping—a task performed with renewed vigor.

Elsewhere, wholly unaware of the impending calamity, Kevin continued entertaining the villagers of Samms Mountain with his tales. He had stayed there for ten days, lodging in the village’s only chapel. The chapel had just one priest, a man in his forties or fifties, notorious for his idleness and love of good food.

He mainly assisted villagers with minor injuries, applying salves as needed, but couldn’t be bothered with services. He claimed that even if he held them, no one would attend, so he didn’t bother. Kevin, merely a guest, had no opinion on the matter. Ten years of traveling had exposed him to all kinds of people; if he felt inclined, he might later report the priest when passing through a city, but if not, he'd forget it. Even so, such complaints rarely had effect—these rural priests were often exiled for their misdeeds.

The Church of Light was, after all, made up of people; most preferred city life, fine food and clothes, mingling with nobility. Few wished to serve in remote villages, preaching to illiterate peasants and surviving on black bread, perhaps even risking a beating. Those sent to the hinterlands were usually those who had no other choice. Only a rare few were truly devoted to spreading light to every corner of the continent.

The lazy priest had left for the city four days ago, allegedly for some clergy conference. The chapel was left to Kevin, who found it dilapidated but not worth stealing from, as the priest never locked the door. This suited Kevin well: he could read or write during the day, and visit the tavern in the evening to tell stories. Occasionally, when someone was injured, Kevin knew where the herbs were kept and would apply them as needed.

That evening, as usual, Kevin dressed neatly, pinned his badge, and prepared to head to the tavern. Just as he stepped out, he saw another priest approaching from afar. This was certainly not the lazy priest—by his stride, Kevin could tell he was energetic.

This was unusual; priests assigned to mountain villages usually looked weary, and it was a three-day walk from the nearest town. Most would be exhausted. But this one was lively—perhaps a skilled practitioner?

"Hey!" The priest called out to Kevin from a distance. "Hello!"

"Hmm," Kevin nodded, not knowing him.

"I’m the new priest, here to take over," the priest said. "My name is Lawlew."

"I’m Kevin," Kevin replied politely. "The chapel’s there; I’m just staying temporarily. It’s messy inside, so you’ll have a tough time as the new priest."

"No problem," Lawlew seemed unfazed, but was curious about Kevin’s badge. "Oh? You’re a bard? Kevin of the Empty Hall?"

"Yes," Kevin answered. "I’m just heading to the tavern."

"Well, I won’t keep you," Lawlew replied cheerfully. "I’ll go check out the chapel."

Kevin nodded, and they parted ways. He silently noted: movements suggest he’s left-handed, shoes caked in mud—there was heavy rain here two days ago, so it makes sense he came via the mountain path. Though his energy is surprising, perhaps he uses magic to restore stamina—not so odd.

Glancing back after a few steps, Kevin saw Lawlew vigorously sweeping the chapel. Kevin didn’t concern himself further and went to the tavern to ply his trade.

"Oh! Welcome, our fine gentleman!" The drinkers erupted in applause.

Kevin nodded in greeting, scanning the room to find it filled with men tonight. Clearly, they wanted to hear something exciting. As a bard, he must satisfy their tastes, or else go hungry.

"Do you know who the continent’s most infamous rapist is?" Kevin prompted.

The farmers had no idea, shaking their heads en masse.

"It was Prince Gugar of the beastfolk, over a hundred years ago. He was powerful and possessed a unique ability! His manhood could lengthen and shorten, thicken and thin, extend and retract, enough to suit any—"

"Uh..." someone among the drinkers was puzzled. "Aren’t all manhoods like that?"

Kevin: "..." (Even a seasoned bard could sometimes be rendered speechless by these ignorant peasants.)

"I mean, his abilities in that area were exceptionally outstanding, you understand?" Kevin raised his voice.

"Understood, understood," the drinkers nodded.

Kevin continued, "It was a sweltering summer when the notorious Gugar came to a human mountain village. Due to war, all the men had gone off to fight, leaving only women. Because of the heat, the women didn’t even bother with clothes. Even so, they sweated profusely when working and had to jump in the river to cool off."

"Gugar suddenly appeared, causing panic among the women, who fled in all directions. But the beastfolk prince’s strength meant escape was impossible. He easily captured them all, tied them spread-eagled to wooden racks, and proceeded as if inspecting them, poking this one, pinching that one. The women screamed and begged, but it was no use. Finally, he found the most beautiful woman."

The tavern was electric with excitement, the drinkers imagining the village women bound and helpless.

"Gugar, without ceremony, blocked the beauty’s mouth with his tongue, grabbed her long white legs, then violently—"

The tavern door creaked open, and a young woman peeked inside, curious.

Kevin shifted seamlessly, "The predecessor of the Lobaule Kingdom was the Lobaule City-State, established in the year 500. It has—"

"Oh no!" The drinkers groaned. They knew this gentleman’s peculiar code: he never told bawdy stories in the presence of ladies. So tonight’s risqué tale was spoiled.

Yet, upon closer look, the newcomer was a pleasant sight. Dressed as a traveler, very clean, carrying a small bag, her hair tied in a high ponytail, radiating vitality. Among nobility, she’d be considered above average, but to these unsophisticated peasants, she was an angel.

The girl paid no mind to their stares, merely smiled, then naturally took a seat at the bar, calling to the barkeeper, "Hey, a glass of red wine, please."

"None," the barkeep replied.

"Then just some fruit wine."

"None."

"Orange juice, watermelon juice, coconut juice?"

"None of those either."

The girl: "..."

Kevin ignored the exchange, continuing his tale, "Recently, the standard of living for the common folk in Lobaule has risen. In many small central nations, even nobility can’t afford malt ale. They go years without meat, even forgetting what it tastes like, forced to subsist on wild fruit. Most are so thin that anyone here could easily beat five of them. Our lifestyle is paradise to them."

"Oh, really?" The drinkers began to discuss.

"Of course. We should thank our king," Kevin raised his right fist, "Long live Lobaule!"

The tavern erupted as they raised their cups, "Long live Lobaule!"

The girl: "..."