Author's Preface
"Where exactly are you learning words like that?"
Hexeral finally spoke, though his dark, exhausted eyes weren't looking at the impossible fortune currently sitting on his bed. His stern, heavy frown was aimed directly at his daughter.
Elara froze mid-huff. Her sassy, victorious detective persona shattered instantly as she realised she had gotten entirely too carried away. A fifteen-year-old girl from the slums was absolutely not supposed to be casually dropping phrases like 'women's perfume' and interrogating her brother about Upper Ward dating scandals in front of her traditional father.
"Ah!" Elara squeaked, her face flushing a deep crimson as she frantically backpedalled. "Ah! Nothing, Dad!"
"Hmmmmmmm..." Hexeral narrowed his eyes, leaning forward slightly, his calloused hands resting on his knees. "I spent good money to send you to the academy to study mathematics and history, Elara. Not to learn street gossip."
"Hm. Hm." Eowyn chuckled from the other side of the bed, clearly enjoying his sister's sudden, catastrophic panic. He leaned back on his hands with a deeply smug, knowing grin. "Well, generally speaking, Dad, we do go to the academy to study... but you end up learning a whole lot more than just books in those hallways."
Agastya watched the exchange from his spot on the mattress, a genuine, uncalculated smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It was a universal truth, no matter what world you lived in: nobody was actually as innocent as they pretended to be in front of their parents. Kids were perfect little angels right up until the exact moment their mouths moved faster than their brains, and they got caught.
Eowyn, nearing his twenties, had already mastered the delicate art of hiding his true colours from their dad. He knew exactly when to push and when to retreat. But fifteen-year-old Elara had just walked right into her own trap.
"I didn't expect the academy to teach my only daughter to speak like a tavern rumour-monger," Hexeral grumbled, giving her a withering, deeply parental look.
"Hehe... sorry," Elara mumbled.
Realising her tough-girl act had completely failed, she immediately switched tactics to brute-force cuteness. She tilted her head, limping her shoulder affectionately against her father's arm, and pitched her voice into a sweet, utterly innocent register. "Couldn't it just be that I heard those words from someone walking by? I'm just a poor, innocent girl, Dad."
"Hm..." Hexeral Ruinheart crossed his arms, trying his absolute hardest to maintain his serious, deeply disappointed patriarch scowl. He stared down at her, fighting the twitch in his jaw.
But it was entirely useless. Faced with the weaponised cuteness of his daughter, the hardened, exhausted slum worker was instantly and thoroughly manipulated — just like every father. He let out a long, defeated sigh, the stern tension finally leaving his shoulders as he reached out and gently patted her hair.
"Just... watch your mouth, Elara," Hexeral muttered, though the anger was completely gone from his voice.
Agastya sat quietly, letting the warmth of the hearth and the gentle bickering of his family wash over him. In his past life, the only sounds that filled a room were the metallic clicks of reloading firearms or the dying gasps of a target. Here, in this crumbling, drafty room in the poorest sector of the city, he felt a strange, terrifying sense of peace.
‘So this is what it feels like,’ Agastya thought, his sharp brown eyes softening as he watched Hexeral ruffle Elara's hair while Eowyn laughed at her. ‘ To have a home.’
But the peaceful moment could only last so long. Hexeral’s gaze slowly drifted away from his daughter, landing back on the centre of the sagging mattress.
The two thick envelopes were still sitting there, partially open, exposing a stack of crisp, colourful bills that represented more wealth than Hexeral had seen in his entire life.
The father's expression tightened, the warmth fading back into fearful reality. He looked up at Agastya, the exhaustion returning to his eyes.
"Now," Hexeral said, his voice dropping an octave. "Astragan... explain this money. And tell me exactly what this 'Bureau of Investigation' is."
Agastya watched his father’s stern glare soften instantly for Elara, and a quiet, amused thought crossed his mind. ‘Well, no softness for the sons, I see.’ He cleared his throat, drawing the room's attention back to the impossibly thick envelopes resting on the mattress. It was time to spin the web.
"The Bureau of Investigation," Agastya began, slipping effortlessly into his most reassuring, professional tone. "They handle the logistics of major crimes; tracking syndicates, analysing theft patterns, and organising reports for the higher-ups to take action. I wasn't arrested this morning, Dad. I filled out an application a while ago, and they finally came to pick me up for my official evaluation."
Eowyn leaned forward, his brow furrowing in suspicion. "But the neighbours swore they saw the government men put you in handcuffs."
"They did," Agastya agreed smoothly, not missing a single beat. "It was a psychological stress test. They wanted to see how I would react to sudden hostility, public humiliation, and extreme pressure. I didn't even know it was part of the exam until I reached the testing facility."
He pointed to the money on the bed. "I scored perfectly. That money isn't just an advance — it's a relocation stipend. The Bureau doesn't want its inspectors living down here in the Lower Wards where local criminals can easily target their families. They gave me this extra allowance specifically to buy a secure house up in the Upper Wards, along with anything else we might need."
Hexeral slowly reached out, running a calloused thumb over the edge of the crisp Elartraum notes. He still looked deeply unconvinced.
"Astragan," his father countered gently, his voice thick with worldly experience. "I know how the world works. A standard sub-inspector does not get a king's ransom in extra cash, plus their salary in advance. Not for a desk job."
Agastya met his father's eyes, seamlessly blending the absolute truth with his lie. "You're right, Dad. But I'm not a standard recruit. The higher-ups saw my evaluation scores. They are investing heavily in me because they believe I have the potential to be promoted into the high ranks very quickly. They saw what I am capable of."
Hexeral went perfectly still. He stared at his eldest son, searching his face for any sign of deceit. Finding only steady, unwavering confidence, the older man's shoulders finally relaxed. A slow, deeply proud smile broke through his thick, dark beard.
"Oh..." Hexeral murmured, his chest swelling slightly. "So they see the potential in you."
He reached out and placed a heavy, warm hand on Agastya’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. "I am so happy to hear that, son. Truly. I always knew you were meant for more than kneading dough. But please... the Bureau deals with dangerous people. Promise me you will be careful."
"I promise, Dad. I will be," Agastya said softly. And in that moment, he realised he meant it. He would slaughter anything in this city that dared to threaten the peace of this small, drafty room.
With the interrogation over, Agastya stood up. He scooped up the envelopes of cash and slipped the heavy black metal identity card back into his tailored coat.
"Alright, that's enough sitting around," Agastya announced, his voice ringing with a new, vibrant energy. "Go and become ready. We are going shopping for new clothes, and then we are going to go buy our new home."
Elara leapt off the bed, her previous exhaustion completely vanishing at the magic word.
"Yay! Shopping!" Elara cheered, throwing her hands in the air.
Agastya walked out of his father's room, keeping the thick envelopes of money and his new black metal Identity Card safely tucked into his heavy coat.
"Please be ready in an hour," he called back through the doorway before pulling it shut, sealing the warmth back inside with his family.
He turned and made his way upstairs. The wooden steps groaned in protest under his boots. When he reached his own small bedroom on the second floor, he pushed the door open and stepped inside, shutting it firmly behind him.
The room was meticulously clean. Agastya's deeply ingrained assassin's discipline had forced him to tidy the space before he left for the day. Every item was exactly where it belonged.
He walked over to the thin mattress, sat down on the edge of the bed, and let out a long, heavy breath.
‘Today was a hard day,’ he admitted to himself, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
His mind was buzzing with a dozen different terrifying mysteries. He wanted answers to all of them, and he wanted them immediately. But Agastya was a professional. He knew better than most that hasty work was the devil's work. Rushing into the shadows without a plan usually made a bad situation infinitely worse.
He needed patience. He needed to secure his foundation first.
Pushing the mysteries aside for the moment, Agastya reached into his coat and pulled out the thick envelopes Dictor had given him. He opened the envelope and spilt the contents onto his lap, taking stock of his newfound wealth.
He methodically counted the notes. His hands moved with practised efficiency. There were fifteen large bills, each printed in a rich, dark chocolate-brown colour, denoting a value of one hundred Elartraum. Beneath them were six smaller notes, stamped in a dull, metallic golden hue, each worth fifty.
Fifteen hundreds and six fifties.
He held exactly one thousand, eight hundred Elartraum in his hands. A king's ransom for a baker. More than enough to pull his family out of the slums and establish a perfect, impenetrable cover for his new life.
Agastya sat in the quiet solitude of his room, the fortune in Elartraum notes completely forgotten on the mattress beside him.
He listened to the faint, muffled sounds of his family downstairs, Eowyn teasing Elara, Hexeral's deep, rumbling laugh and felt a strange tightness in his throat. He was happy. He finally had a family who looked at him with genuine warmth, a family who proudly called him their own.
But a cold, analytical part of his brain whispered the harsh truth: ‘They don't love you. They love Astragan.’
They loved the gentle, flour-dusted baker. If he ever went downstairs and confessed the truth — that their real son was gone, and a ruthless, blood-soaked assassin had stolen his skin — their warm smiles would instantly twist into terror and hatred. They would never look at him as a son or a brother again.
Agastya closed his eyes, taking a long, deep breath. He held it in his lungs for several seconds before slowly exhaling into the quiet room.
Then he thought and took a simple, selfish choice. ‘Then I will simply be Astragan,’ he decided firmly.
He made the conscious choice right then and there. Agastya, the apex predator of the underworld, was dead. He would bury that name forever. ‘A new identity. A new life.’
He placed a hand over his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart. ‘Thank you, Astragan. Even if this was a mistake... thank you for giving me a second chance. I will protect them for you.’ He was finally ready to accept his new reality. He wasn't just a killer anymore; he was a part of a household.
"Life is truly unpredictable," Astragan murmured to the empty room, a wide, genuine smile forming on his lips.
As he sat there, his thoughts inevitably drifted back to the man he used to be, and the man who had ended him. In his previous life, he had possessed nothing. No family, no friends, no home. He had belonged entirely to his Master — the man who had trained him, forged him, and given him purpose.
As a cold-blooded weapon, he had quietly, desperately craved the affection he saw in the normal people walking the city streets. He had foolishly believed his Master cared for him, at least a little.
But his final memory shattered that illusion. He remembered the suffocating weight, the space tearing open, and the horrifying silhouette of his Master stepping through the rift.
‘I just wanted to be loved,’ Astragan thought, a profound sadness washing over him. ‘I just wanted to feel what it was like to belong to someone, just like other humans.’
Suddenly, a sharp, agonising ache seized the left side of his chest.
Astragan gasped, his hand flying up to desperately grip his shirt over his heart. His assassin's instincts flared to life. He remained perfectly silent, refusing to make a sound that would alert his family downstairs, as his mind raced to diagnose the sudden affliction. ‘ What is this? A disease? A delayed reaction to Kael's strike? Heart failure?’ Why was it hurting so badly?
He squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers digging into his own chest as the memory of the betrayal played on loop in his mind. The cold, clinical press of the gun barrel against his skull. The chilling, apathetic voice of the only man he had ever trusted.
"Good. Now, you should rest forever."
Those words echoed endlessly in the hollow confines of his mind. As Astragan sat trembling on the edge of the bed, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, the legendary assassin finally understood what was happening to him. It wasn't a disease. It wasn't a physical injury lingering from his fight with Kael.
It was the agonizing realization of what his previous life had truly been.
He hadn't been loved by his Master. He had never been a confidant, a protégé, or a person. He had been a tool; a perfectly forged weapon meant to execute a supernatural target. And just like a spent bullet casing or a rusted blade, his Master had casually tossed him into the garbage the absolute second his usefulness ran out.
For the very first time in his violent, blood-soaked existence, the apex predator of the underworld was experiencing a broken heart.
Slowly, his grip on his chest loosened. Exhausted, he let himself fall backwards, his spine hitting the thin mattress, and stared blankly up at the cracked plaster ceiling.
He lay there for several minutes, focusing heavily on his breathing to ground himself. His eyes drifted to a small, mechanical clock resting on a nearby wooden desk, using its rhythmic ticking to pull himself back to reality.
In their world, time was a vast and heavy thing. A standard day stretched for thirty long hours, with each hour perfectly divided into a hundred minutes, and every minute ticking away exactly a hundred seconds.
Usually, Agastya moved faster than time itself. But lying there, drowning in the silence of his room, every single one of those hundred-second minutes felt like an agonising eternity.
According to the hands on the dial, it was just a little past four-fifty in the afternoon.
Astragan took one last, deep breath, burying the ghost of his past life and the pain of his Master's betrayal.