Timeless Assassin

(Meanwhile, The Autumn Festival Parade)

The chariot carrying Veyr reached the entryway to Sunsteps Market without encountering the slightest disruption, its progress through the preceding three sectors having lulled many into a false sense of ease.

By this point, the Twelfth Elder's guards, once rigid and alert, began to relax visibly, their shoulders less tense, their formations slightly looser, as if the festive ambiance had gradually seeped into their discipline.

They no longer reacted to the sudden bursts of confetti that occasionally rained from above.

Nor did they seem particularly interested in admonishing the children who darted beside the Dragon's Chariot with gleaming eyes and carefree smiles, each one treating the procession as if it were a passing miracle.

From a security standpoint it was a big lapse, however, with such a large crowd, it became difficult to control every small aspect.

Since there had been no major incidents so far, the other guards started to let their vigilance down just a little.

But not Valterri.

Valterri did not loosen his stance, nor did his gaze ever truly settle, as his caution only deepened with each passing second, especially now that they were closing in on Sunsteps Market.

Unlike the Twelfth Elder's men who had begun soaking in the revelry, Valterri remained firmly rooted in vigilance, his expression unreadable and his posture tight, as though he were expecting danger to rise from behind every shadow.

Here at the sunsteps market, rows of tightly packed spectators lined both sides of the street, forming a corridor of eager faces, each one tilted toward the grand chariot that housed both the Dragon and the Elder.

Their eyes sparkled with anticipation, the kind that children wore when they neared the climax of a fable they had heard a hundred times and still adored.

*SCREECH*

The chariot rolled to a sudden halt just as its front reached the heart of the square.

"The citizens have prepared a surprise play for you… hope you like it," the Twelfth Elder murmured into Veyr's ear, his tone laced with pride, just as the first thunderous beat of ceremonial drums crashed through the open air.

*DHUM*

*DDRUM*

A wave of performers, clad in fitted crimson armor, sprang into the center of the square with precision and energy, their movements choreographed to near-perfection, while the crowd's attention shifted as one, drawn like iron to a magnet.

This was the Play of Vorthas: a commemorative reenactment of the famed liberation of Planet Vorthas, where Noah, the previous Dragon, had supposedly led a mere million soldiers against an enemy force twice that size.

The actors wasted no time in hurling themselves into exaggerated action, limbs flailing in dramatic combat, voices raised in passionate declarations that bordered on parody.

Oversized swords gleamed under illusion magic, illusory pyres flickered with controlled bursts of light, and every enemy that fell did so with guttural cries and writhing spasms, as though slain by fate itself rather than choreography.

Some spectators cheered. Others chuckled at the dramatics. Most clapped in time with the rhythm, not necessarily for the performance, but out of sheer politeness, as Veyr chuckled and enjoyed the over the top acting.

He could imagine how this was what the Cult members would expect him to do very soon, and in a way, he laughed at his own future.

*DDRUM*

*DHADUM*

The beat of the drum suddenly changed, as from the far end of the street, came a second ensemble, this one made up of older men, their forms wrapped in flowing robes and powdered wigs, as they stepped into the fray with a solemnity that suggested that the next act would be serious business.

"The second act is them showing Lord Soron's greatness…." The Twelfth Elder whispered, as a second play began, this one showing how Soron had once stood atop a cliff and repelled two invading gods by unleashing celestial fire from each hand.

That was how the story had been told to the Cult. However, Veyr seriously doubted that a fight between Gods could ever look so simple.

The two towering puppets meant to represent the enemy gods stumbled and clashed in awkward cadence, their heads disproportionately massive, their movements restricted by their oversized limbs.

Meanwhile, Soron's character dangled from a barely stable wire rig above them, floating shakily in mid-air as he mimed his spells with wild, theatrical gestures, casting fireballs that exploded into harmless puffs of light.

"Those are the legendary flames of judgment!" one actor cried, lifting his arms dramatically.

"No! That's the meteor destroyer!" another shouted, almost tripping over his robe.

The crowd responded with hearty laughter, not out of reverence for the story but because of how flamboyantly ridiculous the portrayal had become.

Children squealed with delight. Parents exchanged amused glances. Even a few guards allowed themselves brief chuckles as their eyes drifted between the ridiculous display and the surrounding rooftops, ever so slightly more relaxed now than before.

—-----------

Above the square, removed from the celebration and completely unseen, Dupravel remained still.

He crouched low along the curved spine of a weather-beaten roof, balancing effortlessly atop a forgotten alchemy shop, the dust barely shifting beneath his boots.

From his vantage point, he could see everything: the Dragon's chariot, the crowd, the guards, the play. And yet, not a single soul below so much as sensed his existence.

There was no aura around him. No breath. No heartbeat. Even the mana sensors embedded in the perimeter failed to detect anything beyond static air.

His presence was muted, suppressed entirely, like a phantom who had never been born.

'For fuck's sake…. If these fools can get a move on faster….' Dupravel thought frustratingly, as he couldn't believe how the procession came to a grinding halt for such a stupid play.

The dragon's chariot had not yet reached the precise tile he had marked for assassination.

And until it did, all he could do was wait.

'The moment this parade resumes and the chariot reaches the spice shop, I will launch the fireworks first. The sudden burst of explosions and noise will draw the attention of the guards upward, forcing their eyes and focus away from the streets, which will give me the perfect opening to push a few old men onto the street and trigger a commotion. With the chaos undoubtedly forcing the chariot to come to a screeching halt.' Dupravel thought, as he mentally rehearsed the steps of his plan one final time.

'Once the chariot is stalled and panic over the misfired fireworks grips the crowd, I will make my move. I will paralyse the Dragon with a poisoned dagger, swift and silent, and then teleport directly beside him to finish the job myself.'

His fingers tightened around the cold hilt of the dagger in one hand, while the other held a small glass vial containing the strength-reversing potion.

He stared at both for a moment longer, silently bracing himself for the moment he would need to shatter the bottle and down its contents, returning his strength back to Monarch Tier, so that he could take down his opponent without any unexpected problems.

For this mission, timing was everything. And when the moment came, Dupravel wanted to strike with no hesitation, leaving behind nothing but silence and blood in his wake.