He finally arrived at the relatively small city of Dodder. For someone of his stature, accustomed to the opulence of grander locales, he felt the city's cramped streets and weathered facades were beneath him.

  Unfortunately, this job required subtlety and there was no one else who quite matched up with him in that regard at the Tabulate Syndicate. He didn't expect to linger long in this grimy backwater; his mark, though powerful, was new to nobility and still bore the habits of a peasant. A self-made noble rarely understood the intricacies of defence or the importance of vigilance—both of which he planned to exploit.

  It took him mere moments to decide that there was no point in sightseeing in this insignificant town, so he dived straight to work. His mark was the one and only Jocund the Wall, an extremely formidable warrior and former peasant whose legendary exploits in The Saviors during the Second Human-Mokoi War had earned him a promotion to a low-ranking noble, complete with a worthless throw-away fief.

  So far, nothing about the job seemed particularly remarkable. It didn't matter that Jocund was hailed as one of the greatest warriors to ever live, it never mattered how strong the mark was; it's not like he was planning on ever fighting them.

  Thankfully, the whole foray wouldn't be a completely exhaustive bore. There were two intriguing stipulations that promised to inject some life into the hunt.

  Firstly, the mark was not heralded as powerful for his offence. Jocund hadn't earned the moniker "The Wall" by chance. As one of the earliest members of The Saviors, his resilience was the stuff of legend—unyielding, impenetrable, and almost mythical. They say that the only attack to ever get by him was from the Mokoi Khan itself.

  Secondly, and far more challenging, was the directive that the mark could never be identified as having been a mark. The idea of such a meticulous operation stirred a thrill deep within him. No one could know that Jocund was assassinated.

  It was always the more technically involved jobs that got him the most excited. He personally found that the joy of a good mark was found in the gritty challenge of the task, and the rules of this mark just screamed technical.

  For now, he wouldn't even bother formulating a plan. It was too early, and he had too little information; anything he came up with now would simply fall apart. To begin, he would observe.

  He hadn't yet attained access to Jocund's estate, so he stuck to watching the perimeter. The estate was surrounded by a formidable cobblestone wall, tall and imposing. There were three entry points: the main gate at the front, a servant's entrance on the side, and an emergency exit at the rear. And, of course, there was the sky—it was a wall, not a dome, after all. That being said, it was a tall wall, and he would prefer not to test the hydraulic compression limits of his knees.

  The main entrance faced heavy traffic, a near-constant stream of people coming and going. It seemed Jocund fancied himself a man of the people, likely a remnant of his peasant upbringing, which he was sure would eventually make way to the typical noble's god complex given time. To accommodate the traffic, the entrance was manned by at least five guards at all times of the day and three throughout the night.

  At first glance, one wouldn't be blamed for assuming the estate boasted an impressive security presence. A further inspection showed the front gate security was all theatre. Beyond the veneer presented, the rest of the estate perimeter was laughable. Patrols along the wall were sparse at best, with only permanent guard stations at the corners. The servant's entrance was protected by a single guard on a four-hour rotation. As for the emergency exit, it remained unguarded and perpetually locked.

  The servant's entrance was, without a doubt, the weakest link in the estate's defences. He had only been watching for a few days, and he could already see cracks forming. Guards often left their posts before their replacements arrived, and they routinely allowed groups of servants to pass after inspecting only one for credentials. For shame, underpaid louts, for shame.

  A few more days of watching revealed the entrance's deeper vulnerabilities. Being posted at this entrance was not prestigious; quite the opposite, it was tedious and unthanked. Superiors frequently assigned new hires to this post, eager to delegate the monotony while they pursued more engaging tasks elsewhere. As a result, many of the guards had yet to familiarize themselves with the staff.

  He didn't neglect the rest of the perimeter, of course. There was still valuable information to be gleaned from observing the main entrance and wall sentries. Over time, he noticed a curious pattern: once a week, at the exact same time, the estate received only one visitor. The visitor always arrived in the same gaudily adorned carriage, bearing the same unmistakable emblem. From his initial research, he recognized it as the sigil of the viscount who had married Jocund's daughter.

  A weekly familial meeting of a rising star noble, already he could picture the thousands of reasons he could have been hired for this job. The reason was irrelevant; it was just fun to think about.

  Eavesdropping on the endless flow of rumours from the wall sentries during quiet, uneventful nights proved invaluable. Without even setting foot inside the estate, he began piecing together a picture of its inner workings. One thing became glaringly obvious: getting caught was not an option.

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  Despite being fifty and missing an arm, Jocund regularly hijacked the guards' training sessions for his own gruelling exercise routines. If the sentries' grumbled complaints were to be believed, time had done little to diminish Jocund's ferocity or stamina. The man might be a relic of a bygone war, but he was still every bit the living legend his nickname suggested.

  Another valuable tidbit from the wall sentries was the identity of the carriage's occupant: Jocund's granddaughter. She was quite the pompous brat if rumours were to be believed–and he always believed rumours. After all, in his field of work, rumours were even more important than reality.

  As the first of Jocund's lineage born into nobility, the girl's privileged worldview clashed with her mother's humbler upbringing. This, apparently, was why dear old grandpa set aside time every week, leaping to the rescue to play with his granddaughter and hopefully teach her a few lessons about kindness, and purity, and innocence, and probably also rainbows while he was at it. Sorry Grandpa, no can do.

  Next on his list were the servants. They were the obvious choice for any infiltration—constantly moving, blending in, and, most importantly, entirely forgettable. No one paid them much mind, except, of course, other servants. And therein lay the danger.

  Only a fool would simply throw on a uniform and waltz into the estate. Servants noticed details: who belonged, who didn't, and who was pretending. They lived by routines, and no matter how minor, disruptions stood out like a sore thumb. An assassin who underestimated this would be caught before they even caught sight of their mark.

  As the day wound down, he found himself in the local tavern, idly toying with his plate of meat and potatoes. It was a frequent gathering spot for many of the servants willing to drain their measly savings down the bottom of a cup. He'd managed to seat himself next to a group of gardeners and attendants grumbling through their drinks over the woes of irrelevance.

  He wondered if they knew he was watching them—if they would be flattered by the attention. They likely had never been scrutinized so carefully, and he was the type of person who even scrutinized and fraternized many nobles. In his eyes, they were all the same: nobles, servants, families, hammers, nails, tools.

  Deep in a drunken stupor, one of the servants had accidentally dropped her identification. It wasn't a problem for her—security at the estate was lax enough, and she was surrounded by friends who could easily vouch for her when they returned. But for him, it was an opportunity.

  With the servant's identification in hand, the soon-to-be giant killer now had his way into the estate. Jocund probably wasn't a literal giant, but from the way the guards spoke of him, he may as well have been.

  Examining the paper up close, he realized it wasn't an identification card at all, but a permission slip. It outlined the reason and timing of the trip, along with a barebones description of the servant. That's right: description, no drawing, no magic signature, just hair colour, sex, and a signature. The slip was for accounting, not security.

  Better yet, he'd already learned that a notable portion of the guards were illiterate. Forging his way into the estate had just become trivial.

  With a forged servant's slip in hand, all he needed was an opportunity for new faces to be introduced. He hadn't even had a full day to strategize before the problem conveniently solved itself. He was of the mind that no great assassination was complete without a touch of dumb luck.

  Around noon, whilst contemplating how he'd orchestrate the arrival of new staff amidst spying on the main entrance, the desired influx of servants just manifested itself. Turns out a new batch of workers had been hired to accommodate the increased workforce required for some expansion within the estate.

  Why in the world had he not heard any guards or servants mention this expansion or coming wave of workers he had no idea, but he would happily take the opportunity provided.

  The new employees were all from out of town, which worked in his favour—for now. Their unfamiliarity with one another would buy him a few days of freedom to investigate unnoticed. However, they were all living on the estate grounds, which meant that anonymity would be short-lived. Once his roommates and fellow 'colleagues' started to feel comfortable with him, he would have to find a new way in.

  The very next day, he made sure to have an illiterate guard at the servant's entrance and handed the man his forged slip. The guard made a laughable pretense of reading it—despite everyone surely knowing about his condition—before waving him through without a second thought.

  Simple as that, he was now inside the estate.

  The initial infiltration was almost embarrassingly easy. He simply joined the first day of orientation and spent the next few days blending in as a regular worker. To minimize attention, he rotated between groups, careful never to work with the same people twice. The ongoing expansion kept everyone busy and distracted, which worked perfectly in his favour and allowed him to get away with some more egregious behaviour.

  He knew this brazen approach wouldn't work for long. Briefly, he entertained the idea of truly becoming an employee, but a few casual conversations quickly ruled that out. These workers had all been purposefully hired through prior connections. It was almost as if Jocund were shouting, I'm up to something—please hire an assassin. If that was the case, then... hello there.

  The employee strategy was a dead end. His best option now was to memorize the entire estate layout within a week—the most he could risk before faces and names started sticking in people's minds. It would be a challenge to map the building in such a short time, yes, but far from impossible.

  On his fourth day as an employee, he handed his task slip to the guard at the servant's entrance. The slip was perfectly filled out with believable information, but just as a precaution, he still preferred to hand it off to someone illiterate.

  The guard took the paper, squinting at it with exaggerated concentration. Despite knowing the man couldn't read, the assassin felt a flicker of unease as the guard brought the slip close to his face and carefully studied it.

  Finally, the guard grinned, apparently satisfied. "Looks good, Smite—is that how you say it? I just started learning to read, so it's still tricky sometimes."

  The assassin offered the guard a friendly smile in return. "It's pronounced Smith, actually. But keep at it—you were close."

  The guard chuckled, scratching the back of his head. "Will do. I'll make sure to get it right next time, Smith. Alright, you're good to go. I won't keep you—I'd hate for you to get in trouble on my account."

  As he walked away, he snuck a brief glance back to see the guard, eyes closed in concentration, reciting the name to memory.

  That wasn't good.