Chapter 145: An Assassin’s Main Character Complex

“You planning to run him over?”

“That’s unlikely.”

I switched to the [Steam Sniper] and aimed for the figure’s head. His clothes clearly had some sort of invisibility effect, but the concentrated fog was more than enough to reveal his location.

“I have a better idea instead.”

“I don’t think someone standing in the middle of the tracks while a train is speeding toward him is going to get hit by something like that.”

“Patience is a virtue,” I replied with a grin.

A gun was just a force multiplier. And like any multiplier, it worked best when you stacked multiple actions with it to maximize its effect.

Besides, I didn’t feel like fighting another assassin one-on-one again. I’d had more than my fill the first time I almost died.

I had to take care of my body for Evelina, after all.

[Profaned Prince]

“Don’t move.”

My voice carried far; there was no doubt it reached the assassin’s ears.

And I could tell—beneath those thick robes, he was already starting to panic. He wasn’t standing in the middle of the tracks for any strategic advantage.

He just wanted to look cool. And now that he literally couldn’t move to save his own life? Well, I didn’t really feel bad for him.

Still, I was merciful. I’d finish him off with the sniper before he could feel his entire body getting crushed by a hundred-ton machine.

click!

BANG!

A clean shot through the head, dead before the train even ran him over.

“H-How do you make people obey you like that?”

Fiona asked. Of course she was curious. Not only could she neither see nor sense my Profaned Prince modifier, but from her perspective, it probably looked like my voice had literal mind control.

She wasn’t far off.

“Everyone just loves me that much,”

I replied sarcastically. Just because we were in a serious situation didn’t mean I couldn’t annoy her a little.

Fiona only smiled, unfazed by my secrecy.

“Not as much as me, though!”

“Whatever, princess.”

***

The same thing happened at least three more times as we passed through even more levels of the underground society.

They really needed to work on their discipline; they had too many members trying to look cool by flexing on the tracks. Although it did make for good entertainment seeing their semi-invisible forms panic the moment my voice hit them.

The fourth one at least tried to be clever.

He didn’t stand in the middle of the tracks.

He stood off to the side, half-hidden behind a support pillar, cloak flickering as he prepared something in his hand.

“See?” Fiona muttered. “They’re learning.”

“Too slow.”

[Profaned Prince]

“Kneel.”

He dropped instantly.

Not gracefully. Not tactically.

Just—

Thud.

Right onto the gravel beside the tracks.

The train clipped his shoulder as we passed, spinning him like a ragdoll before he smacked into the wall and went limp.

“…Okay that one was kind of funny,” Fiona admitted.

“I’m doing them a favor. Builds character.”

“I don’t think he’s going to stand up again after that…”

“Character building is hard.”

She snorted despite herself.

Level IV Clearance.

The signs were getting fancier now, upgrading from utilitarian chunks of metal to something that actually looked like people with taste had been involved. Less industrial stencil, more polished plates of dark metal, each one inset with neat rows of glowing runes that hummed faintly as we passed.

They caught the train’s lights and threw them back in muted reflections, turning the tunnel walls into a shifting ribbon of cold, artificial color.

The fog thinned the deeper we went, but not because it was running out of steam or finally deciding to behave.

It was thinning because something ahead was actively refusing to let it exist.

Again.

“Another one?” Fiona asked, noticing the way my posture shifted.

“Probably. Or someone important finally got tired of napping.”

The train slowed slightly as the incline shifted downward. The tunnel widened here, iron ribs arching overhead like the inside of some enormous mechanical spine.

And there he was.

This one didn’t stand dramatically on the tracks. He stood to the side, hands behind his back.

Mask smooth. Featureless. Not even decorative.

The fog curved around him in a slow spiral, refusing to touch him.

“…That one looks different,” Fiona said quietly.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “He’s a few specks smarter than the rest.”

I didn’t immediately aim at him, and I didn’t immediately speak, either.

He wasn’t posturing, nor was he panicking.

He was waiting.

Either that, or it was just another assassin trying very hard to look cool by pretending to be calm. I was leaning toward that second option.

Assassins really do love feeling special compared to their partners. Give them a mask and a dramatic location, and suddenly they think they’re the protagonist of the scene.

I could relate sometimes, unfortunately.

The train continued forward, the rails humming louder as the distance between us closed.

Thirty, twenty, then ten meters. The bastard still didn’t move.

His head tilted a little farther, only a fraction, but it was enough. Like he was studying me. Cataloguing details. Looking for weaknesses. The kind of gaze that stripped a person down to vectors, angles, and openings.

Alright.

Close enough.

[Profaned Prince]

“Wave.”

A heartbeat of silence stretched between us.

For a moment I wondered if he would ignore it—if he’d stay perfectly still, maintaining his carefully constructed aura of competence.

Then—

He lifted his hand.

And gave a small, polite wave. Fingers moving in a restrained little arc, like he was greeting a neighbor across a quiet street instead of acknowledging a hostile target on a roaring underground train.

Fiona choked on a half-laugh, half-disbelieving gasp. “You’re kidding, right!?”

“See? Good manners aren’t dead.”

The train roared past him, its wake tearing at the edges of his robes. Fabric snapped and whipped around him violently as we shot by, but he didn’t stumble or flinch. He simply stood there and let the artificial wind do its worst.

I glanced back over my shoulder as his figure slid out of direct view.

He was still there, a lone, rigid shape in the clearing of fog, watching us as we disappeared down the tunnel. The blank mask made it impossible to see his expression, but I could imagine it well enough.

“…You didn’t kill that one,” Fiona said.

“Didn’t feel like it,” I said.

“You’re lying.”

“Maybe.”

The truth was annoyingly simple: I was stupidly, painfully bored, and when boredom sinks its claws in, my priorities skew.

Why settle for the usual quick elimination when I could completely derail an ambush by forcing the would-be killer to engage in awkward social gestures instead?

I could already imagine the sheer, utter confusion behind that mask. The silent, internal scrambling as his carefully planned script dissolved.

The fog thinned further ahead.

Level V Clearance.

“Oh, come on,” Fiona groaned. “How many basements do these people need?”

“As many as it takes to feel important.”

The train finally began to slow on its own, the tracks splitting into multiple lines ahead, each leading toward massive reinforced gates.

Unlike the earlier levels, there were no bodies here.

No slumped guards propped against the walls.

No scattered weapons left where they’d fallen.

No blood, no streaks, no signs of struggling or panicked retreat.

Just silence, steel, and the low mechanical rumble of systems still doing exactly what they were designed to do.

The fog rolled forward, reaching the threshold of the nearest gate—

—and stopped.

“Guess our break’s over.”

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