The tavern door creaked like it hadn't been oiled in three years, but the hinges weren't what caught Kaito's attention—it was the way the laughter inside stopped the moment he stepped in, not in a dramatic, tavern-goes-silent kind of way, but in the subtle, dangerous silence of people who measured others by the weight of their boots and the thickness of their coinpurse, the Golden Gate Inn was a noble-front tavern dressed like a commoners' haunt, walls made from imported oak, ale brewed with spices from the southern archipelago, and bouncers who wore civilian clothes but had hidden steel in their sleeves and mage-breaker runes under their tongues.
Kaito adjusted the scarf around his neck and walked to the nearest empty table without looking at anyone, even though he already knew which one was a retired inquisitor in disguise and which one was watching him from the second floor behind a frosted glass pane, this was a setup, not a trap—there was a difference, traps were for fools, setups were negotiations wearing a hood.
Lilyeth didn't sit, she leaned against the wall near the fireplace, cloak drawn close, eyes flicking from one drunk noble brat to the next, she didn't trust places like this, too clean to be honest, too friendly to be safe, but Kaito had insisted they meet here, because the person he was about to talk to didn't like shadows, didn't like alleys, and didn't like being reminded he was still technically on three different kingdoms' execution lists.
A man slid into the seat across from Kaito without a word, wearing a brown coat that looked like it had never been worn twice, his face was pleasant, unremarkable, but his eyes were cold, flat, like the barrel of a well-oiled crossbow, he placed a small wooden case on the table between them, tapped it twice, and spoke like they were old friends meeting for tea.
"Your little miracle beads caused a market panic in Eastport," he said, voice soft and clear, "A bishop melted his own chair trying to prove your 'blessing' worked. He's missing three toes. His temple tripled the order."
Kaito didn't blink.
"Then I'll send gloves with the next shipment."
The man chuckled once, then opened the case, revealing a roll of parchment, seven gold crests, and a vial of black powder that shimmered faintly under the tavern lights.
"I'm not here to threaten you," he said, "I'm here to hire you."
Kaito leaned back, just a little.
"You already tried that once," he replied, "You sent a dead boy with a Black Ink seal and a list full of corpses-in-waiting."
The man's smile didn't change.
"And you accepted. You put a bullet in a cardinal's soul and branded a noble's manor with two words the entire court is still whispering about. I figured it was time for something more... cooperative."
Kaito picked up the vial, turned it once in his hand, recognized the substance instantly—Nullroot Ash, a rare component used to block divine detection magic for up to six hours, expensive, dangerous, illegal in four countries.
"You have my attention," he said.
The man gestured to the parchment roll.
"Three names. Not random. These are the men funding the Church's latest enforcer unit—the ones sweeping up small guilds and blaming everything on heretics. You take them out, we plant fakes, and we feed the Church their own rot."
Lilyeth's voice came from the wall.
"That sounds like a rebellion."
The man glanced at her, nodded once, returned his gaze to Kaito.
"Call it a correction."
Kaito didn't move, didn't speak for several seconds, he was calculating, not just the odds of success, but the long-term value of burning three more high-profile targets when his network was still young, still fragile, still dependent on rumor and alibi, but the money was real, the powder was real, and the cause—well, the cause wasn't the problem.
He just hated being used.
Still, business was business.
"I'll do it," he said slowly, "But I pick the method. I pick the timing. And I get exclusive rights to distribute relics through every chapel under their control once they're gone."
The man didn't hesitate.
"Done."
They shook hands over the open case.
The moment their fingers touched, Kaito felt the pulse of a binding glyph activate—an unspoken contract sealed by contact and intent, old magic, dangerous magic, not his favorite kind, but useful when dealing with people who lied for a living.
The man stood, took the parchment, and left the gold.
No one looked twice.
Lilyeth sat across from him now, arms folded.
"You're stacking targets like a noble stacks debt."
Kaito pocketed the vial.
"And like a merchant, I'm charging interest."
Outside the inn, the wind howled like it knew what was coming, and across the kingdom, three men ate their last meals, prayed their last prayers, and slept without knowing the Gun Saint had just taken their names off the list of the living.
By the time the sun rose over Silverglen's upper wall, Kaito was already deep underground, not metaphorically—he was literally beneath the stone-lined foundation of the eastern trade bank, in a sewer shaft that had been repurposed into a sub-network of service tunnels by smugglers and forgotten by the city's planners, the walls were damp, the air reeked of mildew and burnt resin, and every step he took echoed softly like a whisper trying not to be heard, but this wasn't just any hidden passage, this was Route 9, an old escape tunnel used by rebel alchemists during the Iron Inquisition, long abandoned, but now restored as a perfect line between target number one's mansion and the back of a disused chapel marked for demolition.
Lilyeth walked behind him, boots silent, scarf pulled up, one hand on the dagger under her cloak and the other carrying a satchel filled with round capsules, each one packed with modified versions of Kaito's ammo—three Penance Pearls, two Flame of Rebirth Charms, and one custom-built Blessing of the Shattered Will, which was technically a Hollow Curse Round wired with a delayed trigger and a light burst rune so it could double as an "enlightenment bomb."
They stopped at a junction where the tunnel forked in two, one path leading toward the noble's mana vault and the other toward the staff kitchen, Kaito unfolded a hand-drawn map, marked with guard rotations, shift changes, and blind spots sold to him by a bribe-hungry servant who thought he was helping a rival noble plot a harmless prank.
Kaito squatted down, drew a line in the dirt with a glove, and tapped it twice.
"Vault's too guarded," he said, voice low, "But the tea cellar's only got two maids during morning prep, and the vent shaft leads straight up into the third floor, close enough to the archmage's study."
Lilyeth crouched beside him.
"I thought we weren't here to kill mages."
"We're not," he replied, "We're here to kill financiers who fund them."
She gave him a sharp look.
"And you're sure this guy's not protected by divine wards?"
Kaito pulled out the vial of Nullroot Ash, shook it gently, then produced a small piece of silver wire.
"Not anymore."
Together, they took the left tunnel, crawling through the tighter parts until they reached a rusted grate, which Kaito melted with a capsule disguised as a holy seal of passage—when it hissed and sizzled into molten nothing, Lilyeth chuckled under her breath.
"Blessed be the saint who sanctifies sabotage."
They emerged behind a stone altar in the ruined chapel and waited there, silent, until the city bells rang twice—signal that the nobles were leaving their homes for the morning court.
Kaito whispered a single line.
"Time to feed the flames."
He activated a charm and became nothing, just air and footsteps that didn't echo, while Lilyeth moved behind him like a ghost, her illusion veil triggered by proximity to his stealth field, they stepped through the under-mansion crawlspace, rose through the vent, and entered the third floor unnoticed, where they found the first target—Baron Elgrev, hunched over his mana ledger, dictating shipment orders for divine iron and alchemical solvents.
Kaito pulled a Clarity Stone from his belt, activated it with a touch, and tossed it into the corner, where it burst into pale light and confusion runes, the baron staggered back, shouting for his guards—but none came, because Lilyeth had already laced the hall with a sleep-scented Frostbite vapor charm.
Baron Elgrev turned, saw Kaito, and opened his mouth to speak.
Kaito raised a hand, pointed a finger, and mimed a trigger pull.
Then he dropped a modified Echo Round under the man's desk and walked out without a word.
Ten seconds later, the round exploded in a burst of phantasmal wailing and mirror-shards of light, an illusion that made it seem as if a divine judgment had fallen upon the room, flames curled upward, furniture shattered, and Baron Elgrev ran screaming into the hallway—right into the arms of a priest squad from the outer shrine, summoned by Lilyeth an hour earlier with forged evidence of corruption and heresy.
They didn't ask questions.
They dragged him away.
Kaito and Lilyeth watched it all from the rooftop, silent.
"One down," Lilyeth said, exhaling.
Kaito nodded, reloading a round into a disguised vial, thinking not about the kill, but about the message.
"You know they'll blame the Gun Saint for this," she said, not accusing, just stating.
"Good," he said, "Let the myth grow."
She looked at him.
"You don't care if they think you're a terrorist?"
"I care," he said, "But I'd rather be feared and free than liked and dead."
They vanished into the smoke before the guards could even report the fire.
The second name on the list was harder, not because the target was more protected, but because the man was too liked, Highmaster Wrenthal wasn't just a merchant baron, he was the people's noble, the one who donated grain during droughts, sponsored the local mages' academy, and even paid for repairs to the eastern slums after the lightning beast attack three winters ago, he was also the primary silent investor in the Holy Enforcement Purge, the Church's black-ops crusade that left bodies in alleys and "heretics" in mass graves, Kaito wasn't sentimental, but even he had to admit that Wrenthal's death might hit the public harder than expected.
That was fine.
He wasn't planning to kill Wrenthal.
Not directly.
Lilyeth leaned over the table at their safehouse in East Lane, watching as Kaito drew intersecting paths across a city map with a charcoal stick, each line representing courier routes, noble procession habits, and market timing windows, the only light in the room came from a single mana crystal lantern, flickering slightly, casting shadows that made her face unreadable.
"You're sure we're not putting a bullet in this one?" she asked, not because she doubted the plan, but because she hated complications.
"I'm not burning the reputation of the 'Gun Saint' on someone the public actually likes," Kaito said without looking up, "Wrenthal dies and people mourn, they investigate, they follow coin trails—no, this one has to fall from grace, not from a bullet."
He stood, picked up a crate, and handed it to her.
Inside were five capsules, each disguised as a Blessed Purity Filter—something harmless that wealthy nobles used to clean their wine and tea of curses, toxins, or bad luck.
Except these weren't harmless.
They were crafted using micro-fragments of Hollow Curse Rounds, diluted with nullroot dust and laced with Echo essence, once mixed with heated liquid, the capsules would release subtle effects—mood shifts, memory confusion, and hallucinations over time, not enough to kill, but enough to make a man look insane.
The plan was simple.
Corrupt the shipments Wrenthal sent to the Church.
Make him look like he'd gone mad.
Let the Church take care of him.
Lilyeth raised an eyebrow as she examined one of the capsules, holding it up to the lantern.
"Subtle. Delayed. Dirty."
"I told you," Kaito said, "We're not assassins. We're investors in collapse."
The next two days were spent executing the replacement operation, Kaito used his newly acquired Courier Ring clearance to swap the outgoing purification shipments to three shrines under Wrenthal's payroll, Lilyeth posed as a merchant priestess delivering "limited-edition divine filters," while street urchins distributed rumor-scrolls that hinted Wrenthal had started speaking to shadows, all of it done in silence, in smoke, in shadows—not one drop of blood spilled.
On the third morning, news broke.
Highmaster Wrenthal had stripped naked during a meeting with three cardinals and attempted to exorcise their shadows with a silver fork, by noon, he'd been confined in his own estate under priest-mandated observation, by evening, his investments had been seized under "mental instability clauses," and by dawn of the next day, he had vanished—no body, no burial, just gone, replaced with whispers.
Lilyeth read the news leaflet aloud with a dry smirk.
"You're terrifying."
Kaito sipped tea.
"I'm methodical."
She gave him a look.
"You sure you weren't a noble in a past life?"
He set down the cup.
"If I was, I'd have shot myself sooner."
They packed their things and moved again, two names crossed off the list, one more to go.
The third name, though, was different.
No estate.
No investments.
No public appearances.
Just a codename whispered by black-market priests.
"The Harrower."
The one who ordered the purges.
The one who silenced entire villages under the name of holy light.
And worst of all—someone who knew about Kaito's bullets.
Lilyeth froze when she read the briefing, lips pressed in a tight line.
"This one doesn't want you dead."
Kaito looked up.
"No?"
She shook her head.
"He wants to buy you."
Kaito didn't smile.
He didn't speak.
He just picked up a pen and wrote a single word in the corner of the map.
"Bait."
Because if The Harrower wanted to make a deal—
Kaito was going to make it a trap.