As Sheng, along with his two best friends Elvric a mage and Arthol a knight, later regarded as the trio, crested the final hill overlooking the city of Astavo, the world transitioned from monochrome stone to a riot of living color. They were on holiday so they decided to settle their time travelling and seeing the beauty the world has to offer.
If Gutard was a city of cold silence, Astavo was a symphony of chaos. Nestled in a valley where the trade winds met, the city was famous for its "Floating Markets"—hundreds of stalls with bright silk awnings that seemed to drift like a sea of rainbows between the white marble buildings. The sun here didn't just shine; it dominated, casting a golden warmth that seeped into the bones.
"Now this," Elvric said, adjusting his spectacles as he looked down at the valley, "is a city that understands the importance of atmospheric mana. Look at the shimmer over those fountains, Arthol. That's pure, untapped joy in the air."
Arthol, the Knight, let out a soft grunt of agreement. He had traded his heavy plate armor for a simple tunic of reinforced linen, though his Medal of Glory—a small, unassuming disc of sun-gold—was pinned discreetly inside his cloak. He looked less like a king-slayer and more like a retired patriarch, his broad shoulders relaxed for the first time in months.
"It's peaceful," Arthol noted, his eyes scanning the horizon not for enemy banners, but for a good place to find a meal. "No mud. No screaming. Just the smell of jasmine and roasting lamb. Sheng, you've been quiet. Don't tell me you miss the rooftops of Gutard already?"
Sheng, walking slightly behind them, adjusted his collar. He felt exposed in the bright daylight, like a ghost forced to walk in a parade. "The light makes me jumpy," he admitted, though a small smile tugged at his lips. "But I have to admit, Elvric, the air here doesn't taste like soot. That's a welcome change."
The three of them entered the city through the Southern Gate, where the guards—clad in polished bronze—gave them a casual nod. They were travelers now, just three more faces in the crowd of merchants and tourists. They spent the next few hours drifting through the city like children.
They stopped at a legendary bakery where the bread was infused with honey and star-anise. Arthol bought three loaves, handing them out with a humble nod that made the baker blush. They watched a group of street performers use minor illusions to create dragons made of colored smoke. Elvric, ever the critic, whispered to Sheng about how the caster's "thaumaturgic flow" was slightly off-center, but he still tipped the performer a silver coin with a wink.
It was the perfect holiday. For Sheng, it felt like he was finally shedding the skin of the Assassin and becoming a man again. He felt a sense of pride in his reputation—he was a professional who had earned this peace.
"Look there," Elvric pointed toward a grand plaza filled with white stone benches and a massive clock tower. "The Astavo Clock. They say it was built by a blind chronomancer. We should find a place to sit and—"
Elvric's voice trailed off.
Sheng's instincts, honed by a thousand nights in the dark, flared instantly. He didn't see a weapon, but he saw a disturbance. The crowd was parting, not for a carriage or a noble, but for someone moving with frantic, desperate energy.
"Sheng! By the stone, Sheng!"
The voice was unmistakably dwarven. It was rough, loud, and currently filled with a level of panic that didn't belong in a city of sun and silk.
Orthox came barreling through a group of flower girls, his beard a tangled mess and his heavy boots clattering against the marble. He looked like he hadn't slept since Gutard. His face, usually a healthy shade of brick-red, was a pale, dusty grey.
Arthol stepped forward, his hand moving habitually toward his hip where his sword used to hang. "Orthox? What in the name of the five kingdoms is wrong? Are you being followed?"
The dwarf didn't even look at the Knight. He lunged forward and grabbed Sheng by the forearm, his grip like a vice. "Sheng," he wheezed, his chest heaving. "We need to talk. Away from the ears. Away from the light. Now."
Sheng felt a cold shiver go down his spine. This wasn't the look of a man who had been caught in a fight. This was the look of a man who had accidentally started a fire and realized he had no water.
"Give us a moment," Sheng said to his friends, his voice dropping into his professional, icy tone.
He led Orthox behind a massive marble pillar of the clock tower, into a small alcove shadowed by climbing vines. The cheerful music of the plaza felt suddenly very far away.
"Report," Sheng commanded, crossing his arms. "Did you get the number?"
Orthox looked up at him, his eyes wide and watery. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then let out a sound that was half-sob, half-groan. "Sheng... I failed. But 'failed' is a small word. I think I've... I think I've ruined everything."
Sheng stood perfectly still. "Explain. Slowly."
"I went to Belvart," Orthox began, his hands shaking as he stroked his beard nervously. "I went to find the elf, Sylvia. Just like you asked. But you know how it is in the mountains, Sheng. The taverns were full. My blood was hot. I couldn't find her directly, so I found her friend, Miran. I thought, 'I'll just ask her for the CG number, nice and easy.'"
Sheng nodded slowly. "And?"
"And she said no!" Orthox cried, his voice rising in pitch. "She treated me like a beggar! Me! A son of the Iron-Hold! I got angry, Sheng. I forgot the 'stealth' part. I forgot the 'secret' part. I stood up on the table so everyone could see me—I had to, the table was tall—and I shouted at her. I shouted that she couldn't say no to me, because I was representing you."
Sheng's eyes went wide. "You said my name?"
"I shouted it," Orthox whispered, looking like he wanted to cry. "I told the whole room—the tavern, the simps, the merchants—that Sheng the Assassin, the King-Slayer, the Shadow of the War, was the one who wanted Sylvia's number. And then... then Sylvia walked in."
Sheng felt the world tilt. His reputation, his professional anonymity, his carefully guarded dignity—it was all evaporating in the warm Astavo sun.
"She walked right up to the table," Orthox continued, "looked me in the eye, and told me to tell you... 'No.' And now? Sheng, everyone is talking. They aren't just talking. They're laughing."
Sheng leaned his head against the cold marble pillar and closed his eyes. The Assassin's task hadn't just backfired. It had exploded.