12 The Strongest Cat Can’t Hurt the Weakest Tiger

Nathan was elated. Not only was he a full-fledged assassin, he had created an elaborate scheme to get there all on his own. He wondered what his father would think.

Nathan tried messaging him, but there was no response. He must have been on a longer mission. The man on the phone had told him his father hadn't been the one dispatched to kill Moore—he must be busy elsewhere, Nathan decided.

Bubbling with excitement, Nathan paid a long visit to Ms. Valdez's shop. He couldn't share his news with her, of course, but a conversation about technology was a pleasant substitute. By the time he'd finished and started home, Nathan's excitement had grown enough to overshadow his patience. When would he hear back from Occidendum about his first mission?

Nathan was turning the corner of his street when a muscular man suddenly crossed his path. He looked up to survey the figure. The man was at least two meters tall, and his lean body emitted an almost palpable pressure.

Nathan tried to sidestep him, but the man stepped in front of him again. So it was intentional, was it?

He froze. He was an assassin now. Assassins didn't step down. He raised his chin and looked the man in the eyes.

Before long, Nathan heard movement behind him. It was no falling leaf. He jumped into the middle of the street, still facing the man in front of him.

His instincts were true. Where he had been standing just before, two more men were waiting, one cracking his knuckles. Both were lean and muscular, and both knew what they were doing.

Nathan didn't understand why becoming an assassin would trigger a three-man attack, but he knew he wasn't going to go down without a fight. Hell, he might even pummel these three to the ground. He hadn't been training all these years for show.

Nathan took a stance and waited. The men were already walking toward him. The two latecomers circled behind as the first man headed straight for him. He was about to be surrounded. Fuck.

He dashed toward the enemy in front of him, clearing the distance in an instant. The man dodged, his eyes widening as he saw Nathan's fist fly by. He would have counterattacked, but he found himself defending against a kick from out of nowhere.

So the little runt had used the momentum of his missed punch to twist and land a kick, eh? Not bad, for a kid.

Then the kid's heel connected with his chin and sent him flying.

Nathan had no time to gloat. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a fist headed for his face. He spun, dodging the attack, and launched an elbow strike into the man's nose. A streak of blood shot away from the man's face. He tottered, trying desperately to stay upright.

Nathan would have liked to knock at least one man out of the fight, but the one approaching from behind wouldn't wait. He spun on his heels. The man facing him was tall and scarred, probably the most intimidating of the group.

The man launched a spinning kick and Nathan was too slow to dodge. Pain shot through his arm as the kick connected. His body flew a few meters before he fell to the ground, rolling until he hit the sidewalk.

His adrenaline surged. Coughing up a mouthful of blood, he pushed himself to his feet. The scarred man was already running in for a finishing blow.

Nathan didn't feel like losing. He gritted his teeth and prepared to pulverize the enemy. A fraction of a second later, he was dodging a left hook and a roundhouse kick.

As he dodged, he realized his opponent had settled into a rhythm. If he could disrupt that rhythm without getting knocked out, he could win. He dodged right and left, waiting for an opportunity.

Soon his enemy lifted his left leg, attempting a front kick to Nathan's face. He hadn't noticed the hole in the pavement. As he lost balance, Nathan dodged and landed a devastating kick to the side of the man's knee. A pop and an anguished scream followed.

The man collapsed to the ground, howling in pain. But before Nathan had a chance to gloat, there was a growl from his right.

"You little bastard. I've had enough of this."

Nathan turned around to see the man with a butchered and bloodied face. But not as bloody as it would be when Nathan finished him off, he thought.

Nathan readied himself.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" snarled the first attacker, appearing out of nowhere and holding a hand against the bloodied man's shoulder. "The instructions were clear, you moron!"

The bloodied man suddenly lost his bravado. The first attacker let go of him and vanished again. Nathan stood there, gaping.

His enemy was using a technique similar to his. Not once, but twice, and without any repercussions. How? Nathan could use the technique to travel almost twenty meters in the blink of an eye. But he'd never managed to vanish without leaving at least a blurry image. This man had blinked out of existence.

A sudden pressure from behind made him turn to look at the man he had incapacitated a few seconds ago. The sight nearly made him faint.

There he was, slung over the other first attacker's shoulder. He had neither seen nor heard either man moving. He could have been killed before he knew what was happening.

The men retreated slowly, without a word. Then all three of them vanished. Nathan's bruises were the only remaining evidence of the fight.

Nathan was in over his head, he realized.

***

"Interesting. So he can use his own version of Quickstep, albeit a weak one. Based on what you're saying, he must've developed it himself. It wouldn't make sense for Blithe to teach him something inferior to the real deal."

Daeril sat with his hands on the desk, looking at the three men in front of him. Two of them stood, supporting the third by the shoulders.

"You've completed your mission. You will be awarded as usual. Roger, your payment will be halved for insubordination. You're lucky nothing happened. Otherwise, you'd be the one paying. . . with your life."

Roger gulped.

"Dismissed."

"Yes, Mr. Eyler."

Daeril waited for the three of them to leave, then turned to the older man on the sofa.

"So, what do you think?"

"To be completely honest, he surpassed my expectations," he responded, sipping his whisky. "But he's still weak. Even the strongest cat can't touch a weak tiger."

Daeril sat down across from him on the sofa. "You will go and train him. From tomorrow until the winter entrance exam. I want him to complete it normally. If we make it too easy for him, he'll die like that idiot of his father."

"I take it I'll be training him in their own training facility?" the man asked, gulping down another glass of whisky.

"Of course. You designed that entire city, Mr. Developer. You should know that training facility like the back of your hand."

"I never said I didn't," the man mocked. "I just wanted to make sure I wouldn't get punished for insubordination."

Daeril threw back his head and laughed, missing the ashen hue of the man's face as he gulped down his fourteenth glass of whisky.

"So tell me, Rafael," Daeril said, once he'd recovered, "Why did you take him in, anyway? You could've just killed him and ended this whole Umbris saga."

"First of all, he has an interesting relationship with that Moore kid. No matter how much you want to think that killing that old idiot will be enough, it won't be. There are others in that family working on the whole anti-assassination thing."

Rafael took another sip of his whisky and continued. "Second reason is you. I know how much you enjoy screwing with people. After what you've done to Blithe, I'm thinking you'd love to play with his son a little bit. Or am I mistaken?"

Daeril slapped his leg. "Ha! You're absolutely right! Sometimes I can't thank the heavens enough that they've sent me someone like you. I would've killed that runt immediately. It would have been such a waste of entertainment."