Back in Business

People came to see blood spilled that day—just not the executioner's.

ㅤㅤEntire families, merchants, beggars, and children whose eyes were far too wide for what they were about to witness crowded around a wooden stage. On it, four stakes jutted up like rotten teeth in the mouth of a starving beast. On the first, a young man still struggled. On the second, an older woman had stopped trying. On the third, a noose eagerly awaiting its next neck. And the fourth... still empty.

ㅤㅤ"By the authority of His Excellency, Lord Varten the Just, these criminals have been condemned for theft, insubordination, and minor witchcraft!" bellowed the crier in a deep nasal voice, so theatrically exaggerated that someone in the crowd almost laughed. Just one. The rest held a thick, heavy silence.

ㅤㅤThe weight of fear suppressed even breathing.

ㅤㅤFrom the raised platform under his blood-red canopy, Lord Varten watched the spectacle with the same look a butcher may give to his knife as it does the job. Fat, bejeweled, and with a beard so perfectly braided it looked fake, he raised a hand to give the final order.

ㅤㅤAnd then it happened.

ㅤㅤA flash streaked through the air like a comet.

ㅤㅤThe crowd didn't see it coming, but they did hear the impact. A wet crack—nothing grand, almost anticlimactic. Like squashing overripe fruit.

ㅤㅤLord Varten staggered.

ㅤㅤHis eyes went wide—first with surprise... then outrage... then nothing at all. A dagger poked from his neck, right between jaw and collarbone. The red spilled clean—like the first stroke on a talented painter's canvas.

ㅤㅤScreams erupted through the plaza.

༺═─–⸻–─═༻

ㅤㅤBefore I was Iren, before the hut and the slit rabbits... I was the White Raven.

ㅤㅤA name whispered in some circles as a threat. In others, as a promise.

ㅤㅤI never left a note. Never signed a name. Just a white knife. Ceramic. Cold. Clean. Unmistakable.

ㅤㅤAnd always in the right place.

ㅤㅤI didn't take just any job. I wasn't some flat-rate thug.

ㅤㅤThere were rules. I had a code.

ㅤㅤAnd while that didn't make me any less of a killer, it did make me something even rarer: coherent.

ㅤㅤMost of my targets were monsters in expensive suits.

ㅤㅤAn Eastern European politician selling weapons to both sides of a civil war while smiling for TV interviews.

ㅤㅤA pharmaceutical magnate who skipped protocols, faked trials, and sold poison wrapped in legal labels.

ㅤㅤThe head of a human trafficking organization in the Mediterranean—that one was personal.

ㅤㅤMy peak—the biggest job I ever got—was taking out a dictator.

I won't say the country. Not for me, but for you.

ㅤㅤJust know he outlawed thinking, kidnapped journalists, and ruled his people with a marble smile and terror.

ㅤㅤOnly that time I got paid in gold bars. Not out of greed—but to be practical erasing my tracks.

ㅤㅤI entered his palace during a diplomatic gala. Dressed as a waiter, with maximum security in full swing. One glass of wine was all it took.

ㅤㅤHe died dancing with an ambassador. Heart attack, they said.

ㅤㅤIronically accurate. Not a lie, but not exactly the truth either.

ㅤㅤI didn't leave my signature this time. I couldn’t afford the risk. In this case, the job itself, and mind you my own life, had to matter more than vanity.

ㅤㅤI walked out.

ㅤㅤClean. Quiet. Professional.

ㅤㅤAnd yet, the final contract of the great White Raven... was a small one.

ㅤㅤNobody important. Nobody in power.

ㅤㅤJust a man who slipped through the cracks.

ㅤㅤWho raped, tortured, and likely buried alive a fourteen-year-old girl.

ㅤㅤThe trial was a joke. Witnesses vanished. Evidence "lost." A lawyer way too well-paid and far too confident.

ㅤㅤThe family found me through an anonymous network. They didn't just want justice. They wanted peace.

ㅤㅤThey wanted to sleep at night without seeing his face.

ㅤㅤI said yes. Not for the money—which I no longer needed—but because of what I saw in the mother.

ㅤㅤThat shattered look I knew by heart. The look of someone who didn't want to go on.

ㅤㅤI found him in a southern city. Living like nothing had happened. Drinking in bars and playing poker with a new girlfriend.

ㅤㅤI entered his home at three in the morning. He slept.

ㅤㅤNever woke up.

ㅤㅤI drove home under a light drizzle. The air was cool for a summer.

ㅤㅤEntered my apartment. Third floor, no elevator. I liked the third floor for some reason, even though I owned the entire building—a discreet bunker I'd made for myself.

ㅤㅤMy clock marked 6:52 AM.

ㅤㅤI took off my gloves. Opened the pizza box I'd left on the counter.

ㅤㅤTurned on the TV. A beaver documentary. The narrator was way too enthusiastic for the hour.

ㅤㅤI sat down.

ㅤㅤTook a bite.

ㅤㅤFelt a pain in my chest.

ㅤㅤThought it was reflux.

ㅤㅤThen came the pressure, shortness of breath, and blurry vision.

ㅤㅤMy last thought wasn't dramatic. Nothing profound.

ㅤㅤSomewhere in between:

ㅤㅤ"Seriously?"

ㅤㅤand

ㅤㅤ"You've got to be kidding me."

ㅤㅤAnd just like that, The White Raven, elite hitman. Tyrant hunter, died.

ㅤㅤIn his underwear, with cheese on his chin, and a beaver building a dam on TV.

ㅤㅤI don’t remember an afterlife. No tunnels with a light or ghostly grannies yelling: "It's not yet your time, son."

ㅤㅤNext thing I knew, I was crying like a baby. And I don’t mean it in a metaphoric way. I mean, actually crying like a baby.

ㅤㅤBecause I was a baby.

ㅤㅤ"He's healthy!" cried a woman. "And look at! He's got some weird eyes!"

ㅤㅤWeird, yeah. That hadn’t changed. I always had those ash-colored eyes—a mix in between gray and homicide.

ㅤㅤFor some reason, I brought them with me.

ㅤㅤThe family who took me in wasn't half bad. Simple folks, gappy smiles and calloused hands. Peasants.

ㅤㅤThey lived in a small house, ate root soup, and peed in buckets.

ㅤㅤWelcome to the wonderful new world.

ㅤㅤIt didn't take long for me to realize this place wasn't just medieval...

ㅤㅤThere were signs: strange animals I had never seen, people talking about "mana" like it was some kind of tea... A guy passed one spring selling "magic stones" yelling, "Three for one gold coin! Clean your aura and purify your soul!"

ㅤㅤI was thrilled. Finally. Real magic!

ㅤㅤMaybe I'd get to summon the dead, control the elements, fly on a broom...

ㅤㅤMy first encounter with magic came at age five.

ㅤㅤOne summer a travelling wizard came to town. Calling himself "Master Wylethador." Wore long robes that smelled of sweat and had for a beard undeniably a glued dead cat.

ㅤㅤ"I've come to show you the arcane arts!" he proclaimed.

ㅤㅤUs kids (myself included) sat in the mud, wide-eyed. Wylethador raised his hands, muttered some words that sounded like hiccups, clapped his hands and...

ㅤㅤZap!

ㅤㅤA blue spark shot from his hands and hit a rock. The rock wobbled. Got slightly warm. Not even hot.

ㅤㅤI picked it up and said:

ㅤㅤ"That was it?"

ㅤㅤ"Hey!" snapped the wizard, visibly offended. "That was a Scorching Light Spark! Level two no less!"

ㅤㅤ"And if you train really hard, can you make a bigger one?"

ㅤㅤ"Yes! It can cause scratches! Even bruises!"

ㅤㅤNot exactly what I'd dreamed of. I wanted firestorms, portals to other realms, dragon summoning with a word, or—even better, a wand that shoots lightning with a roar of thunder.

ㅤㅤI tried convincing myself that maybe it was just that hobo wizard who made magic seem so… disappointing.

ㅤㅤI had to take a decision:

ㅤㅤIf this world would give me disappointing magic, then I'd have to bring what I did know—how to kill without being seen.

༺═─–⸻–─═༻

ㅤㅤTrained, stealthy, and wielding knives I crafted myself, I became the terror of the forest rabbits. Literally. Not a single one alive within a hundred meters of my house. My parents thought I had the soul of a hunter. For a child, my skills weren’t half bad—though, admittedly, I had an edge.

ㅤㅤThey had no idea that, in truth, I practiced how to kill. With silence and precision. And not less elegance. Of course, my mother’s rabbit stew afterward—also phenomenal.

ㅤㅤI remember coming back from my “hunts” with stained hands and shining eyes. She never asked anything, just greeted me with water and a smile that ignored everything. Her stew smelled like home, like truce, like a childhood untouched by war. I’d sit at the table, legs dangling, while she hummed tuneless songs and stirred the pot.

ㅤㅤDuring those days, I still believed in the order of things in this world. I thought the feudal lords were strict, yes, but fair. I thought hanging people in the plaza once in a while was a necessity, and that laws existed to hold the chaos at bay. Until one day, I saw a boy —maybe eight years old— crying while they tied a rope around his neck.

ㅤㅤ"They say he stole bread," a villager murmured. "The baker said a piece was missing… and you know how the Lord is... can't let things like this slide."

ㅤㅤAn old itch had returned after a long time. One, I used to get in my previous life when someone broke the rules of the game.

ㅤㅤIt was the first time I climbed a bell tower with a knife in hand and fury in my heart.

༺═─–⸻–─═༻

ㅤㅤI shouted something before disappearing from the bell tower—I don't recall what exactly.

ㅤㅤSomething dramatic. Maybe:

ㅤㅤ"Judgment has come!"

ㅤㅤOr maybe just:

ㅤㅤ"Screw you, aristocratic bastards!"

ㅤㅤDoesn't matter. It wasn't a small target, but my aim never missed.

ㅤㅤAs I fled across the rooftops, with guards scrambling like headless chickens, I knew one thing for sure:

ㅤㅤThis world didn't need grand wizards.

ㅤㅤIt needed hitmen with principles.

ㅤㅤAnd I was back in business.

Author’s Note: If you enjoyed this chapter, I seriously value any and all type of support. Leaving a like helps the story get recognition, while leaving your comment helps me improve and stay motivated to keep on delivering new chapters at a fast pace. Remember to add to your library to receive a notification when new episodes are published.

I know it's such a cliché thing to say, but it truly makes a difference.