Instead of fear, a trace of satisfaction flickers in his eyes.
So this person took care of them, he thinks. Good.
Frankly, he doesn't care about the thugs. If the man sitting in front of him can wipe out an entire gang like this caliber in their own base, then he's far more reliable than the dead leader ever was.
After a brief silence, the client nods. "Alright, then."
He steps closer and lowers his voice. "The target is a sect master."
Aiden's eyes narrow slightly beneath his hood.
"That's not an easy target," he replies calmly. "Even if many sects in this city are fake, most of them still know a bit of martial arts."
The client doesn't argue. Instead, he lets out a short chuckle.
"I'm sure that won't be a problem for you."
He glances at the figure standing behind him. The subordinate immediately steps forward and places a rolled document on the table. The faint outline of a sect emblem is visible on the seal.
Aiden doesn't touch it yet.
"Payment?" he asks.
"One hundred gold," the client answers without hesitation. "As promised."
Aiden leans back slightly, considering. A sect master means trouble. But trouble also means experience. And money.
Plenty of money.
After a brief pause, he nods.
"Alright," Aiden says. "I'll take it."
The client's eyes gleam behind his mask.
"Excellent," he replies.
The agreement is sealed, not with a handshake, but with understanding.
And somewhere in the city, a sect master has no idea that his life has just been priced.
----
The next night, Aiden hides in the shadows across the street.
The sect is small, smaller than he expected. Just one main building with a practice courtyard in front. No outer walls, no grand gates. The building itself rises three floors high, its wooden structure old but well maintained. Lantern light flickers softly from the windows, casting long shadows across the courtyard where a few wooden training dummies stand abandoned.
'A small sect,' Aiden thinks. 'Or a fake one trying too hard to look real.'
His eyes move upward, stopping at the top floor.
The sect master should be up there.
Before doing anything else, Aiden exhales and calls up the translucent screen that only he can see. It floats silently in front of him, faint blue light illuminating his face.
[Name: Aiden (Level: 7)]
Class: Necromancer (Death God — Locked)
Basic-Grade Summon: 2
Bronze-Grade Summon: 2
Iron-Grade Summon: 0
Silver-Grade Summon: 0
Gold-Grade Summon: 0
Legendary-Grade Summon: 0
Mythical-Grade Summon: 0
Summon Slot Available: 4/11
Skills: Lord of the Dead, Bone Shield, Bone Spear
Passive Skills: Mana Channeling, Necrotic Sustain
Aiden exhales slowly.
Level seven already…
What happened yesterday flashes through his mind, the slaughter of the thugs, the gang leader, the constant flow of experience. Just from that single incident, he'd gained two levels.
Even though he has two unused skill points, Aiden doesn't spend them yet.
He raises his hand slightly, mana flowing out in a controlled stream.
Two figures materialize beside him, their forms solidifying in the dim light. Both are bronze-grade undead, clothed in dark, practical garments that hide their true nature. At a glance, they look like ordinary martial artists, quiet, disciplined, and dangerous.
These two alone could throw the entire sect into chaos.
But that isn't his goal.
Aiden's eyes remain fixed on the top floor of the building.
With a silent command, he sends the two undead forward.
They move like shadows, crossing the street and slipping into the courtyard without drawing attention. When they reach the side of the building, they don't slow down. Their legs coil, then release.
Thump.
One undead leaps upward, fingers catching the edge of the second-floor railing. The other follows, landing smoothly beside him. Without pause, they repeat the motion, scaling the building in a few short bounds until they reach the third floor.
Movements clean. Efficient.
That's the advantage of martial training.
Aiden watches from below, hidden, his expression calm.
His own body has grown stronger with each level, denser muscles, sharper reflexes, but it still falls short of true martial artists. People in this world don't just train techniques; they temper their bodies until flesh becomes tougher than wood, until fists can crack stone.
Just like his bronze-grade undead. They stand at the level of beginner martial artists, nothing exceptional, but far beyond ordinary people. Strong enough to break bones with a punch. Fast enough to close distance before most can react.
Strong enough for this job.
There's nothing for Aiden to do now but wait.
He remains hidden in the darkness, back pressed against a cold wall, senses stretched thin. The night air feels heavier with every passing second. His attention stays locked on the three-story building, eyes unmoving.
Then it starts.
Aiden doesn't move.
He listens.
From the third floor comes the muffled crash of furniture, the dull thud of bodies hitting walls, the sharp crack of bone meeting wood. The sounds are brief, but violent.