Does the Assassin Girl Dream of the Mana Doll?

The Girl Known as Ghost

“Hey, you’re back, Ghost,” a man said, a smirk curving his lips as he greeted the girl.

The man seemed to be in his mid-thirties, tall with broad shoulders, his physique sculpted by rigorous training. Yet, he exuded a sense of gracefulness, devoid of any clumsiness, his movements purposeful and calculated. He gave off an impression akin to that of a skilled hunter, casually wielding a sharpened axe.

“Master,” the girl nodded and calmly responded, “the task was completed without any issues.”

Her report lacked any trace of interest or embellishment, delivered with a neutral tone and a complete absence of a smile. In stark contrast to the man, the girl emitted an aura of sharpness, resembling a slender dagger.

She appeared to be around 17 or 18 years old, just shy of 20. Her fragile figure seemed almost delicate, standing slightly above 160 cm that accentuated her slender frame.

Her waist-length black hair, with its deep, dark hue, contrasted strikingly against her unnaturally pale, almost sickly white skin. Truth be told, her complexion was remarkably fair, bordering on an unhealthy pallor.

Her refined facial features, obscured by her impassive expression, gave off an air of artifice. Her slightly slanted eyes revealed no discernible emotions, while her black irises seemed to peer into the depths of an abyss.

She wore a simple attire, consisting of an unobtrusive top and pants that gracefully draped down to her ankles, all in the color of black. This choice only intensified her resemblance to a figure of death. It could even be said that she embodied the essence of death itself.

“I see. Good work,” the man responded, seemingly unfazed. “Once you’ve inspected and stored your equipment, take some rest.”

Whether he had grown accustomed to the girl’s emotionless reports or simply chose to overlook them, it was hard to tell. No, perhaps it was precisely because he was the one who had robbed her of her emotions that he didn’t pay it any mind.

The girl nodded in response, but just as she was about to leave, the man, the master—Greg—called out to her. “Oh, right. Tomorrow, we have a client coming for another matter. Seems like they were referred to us by a satisfied customer. I expect you to be present at the usual place.”

“Understood.” She paused for a moment, nodding, and then made her way to her room.

Once she had left, Greg nodded. “Truly, she’s quite a useful one,” he said with a satisfied expression on his face.

The tone of his voice didn’t convey pride in having an exceptional subordinate; rather, it expressed a cold admiration for her usefulness. Greg was a pragmatic man, though perhaps not in the most favorable sense.

He would betray even those who had shown him kindness without hesitation if it served his self-interest, discarding them like disposable pawns. Even so, he treated his subordinates well, ensuring their loyalty. He made it advantageous for them to follow him.

At his age, leading an organization that could be considered the epitome of a band of outlaws—an assassins’ guild—was a testament to his skills.

“Now, I wonder what kind of profitable deal tomorrow will bring?” He murmured those words with a chilling sense of enjoyment. The lucrative deal he referred to, of course, was essentially an assassination.

***

The girl known as Ghost entered her room. The name was, in essence, her codename, given for her expertise in infiltrating seemingly impenetrable locations and carrying out assassinations with absolute certainty. That’s how she came to be called Ghost.

In this assassins’ guild, no one referred to her by her real name anymore. It’s as if calling a pair of scissors anything other than scissors. She’s simply referred to as Ghost, as if she were a tool, and she didn’t seem to be bothered by it at all.

As she stepped into the incredibly narrow and small room, which lacked any furniture except for a cramped bed, a side table, and a box filled with various tools, she casually discarded her clothes and sat on the floor covered with a spread, leaving herself only in her underwear.

She unsheathed the dagger she had been carrying at her waist—the very same one she had used just a moment ago to take the count’s life. She effortlessly slid it out of its sheath, showcasing an eerie smoothness.

With a calm and composed demeanor, she examined the blade, ensuring its sharpness. The blade had been meticulously honed, devoid of any imperfections or irregularities. However, a faint cloudiness remained, a residue from its hasty wipe-down.

She applied oil to it, wiping it repeatedly, polishing it meticulously. It was as if the blood dissolved and flowed within the oil, preventing any signs of rust, and restoring its “usability” once again.

As she diligently carried out her task with an unwavering focus, her hands displayed no hesitancy or tremors, even as they made contact with the blade that had recently ended a life. Eventually, she completed the polishing and smoothly sheathed the blade with practiced ease and placed it on the bedside table.

She remained seated and gracefully positioned her legs in a split, gradually leaning forward. Engaging in a careful stretching routine, she ensured there was no muscle tension and took her time to elongate her muscles without causing any harm. Slowly, she released the tension from her entire body, allowing it to relax completely.

Once she finished, she moved her fingers and lightly exercised her limbs, confirming her range of motion. After all, her body was also a piece of equipment that required inspection. With all the necessary checks completed, she slipped into bed.

Closing her eyes, she swiftly entered a state of sleep… or rather, a state between sleep and wakefulness, where she could swiftly detect any disruptions. While giving her brain and body the minimum rest, she prepared for the next morning.

In this half-awake state, she neither dreamed nor experienced the night, as she welcomed the arrival of morning.

***

Author’s Note:

Risky ventures bring in the gold.

Especially when accompanied by an extraordinary level of danger.

Putting on a façade of confidence, the man accepts the request with a smile.

Up next: The Hidden Side of the Villain’s Smile

After all, the chips being wagered aren’t mine anyway.