The Sinful Young Master

Chapter 411: Assassins in the dark

By the time Jolthar returned to the main hall, the atmosphere had shifted.

Dayamati was standing, her attendants already moving to prepare for departure.

The gathering, it seemed, was concluding.

Dayamati’s eyes found Jolthar as he entered.

"Ah, Baron Kaezhlar. You return just in time for farewells."

Her words were slightly slurred from wine, but her bearing remained regal.

"This has been a most entertaining evening. Educational, even."

"I’m glad it met your expectations, Your Majesty," Jolthar replied with a respectful bow.

"More than met them," Dayamati said with a smile that held multiple meanings.

"In fact, I find myself wanting to continue our acquaintance. Come to my residence tomorrow evening for tea. We can have a more... intimate conversation without quite so many observers."

It was phrased as an invitation, but everyone in the room understood it was a command.

"I would be honored, Your Majesty," Jolthar said.

"Excellent."

Dayamati moved toward the exit, Verawati and Anchali falling into position behind her.

She paused at the doorway and looked back. "Don’t disappoint me, Baron. I so rarely find people who interest me. It would be a shame if you proved to be less remarkable than tonight suggested."

Then she was gone, her armored guards forming up around her party as they departed.

Rani moved to stand beside Jolthar and the princes.

"Well, that went remarkably well. The Empress is not easily impressed, and she essentially just granted you her patronage by inviting you to her private residence."

"Is that what that was?" Jolthar asked dryly.

"Among other things," Rani replied with a knowing smile.

"But yes, you’ve made a powerful ally tonight. Or at least a powerful interested party. Use it wisely."

Milan was already helping Andrion to his feet. The younger prince was definitely drunk, not falling-down drunk, but swaying and mumbling incoherently about something involving beautiful women and unfair advantages.

"We should get him home," Milan said apologetically.

"Thank you for the evening, Mistress Rani. It was... enlightening."

"The pleasure was mine, Prince Milan."

Rani gestured, and servants appeared to help guide Andrion toward the exit.

"Please visit again. All of you."

The journey through the Pinkblossom House’s corridors was slower, with Andrion leaning heavily on Milan. Jolthar took the other side, and together they managed to pour the mumbling prince into the waiting carriage.

The driver cracked the reins, and the carriage began to roll through the capital’s streets. This late at night, the city was quiet—most respectable establishments were closed, only taverns and less reputable businesses still showing light.

The streets were nearly empty.

Andrion slumped against the cushions, mumbling something that sounded like, "...not fair... so many beautiful women... why can’t I find one who..."

"He’s going to have a spectacular headache tomorrow," Jolthar observed.

"He’s earned it," Milan replied, though there was fondness in his voice.

"Brother has never learned moderation when it comes to wine or pleasure houses."

"Speaking of which," Milan continued, his tone becoming more serious, "be careful with the women you met tonight. Especially Duchess Jazmin and the Second Empress. They’re not simple romantic entanglements—they’re political minefields."

"I’m aware," Jolthar assured him.

"Are you? Because—" Milan stopped mid-sentence, his entire body going tense.

He saw Jolthar was staring out through the window, his expression serious.

"What?" Milan asked, immediately alert.

"Something’s wrong," Jolthar said quietly.

"I feel—"

Jolthar’s instincts screamed danger a split-second before the attack came. He pushed Milan backward just as a blade pierced through the side of the carriage, exactly where Milan’s head had been a moment before.

The sword withdrew, leaving a gaping hole in the wooden panel.

"OUT!" Jolthar shouted, throwing open the carriage door.

He leaped out onto the street, and immediately his situational awareness expanded.

He looked around and noticed figures spread out in all directions.

They were surrounded.

Red-clad figures stood in a circle around the stopped carriage, at least a dozen of them, possibly more in the shadows. They wore full-body attire that covered everything except their eyes, and they moved with the fluid precision of trained killers. Each one carried weapons—swords, daggers, and some with more exotic implements.

Milan emerged from the carriage more slowly, half-carrying the still-drunk Andrion. His face had gone pale, and he whispered a single word that carried the weight of genuine fear.

"Shishusuto!!"

Jolthar glanced at him.

"What does that mean?"

"Assassin group," Milan said quietly, his eyes never leaving the red-clad figures.

"Run by a group of dangerous and terrifying people. And the red attire..."

His voice dropped even lower.

"That means top brass, elite killers. The kind that are sent after high-value targets."

"Well, that’s just fantastic," Jolthar muttered.

The red-clad assassins didn’t speak. They simply began closing the circle, moving in perfect synchronization.

Jolthar raised his hand and channeled power. A wave of pressurized air exploded outward from him, creating a barrier of wind between them and the attackers. The assassins stopped their advance but didn’t retreat.

"Milan," Jolthar said urgently, "continue. Tell me more about these Shishusuto."

"They’re a shadow organization," Milan explained, struggling to hold Andrion upright.

"They take contracts from only the wealthiest, most powerful clients. And they never fail. If the Shishusuto have been sent after us—"

He didn’t get to finish.

A wave of energy slammed into Jolthar from above—pure force compressed into a devastating attack. He barely managed to raise a defensive barrier in time. The impact drove him backward, his feet carving trenches in the cobblestone street.

When the energy dissipated, there was a crater beneath him where the street had been pulverized.

Jolthar was unharmed, and he slowly looked up.

A man descended from a nearby rooftop with impossible grace, landing silently twenty feet away. He was taller than the other assassins, and his attire was different, still predominantly red, but with black accents that marked him as something more.

His face was half-visible, from the nose up, revealing eyes that were cold and calculating. The rest was covered by a mask that extended down his neck and seemed to merge with his body-covering outfit.

Jolthar assessed him and he could tell that he was completely different than the rest of them.