Journey to Become the Zenith-Chapter 71: A Blade That Refused

A Blade That Refused

While Victor and the others were descending into the buried heart of the village, far away in the western district of Fantom city, another storm was brewing.

The western district did not welcome nobles.

Its streets were narrow and damp, lit only by crooked lanterns that burned with a sickly yellow glow. Shadows overlapped like tangled webs between the buildings. The air carried the scent of metal, oil, and something faintly rotten.

A cloaked boy moved from alley to alley, his boots careful against the uneven stones.

Albion Saulon.

The heir of House Saulon.

The one Victor had defeated publicly—humiliatingly.

Even now, days later, Albion could still feel it. The memory pressed against his ribs like a bruise. Victor’s golden eyes looking down at him. That calm expression. That silence.

He clenched his jaw.

A servant had already rushed back to the Saulon estate to report the disgrace. Albion knew what would follow. His father would not tolerate such shame.

There would be consequences.

But Albion refused to wait for his family to act.

No.

He would do something first.

Victor had to die.

Videl had to die.

Lane had to die.

Victor—for the humiliation.

Videl—for daring to shine brighter than him, for drawing attention that should have belonged to nobility. She was nothing more than a commoner. At first he had considered taking her as a personal maid. But at the academy, he noticed something. The way she looked at Victor. The way she moved closer to him without hesitation.

It disgusted him.

If she belonged to anyone—it should have been him.

And Lane—

Lane simply had to die because she stood beside Victor. Because she looked at him with loyalty. Because she was connected.

Albion’s hatred did not stop there.

Once he uncovered their backgrounds, he would have his father erase their families as well.

Commoners vanished all the time.

No one asked questions.

No one cared.

He stopped in front of a low wooden building squeezed between two abandoned warehouses.

No sign. 𝑓𝘳𝑒𝑒𝓌𝘦𝘣𝘯ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝑚

No name.

But this was the place.

He knocked—not five times as a child playing games—but in a specific rhythm.

Two slow knocks.

One pause.

Three sharp taps.

Then one final, deliberate knock.

Silence.

Inside, the wood let out a soft creak. A faint sound came from deep in the grain.

A sound came through the wood. What did you need, it said.

A silence came first, then Albion moved again. Behind him, the tight passage stood bare, every sound soaked up by the sleeping west quarter. Up ahead, night held everything without a whisper. His back adjusted under the heavy fold of cloth, shoulders rising like he’d forgotten they could slump. A flick of fingers across the sleeve - no dirt there, just habit. Not a palace awaited, only some unmarked door in the shadows.

"I seek a blade that drinks moonlight," he replied calmly. "And I’ve come to reclaim its shadow."

Silence answered him.

Something different. Not just hearing, but paying attention.

A silence settled, slow and heavy, hanging in the air like dust after a slammed door. Through the grain of the wooden wall, he half-expected some hidden gaze to be tracing his outline.

Then—

The door opened just wide enough to let him enter.

No creak of welcome. No greeting.

Just space.

Albion stepped inside.

Inside was a single room.

Two chairs.

A wooden table.

One candle burning at its center.

Nothing else.

The simplicity felt deliberate. Almost mocking.

Yet the air was heavy. Not with incense. Not with smoke.

With presence.

It pressed against the skin. Invisible, but undeniable.

"Take a seat."

The voice came from somewhere beyond the candlelight.

Albion’s eyes narrowed slightly as he scanned the room. The flame flickered softly, casting thin shadows across the walls, but the speaker remained hidden beyond the reach of the light.

Albion could not see the speaker.

Could not sense him.

That unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Still, he sat.

The wooden chair creaked faintly under his weight. He rested his gloved hands on the table, fingers interlocking loosely as if he were negotiating trade rather than death.

"You’ve come a long way for this meeting," the unseen figure said quietly. "Most nobles send servants. Or cowards."

Albion gave a faint, humorless smile.

"I prefer handling delicate matters personally."

A pause.

Then the question came.

"Who do you want to be killed?" the unseen figure asked.

Albion leaned forward slightly.

The candlelight caught the lower half of his face, sharpening the line of his jaw.

"Three people," he said, and began describing Victor first.

Black hair.

Golden eyes.

Young.

Strong.

Too strong.

"His strength is... unnatural," Albion continued slowly. "A commoner who rose too quickly. The kind of anomaly that disrupts balance."

The assassin did not interrupt.

The candle burned steadily.

Albion moved on.

Then Videl.

Blonde hair. Blue sapphire eyes. Rising reputation.

"A talented girl," Albion admitted with mild annoyance. "Her name spreads through academies and noble gatherings alike. Talent like hers attracts attention. Dangerous attention."

A faint sound came from the darkness. Perhaps a shift in posture.

Albion continued.

Then Lane.

Dark hair. Silent. Loyal.

"He doesn’t speak much," Albion said. "But loyalty like his becomes troublesome when attached to the wrong people."

He leaned back slightly, studying the shadows.

"They’re young. Ambitious. And unfortunately positioned to disrupt certain... established structures."

"You mean they threaten noble influence," the unseen man said calmly.

Albion’s lips twitched.

"You could phrase it that way."

He spoke carefully, painting them as threats. As nuisances. As future dangers to noble balance.

Halfway through—

The candle flickered.

The voice interrupted him.

"I cannot do this job."

Albion’s expression hardened.

"What?"

The word slipped out sharper than intended.

"I cannot do this job," the assassin repeated calmly. "Let me give you some free advice. Do not interfere with those three."

The tone did not rise.

Did not threaten.

It was simply certain.

Albion stared into the darkness.

For a moment he wondered if he had misheard.

"You’re refusing a contract?" he asked slowly. "Do you know who you’re speaking to?"

A quiet chuckle drifted from the shadows.

"I do."

The answer carried no fear.

Only indifference.

"You might be the one and only heir of House Saulon," the voice continued, colder now, "but even your family will not be able to save you from those three if you decide to provoke them."

Albion’s fingers dug into his knees beneath the table.

The pressure in the room shifted.

Who was this man to lecture him?

A hired killer daring to warn a noble?

"You’re exaggerating," Albion said, though the edge in his voice betrayed his irritation. "They’re students. Not monsters."

Another pause.

Then the assassin spoke again.

"Believe whatever helps you sleep."

The candle flame trembled.

Then—

It went out.

Darkness swallowed the room.

Complete.

Silent.

The presence that had filled the space moments ago vanished like smoke.

Albion stood slowly.

His eyes strained uselessly in the blackness.

He could feel it.

The assassin was gone.

Just like that.

No footsteps. No door. Nothing.

Albion remained there for a moment longer, jaw tight, breathing slow and controlled.

Then he turned and left.

He exited the building without another word.

The western district felt colder now.

Or perhaps that was just his rage rising.

He walked quickly, cloak swaying behind him, boots striking stone harder than before.

’Best assassin of the kingdom?’ he thought bitterly.

’Coward.’

His jaw tightened until it hurt.

He had come expecting fearlessness. Bloodlust. Professional detachment.

Instead, he received a warning.

From a man who lived in shadows.

"He dares tell me what to do," Albion muttered under his breath.

A noble son.

Warned.

Dismissed.

By an assassin.

Does he think he’s the only blade in this kingdom?

There were others.

Mercenary groups.

Rogue mages.

Even practitioners of darker arts—those who consorted with corrupted souls and necromancers who wielded cemetery-cold mana.

If one shadow refused—

He would find another.

Albion’s lips curved into a thin smile.

"I’ll just get someone else."

The night swallowed his words as he disappeared into the streets, anger guiding his steps more surely than reason ever could.