Judge leaned back in his seat, fingers lightly drumming on the edge of the table as he took in the noisy ambiance around him. The tavern wasn't particularly fancy, but it had the rustic charm that brought in the sort of crowd that barely noticed an oddball like him. And considering his attire of mercenary garb, he felt just eccentric enough to fit right in— though perhaps "eccentric" was a bit of an understatement.
He observed the locals, straining his ears to catch any useful chatter while appearing to casually wait for his meal. The snippets of conversation that floated by were woefully dull, revolving around crop yields, whose goat had wandered off, and someone's alarming discovery of what a "modern bath" was supposed to be like. Fascinating stuff, really. Judge rolled his eyes beneath his mask that he had put on after exiting the bank. Mercenaries having masks was nothing new. He was wondering if these folks ever spoke of anything remotely intriguing.
Finally, his steak— a hefty slab of worrak meat— arrived, steaming on a pristine white serving platter alongside an assortment of colorful, finely sliced vegetables. The presentation was so unexpectedly polished that Judge had to pause, admiring it like a fine work of art and wondering if he had accidentally went into a fancy restaurant. "Ten out of ten on the presentation," he murmured, giving the food a mockingly appreciative nod.
But as he went to pick up his fork, he realized something— wearing a mask might save him some face, but when it came to food, masks were kinda 'in the way'. He sighed and removed the white smiley face while giving himself a deprecating laugh, Did I really climb up to be a top businessman? Or were the people just dumb?
Judge slowly ate the tasty treat, savoring every bite, it was that delicious.
They did the worrak meat justice! He vowed to give them a huge tip after he finished the meal. After he had eaten a huge chunk of the meat, he hesitantly started to eat the neatly cut vegetable pieces, but decided not after a few bites. They were flavourful, not was not his cup of tea. (Well duh! They are veggies, not tea)
He left the restaurant after paying the bill plus one sen tip. The food only cost him two sen, so he left half the food's price just as a tip, Wow, I am rich.
His studio was his best friend, because even if he could not conjure new things, he could still change the appearance of anything, including himself and other non-living things, but just not the base material. The reason why Judge bought new clothes despite the option to change appearance was because his original attire was made of materials that would attract unwanted attention.
Today, he decided to change into a terrifying appearance in order to infiltrate the assassin gathering. And what was more creepy than a suited clown who smiles a bit too brightly while torturing you to death... Sweet.
As night crept in, Judge glided through the alleyways, heading toward a pub without many customers, an old stone structure that housed an assassin's gathering underground— a secretive den where hired killers lounged, took requests, and dealt in death. He activated the recording and slipped inside undetected.
Passing through the initial customers who were either clueless and just came in expecting a cheap drink, or someone with enough money to hire a killer. He headed towards the kitchen, and there, without trying hard to cover, was a flight of stairs leading into a dark underground. He sighed and headed down, entering a rather crowded pub that was more silent than the one above.
Inside, he saw a smattering of the "fine" employees lounging, one carving intricate designs on his dagger, another counting coin, a third muttering ominously about "fate's twisted sense of humor." Ah, the usual assassin talk— dark, brooding, and ever so repetitive.
"Evening, friends," Judge greeted in a high, mocking tone, spreading his arms as though giving a speech. The group jolted up, eyes narrowing as they sized up the grinning clown who had unceremoniously entered their sanctum.
"Who're you supposed to be, the circus's lost dupe?" one of them sneered, flexing his fingers over the hilt of a knife.
"Oh, you wound me," Judge replied, feigning hurt as he theatrically clutched at his chest. "But I'll be straightforward. Which one of you delightful folk was hired to go after the Drakonis family? It's not polite, you know, to disrupt a family."
There was a beat of silence before laughter broke out, the assassins clearly unimpressed by the flamboyant intruder. Judge didn't mind. In fact, he relished it. Because he'd already spotted his first target, while it was not visible to most people, Judge could somewhat feel the fluctuations in one's state of mind.
Now this was not because he was special in any way, this was just one of his genuine attempts he had in order to get stronger. He had tried to create a principle for reading people's minds or just understanding emotions better. It was not an unexpected outcome when he had failed in doing so. But he had gotten a better hold of the principle and could feel tiny fluctuations in emotions.
The person he felt the fluctuation from was the worker behind the counter, there were already people coming towards him, itching for a fight.
Judge's lips curled up, his mask was already smiling as much as a human could possibly muster. But the smile behind his mask revealed a state of pure thirst for blood, If only I could get a gun! He thought to himself before pleasing himself with blood.
The man closest to the clown screamed, the hand he had put forward had been cut clean. Blood was gushing out and staining the wooden floor.
Everyone, even the assassins who did not mind the crazy clown sat up alarmingly. Three people dressed in a maroon vest came forward to confront him, and one man tried to help the injured man.
Suddenly, the man whose hand was cut off, his head too got neatly 'separated' from his body. This was the principle called "Mark", Judge could mark opponents and cut them however he liked, a principle taught by his grandfather.
Judge felt happy when he saw the opponents highly on their guard and not attacking despite losing one of their teammates. The assassins were not good at direct combat, and if the workers who were good at combat only amounted to this much, I don't have to teleport away!
The bloodied clown mask got ready for his next attack.