Chapter 50: Old Men
The secret of the assasination hung in the silent air between the three roommates of Room Thirteen.
A top secret raid to assassinate the Shu Clan Leader before his silent rebellion could tear the region apart.
But an execution squad of the First Court moving into Shu territory would instantly trigger the alarm.
They needed to be invisible.
They needed a mask.
Back inside the quiet sanctuary of Room Thirteen, Evan stood before the small, polished metal mirror fixed above the attached bathroom’s sink.
He reached into his side cabinet, his leather-gloved fingers wrapping around the cool, dark iron handle of his straight razor. He ran a thumb over the edge, the steel was lethally sharp, catching the dim grey winter light filtering through the high narrow vents.
For the past six months of the brutal winter time skip, Evan had let his appearance grow rugged.
A thick, dark stubble mustache and a light, unyielding shadow of a beard had framed his jawline, giving him the look of a battle hardened wild wolf.
It was a perfect camouflage for a person who is very sad to loose in the tournament, but for an assasination, it was too distinct.
With practiced, cold discipline, Evan applied a thick layer of bitter lye soap to his face. He tilted his head back slightly, his dark eyes fixed on his reflection.
Scrape.
The razor slid smoothly across his jawline.
Strands of dark hair slid into the ceramic basin along with the white foam.
With a few more methodical strokes, the stubble mustache was entirely gone.
The rugged, older edge he had cultivated over the winter vanished, revealing the strikingly sharp, pale, and youthful contour of his face underneath.
His dark eyes seemed even more prominent now, cold and calculating, completely devoid of any boyish innocence despite the clean shaven skin.
He splashed freezing water over his face, wiped it dry with a coarse cloth, and stepped out into the main room.
Ghost and Peaker were already waiting, surrounded by a chaotic pile of strange, mismatched robes they had quietly secured from the sect’s logistical underbelly.
’Damn, kid,’ Ghost let out a low rumble of a laugh, eyeing Evan’s clean face.
’You look five years younger, good, it makes the disguise paste stick better.’
For the next hour, Room Thirteen transformed from a cultivator’s quarters into a theatrical workshop.
They weren’t using high grade magical masks, those emitted faint traces of active Qi that powerful the Shu Clan people could easily detect.
Instead, they relied on old fashioned, mortal grade disguise artistry, a technique Peaker had masterfully acquired during his shady excursions outside the sect.
Peaker, completely alert and lacking any of his usual sleep deprived laziness, mixed a thick, walnut-colored paste with a pungent herbal oil.
With delicate, surprisingly steady fingers, he began applying it to Ghost’s massive frame.
The bright, majestic blonde mane of the giant weapon master was meticulously coated in a specialized silver-grey ash powder, turning his vibrant hair into a dull, thinning thatch of an old man’s locks.
Peaker used the sticky resin to contort the lines around Ghost’s eyes, drawing artificial, deep set wrinkles across his forehead and painting his thick blonde mustache into a coarse, fading grey beard.
Next was Peaker himself.
He used the pasty clay to accentuate the dark bags under his eyes, making them look like the hollow, sunken sockets of a man on the absolute verge of the grave.
He donned a set of loose, stained brown robes that completely hid his fluid, predatory posture, deliberately slumping his shoulders forward to mimic a frail, spinal deformity.
Finally, they worked on Evan.
Peaker applied the walnut paste to Evan’s pale skin, dulling his smooth complexion into a weathered, sun baked tan filled with artificial liver spots and deep crow’s feet around his eyes.
His messy black hair was dusted with white powder until it looked like a frazzled, thinning crown of a man who had spent forty years traveling the dusty roads.
Evan traded his tattered midnight black coat and wolf skin cloak for a heavy, coarse wool tunic of a common merchant, a faded grey fabric that smelled faintly of old spices and damp straw.
When they stood in a circle, the transformation was absolute.
The kids of Room Thirteen had vanished.
In their place stood three weary, elderly traveling merchants, the kind of baseline mortals who spent their miserable lives moving low tier goods between regional towns.
’Remember,’ Peaker whispered, his voice cracking perfectly into a raspy, elderly wheeze that made Ghost smirk.
’Don’t walk like you can shatter stone blocks with your thighs. Slouch. Let your knees wobble. If a guard barks at you, you don’t glare, you tremble and offer him a discount.’
Evan didn’t speak.
Under the cover of the late afternoon, as the grey sky began to deepen into a bruised, freezing twilight, the trio quietly navigated the rear pathways of the First Court, avoiding the main central plaza where the God of Nature statue loomed.
They exited through the lower logistical gates, arriving at the secluded western stables.
Waiting for them was their official undercover transport.
It wasn’t a flashy Pegasus or a magical beast.
It was a sturdy, rugged wooden carriage designed for heavy commercial travel.
Up front, harnessed to the thick leather leads, were two ordinary, heavily muscled horses, their dark coats damp with the falling flakes of fresh winter snow.
They shifted their weight, their breath pluming into thick white clouds in the freezing air.
The carriage itself was built with precision.
At the very front was a wide, reinforced bench with three distinct wooden seats, allowing all three of them to sit abreast to manage the reins and keep watch.
Behind the driving seats, the open bed of the carriage was stacked high with boxes, woven baskets, and crates filled with mundane trade goods, bundles of dried mountain herbs, bolts of cheap dyed cloth, jars of preserved winter tallow, and iron cooking pots.
To any person, it looked like merchants coming from markets.
Ghost climbed up first, the wooden frame creaking slightly under his massive, disguised frame as he took the center seat, gripping the heavy leather reins in his large, grey-painted hands.
Peaker slid onto the left seat, immediately pulling a tattered woolen blanket over his knees and leaning his head back, instantly slipping into his role as a sickly, dying old partner.
Evan stepped up onto the right seat.
He adjusted his coarse wool tunic, his dark eyes scanning the perimeter one last time through the artificial wrinkles of his face.
’Let’s move,’ Evan muttered, his voice flat and steady.
Ghost snapped the reins with a low, gravelly whistle.
The two mortal horses leaned into their leather harnesses, their hooves crunching heavily against the icy cobblestones.
The wooden wheels let out a low, rhythmic groan as the carriage began to roll forward, leaving the stone fortress of the First Court behind.
As they passed through the outer boundary gates and disappeared into the sprawling, mountain paths leading toward the Shu Clan territory, the heavy oak doors of the sect slowly closed behind them, sealing away the light.
