Isekai Assassin: Volume 1

  Copyright © 2021 Grayson Sinclair

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  I dedicate this book to whomever is reading this. I love you, random stranger.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1- One Last Job

  Chapter 2- A Request I Can't Refuse

  Chapter 3- In Another World

  Chapter 4- Planning and Executing

  Chapter 5- The Bandit Leader

  Chapter 6- Vohra City

  Chapter 7- Information and Coin

  Chapter 8- A Swift Conversation

  Chapter 9- A Chance Meeting

  Chapter 10- A Contract

  Chapter 11- Eyes in the Dark

  Chapter 12- Dress to Impress

  Chapter 13- The Count of Vohra

  Chapter 14- Death of a Salesman

  Chapter 15- Blackfall Manor

  Chapter 16- The Beginning

  Chapter 17- Captain Mays

  Chapter 18- To the Death

  Chapter 19- Recovery

  Chapter 20- Rest and Training

  Chapter 21- The First Attempt

  Chapter 22- Assassins Dance

  Chapter 23- The Hunt

  Chapter 24- Preparations

  Chapter 25- The Vohra Job

  Chapter 26- At the Edge of a Blade

  Chapter 27- Of Things to Come

  Thanks for Reading!

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  "Assassins did have a certain code, after all. It was dishonorable to kill someone if you weren't being paid."

  —Sir Terry Pratchett

  Chapter 1- One Last Job

  With a subtle click, the final pin engaged, and the door swung inward. I stowed my picks in a pouch at my waist and drew a dagger.

  The slight scent of oil lingered on the steel as I brought my hand to my chest, crouched, and entered the warehouse.

  My sight swam as my eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness. As I closed the door softly behind me, I surveyed the room. Dim formless shapes stood out, bathed in the soft moonlight that reflected off the shattered glass from the singular window along the wall.

  It was a storeroom. Tarp-covered crates lined the wooden walls as stagnant dust motes drifted through the air.

  The space was unused and nearly forgotten, and it offered access from the street.

  It’s perfect.

  I stepped with the balls of my feet, careful not to creak the floorboards. Like the rest of this part of the building, they were worn down, bowed from moisture that had crept in through the broken window.

  Shoddy construction. Either a blessing or a curse, depending on what I need it for.

  I made my way across the room and to the door. It was solid oak, obscuring what lay beyond it, but the crack between it and the floor was just enough to slip my fingers under. I pressed my fingertips against the wood and paused.

  I searched for vibrations in the space between heartbeats to tell me if there was anyone up and about.

  After a few seconds of nothing, I stood and opened the door.

  Time to move.

  I stepped out into a long hallway. Half a dozen identical doors lined either side with glass lanterns hung on pegs between them, casting numerous shadows along the walls.

  It was nearly two in the morning, and there shouldn't be anyone in this section at this time of night. Business hours had long passed, but I knew my quarry lay further in, dealing in an altogether different kind of business.

  I took my time navigating the hallway. As I passed door after door, I stopped and listened, trying to discern any possible movement or sign of life.

  As I crept by a door, there was a creak of wood along with the heavy thump of footsteps.

  I stopped moving and pressed against the wall as I slowly peered around the frame.

  A man stood with his back to me, a dockworker from his clothes. He'd opened a large wooden crate and was unloading its contents onto a cart. It was filled with what looked like cheap vases, but I knew what actually lay within.

  Curse my bad luck that someone would still be here this time of night.

  The man worked without stopping, not paying any attention to anything else. It gave me the time I needed to get behind him. As I reached him, I stood, snaking my arm under his chin, and closed off his carotid arteries.

  He fought against me, but I had the leverage, and I brought him to the ground. Ten seconds later and he was unconscious.

  Knocking a person out using a blood choke was quicker than if I closed off his airway, but it had its drawbacks. I had precious little time to tie him up before he regained consciousness.

  Fifteen seconds at most.

  Which meant I had to work fast.

  Reaching into one of the pouches at my back, I withdrew a length of thin, coiled rope. I cut what I needed and quickly bound the man’s hands and feet behind his back. When he was secure, I stuffed a rag into his mouth and then tied a rope around it for good measure. When he was trussed up, I made sure he was breathing and put his body in the crate.

  “Sorry about the accommodations,” I whispered. “But you’ll be out of the way and unharmed, if a little sore in the morning.”

  I shut the door as I left and continued through the building, checking for others as I went. As I got to the end of the hall, movement drew my gaze. A mirror hung on the wall, dominating the small space between door frames.

  My thin, slightly pale face stared back. Fine, swept-back, dirty blond hair stopped just before the nape of my neck. My piercing blue eyes narrowed, sweeping side to side as I checked my surroundings. I frowned, my small lips forming a hard line as I turned away and continued.

  At the end of the hall was a door. It would take me to the central portion of the building: the warehouse, loading docks, and main office. My goal was the office, but getting there would likely prove tricky considering the main floor would be crawling with guards.

  My blood spiked at the thought, and my heart rate increased.

  Should prove a challenge.

  I wiped the smile from my face and crouched low to work on the lock. It was child's play, and my picks were more than up to the task. Eight seconds later, the door swung open, and I slipped into the main warehouse.

  The room boasted a high vaulted ceiling with support beams and wooden catwalks that crisscrossed overhead.

  The floor itself was nearly filled to the brim with crates from every corner of the world; barrels of whiskey and rum—sacks of grain, sugar, flour—anything and everything that could be used to turn a profit.

  Along the main wall was the giant sliding door that led to the loading docks and London's quiet streets, but I ignored the exit and contraband and focused on the men scattered at random throughout the maze of boxes.

  They were dressed almost identically in loose-fitting wool garments. Each of them wielded thick leather truncheons on one side of their belts and cheap, hanger swords on the other. None of them openly carried flintlocks, which made my job considerably easier.

  Only a handful of them were grouped together. They used crates as chairs and a barrel as a table as they gambled on a game. The rattling of dice echoed through the spacious building.

  Need to get higher. I glanced up at the
catwalks and back at the men. Make sure to count the guards.

  To my right was a large pile of boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling, which offered a launching point that would get me to the catwalks about fifteen feet above me.

  I double-checked my surroundings and began to climb. Half a minute later and I stared at the catwalk a mere five feet away. I pushed off with one foot, vaulted the railing, and landed in a crouch. Clinking dice overshadowed the slight thud of my leather boot hitting the wood.

  As there was no light this high up, I swam in shadow as I watched my prey.

  It was apparent from a glance that the men were overconfident. To my practiced eye, it was pathetic.

  Not a single one of them is alert, I could probably walk right through them, and they wouldn't notice. I scoffed. For how much money you have, Dorset, your slipshod hiring practices are about to catch up with you.

  I was here to kill a man, and he was only making it too easy for me.

  I watched for a few minutes from my invisible perch, counting the guards and making sure my routes were clear. There were seven in all. Three roaming the floor, and four playing dice.

  Once I was absolutely sure of their locations, I moved eight feet to the left and vaulted over the catwalk. I landed in a roll and came up in a crouch behind my first target.

  He was a tall, black-haired man, heavyset with muscle. He turned with his whole body at the noise, baring his entire chest to me. He raised his lantern in front of his face, his dark brown eyes going wide at the sight of me.

  I chopped at his neck, slamming the blade of my palm into his throat. His eyes bulged as his airway was abruptly cut off. His hands went to his neck as he scrambled to figure out how to breathe again.

  The lantern he was holding dropped from his hand, but I caught it on the top of my foot before it could shatter on the stone floor.

  I quickly shook it off and stepped toward him. I brought my knee up into his solar plexus. He doubled over, sinking to the ground and letting out a gurgled moan that died as it reached the wooden crates around us. I slipped around him, got him in a choke as my hand went to his waist. I stole his truncheon and brought it to his temple.

  He crumpled lifelessly to the floor. I held the blackjack in hand and quickly stowed it on a belt loop.

  Thanks for the gift.

  We were out of view from all but one guard, but he was over fifty feet away and didn't so much as turn. I grabbed the man's ankles and dragged him behind a crate, taking him well and truly out of sight.

  Once he was hidden away, I checked his pulse. It was steady, but all that told me was that he was alive. Even with my skill, bludgeoning isn't an exact science. I could've fractured his skull and damaged his brain.

  I'd done my best, but I had no way of knowing if he would be alright when he woke up, or if he’d wake up at all.

  Half a chance at life is still better than if I'd just slit his throat.

  And regardless, he was down, which left me with six more to go.

  Four at the table. Three—make that two roamers. Those two will go down without much fight, but once I strike the gamblers, stealth goes out the window.

  I'll have to be quick.

  The wooden crates made for excellent cover; their irregular sizes cast various shadows which mixed with the ones cast by the torchlight and made crossing the fifty feet to the next guard as easy as breathing.

  I was behind the next guard in a handful of seconds and used my new blackjack to silence him quickly. He dropped, twitched, and lay still.

  That makes two.

  His body was well camouflaged, tucked in between a couple of barrels of imported whiskey. I left him where he dropped and turned to hunt the last guard.

  A flash of candlelight from just around the barrels startled me. The third guard rounded the merchandise, and his lantern flashed in my vision.

  His sudden appearance startled me. I'd kept track of him in my peripherals, but he'd been hidden once I got to the barrels, and I hadn't seen his approach.

  His footsteps were hidden by the fall of the body: bad luck and worse timing.

  Thankfully, these men were morons, nothing more than hired thugs with only enough intelligence to look mean and swing a sword. Because of that, it took him a second to process what he was seeing.

  His green eyes lit up in shock, and he turned his head to call out to the others.

  He was too far to engage directly. He'd shout before I could close the distance. Years of muscle memory took over, and I'd already started the motion of withdrawing one of my throwing knives.

  With a heavy toss, I buried it to the handle in the man's neck.

  It sunk in with brutal efficiency. I'd thrown it in an underhanded no-spin style, and from this close of a distance, most of the power had transferred into his throat.

  As the knife sunk home, I moved. I ripped the blade through the rest of his neck and threw him over my shoulder as he went limp. I took his lantern, doused it, and tossed the man's body on top of the other guard.

  I retrieved my knife, cleaned the blood off, and stowed it away. Before I moved, a warm, sticky mess trickled under the back of my shirt. Dammit. And I just had my leather cleaned. It was annoying but an unavoidable part of the job. It was the second reason why I wore mostly black.

  Bloodstains are harder to spot on dark clothing.

  With two guards unconscious and one dead, I'd taken out all the patrollers, which just left the gamblers.

  Though they were engrossed in their game, I had to act fast. Sooner or later, they'd notice the patroller's absence, and I didn't want that to happen until I was ready for it.

  As I crept closer, I watched them and their surroundings. As I figured, there wasn't a way to sneak up on them from the ground. There was nothing but open space between us, which meant they’d spot me before I could get in range.

  Guess I'm going back up.

  It only took me a minute and a half to scale the crates and climb back to the catwalk. With the threat of the wandering guards hearing me out of the way, I crept along until I was right above the men.

  They sat oblivious to my gaze and gambled away their meager pay while drinking and talking too loudly.

  I kept an eye on their gear. More of the same. Swords and leather-wrapped truncheons, but no pistols. They were expensive, but for how much money sat in the warehouse, Dorset should've armed his men better.

  My leather armor was reinforced with thin sheets of bronze latten, and it was able to withstand a glancing cut or thrust from a blade, but it could do nothing against lead shot.

  As I spied on them, I thought once more about my strategy.

  I can get to Dorset without them noticing, but I know for a fact he has guards in his office. I paused, rubbing my chin.

  There was no way I could kill the men and Dorset quickly enough before a shout or cry of alarm rang out. And the back office only had one entrance. If I didn't deal with the gamblers, they'd come running at the shouting, and I’d be surrounded.

  Which meant they were obstacles that had to be dealt with.

  I didn't like it, but I accepted it.

  There was nothing I could do to stop all of them without killing at least a few of them, so I stowed my blackjack away and once more drew my dagger.

  Jumping from this height is going to be problematic. I can't afford to waste time by dispersing my impact with a roll.

  I had an idea, but even if I'd practiced it a thousand times, I was always hesitant. It was dangerous, especially if I misjudged the height. But I hadn't screwed up my measurements since the Valdes job.

  A broken leg is a high price to pay, but I learned a valuable lesson and still got the job done.

  I reached into the pouch at my waist and took out the small bundle of black silk rope. Before I began, I cut it for exactly eight feet. I quickly tied it around the railing of the catwalk, held it tight in my hand, and jumped.

  The rope slid through my fingers for a split second before I clenched tight and sl
owed my descent. It reduced my momentum just enough that I could land without damaging my knees.

  I let go of the rope and hit the ground, already tugging two knives out of their sheaths.

  The men jerked up at the sound, their eyes widening at my shadowed figure. As they turned, I threw my blades, and they found purchase in two of the men's throats.

  Even as the knives left my hand, I was moving. I pulled my short sword free and met the two remaining men who were just stumbling up from their chairs.

  One of them had good instincts and was faster than the others. He already had his sword halfway out when I approached.

  The man was slightly shorter than average, good looking with strong features, brown hair, and golden-brown eyes. He lunged with precision and grace, despite the reek of alcohol drifting from him.

  I stepped to the side as his strike slid past.

  He surprised me by putting his weight on his front leg and pivoting, bringing his blade back towards me.

  I caught his sword with the flat of my blade, and we binded, our swords locked as we fought for dominance.

  "Not bad," I smirked.

  The man was finally able to get a proper look at me, and he paled, his eyes widening in recognition.

  "McKinley!" His eyes widened in fear and he glanced at his comrade, who was just now joining the fight. "It’s McKinley! Run, alert the boss!"

  The final thug's eyes mirrored his partner’s, and he didn't waste any time. He took off, running back to the private offices to my left.

  "I don't think so." I grabbed a throwing knife in my off-hand and tossed it at the fleeing guard.

  My aim was off since I was still binding with the swordsman. The knife missed his neck and instead stuck in his right shoulder. He cried out in pain and reached behind him. His hand came back slick with blood.

  I cursed my clumsy aim and focused back on the guard with the sword. He was obviously skilled, trained by the military if I had to guess, but he was out of practice. I angled our blades downward and shot a swift kick to the outside of his knee.

  His leg buckled at an angle with a sickening crunch. The man folded to the ground, dropping his sword as he looked up in agony, howling like a banshee.