The man wouldn’t give in. Jhong had to admire such a desperate quality. He knew dogged determination was for dogs; men simply needed the right tool to attain their goals, like his fists. Still the man persisted in his silence. The assassin had almost killed him last night, near equal in strength, but not close enough.

For most of the next day he had beaten the man; hanging by his hands tied with rope, head slumped down with the weight of his body. Butchered pigs hung beside them. Fire pits burned under the meat and the man’s singed feet, flames now smoldering to cinders.

Jhong sighed, placing his raw-knuckled hands on the chopping table before him. Shirtless from the heat, coated with sweat sticky from all the smoke sifting to the open roof. He was tired. The man still hadn’t said a word.

“You know, I used to take pleasure in doing this to my enemies,” Jhong murmured. “There was a time when I had many. Now I realize they were all just friends, until they would betray me. So I learned to strike before they could get the chance.” He wiped his face with a rag. “You’re a tough one, Red-eyed. Perhaps it’s just the brew you’ve drunk? I’ll still find out which Jinnto you belong to. Or did a viceroy hire you from the Guild? Either way, it must have taken a considerable sum to hire a man of your ability.”

Holding a small hatchet, pristine with its gray blade, he turned to face his prisoner. Crimson eyes, dark as pooling blood, followed the twirling axehead.

“I started as a hatchetman,” Jhong said. “Still am. Now, I just tell other hatchetmen who to bury their axes in. Someone told you to do the same. Who was it?”

He saw the briefest flash of fear in those red eyes, extinguished with a dead man’s acceptance.

The door latched open, Gobin appearing.

“The Prince has come to us,” the bookkeeper said. “He’ll do what you want.”

“Was he scared?”

“Yes. Though desperate enough to insist on a brew.”

“Give him what he wants.”

“Headsman?”

“Give him a black lotus brew, the purest form you can find.”

“I see.”

Jhong sighed before he slashed the hanged man’s neck.

“Was that needed?” Gobin asked, stepping away from the spurting blood.

“The man wouldn’t break,” Jhong said, wiping his hatchet’s blade. “Whoever sent him, they know where to find me. They’ll come soon enough. With the prince dead, they’ll turn on eachother not long after.”

Then he would wait until it was time. Striking after all their backs were turned, just like his old master before he killed him. All it would take was time, and Jhong had learned to bear such waiting, ready with a smile – and a blade in hand.