John didn't respond to the question directly. Instead, he asked with a strange expression on his face:
"You're an assassin. How did you manage to offend someone from the Killer Guild?"
"Killer Guild? The local underground force around here? I haven't offended them," Celia said as she shook her head. But then something occurred to her, and she pressed further, "Wait, are you saying someone from the Killer Guild is coming after me?"
John nodded. "Based on the intel I gathered, they're taking you very seriously. They've issued a bounty—1,000 silver coins for your head. And let me remind you, the Killer Guild is Winterhold's most brutal and feared organization."
"One thousand silver coins?" Celia's eyes widened in disbelief. "Are they out of their minds? That's more than I could earn in an entire year. Honestly, they should just hand me the money directly—I'd turn myself in!"
Her exaggerated reaction caught John off guard, and he stared at her for a moment before asking, "Weren't you just being hunted down by those men in black? And you're saying you've got no beef with the Killer Guild?"
"Those black-clad assassins weren't with the Killer Guild," Celia said. "So how could I possibly have any grudges with them?"
John frowned. "No grudges, but they're going out of their way to hunt you down? Something's not right."
…
By dusk, Captain Stanley had packed up the last of his belongings. With a worn-out bundle slung over his shoulder, he stood by the city gates, glancing back at the city he had called home for most of his life. His face was tinged with melancholy and regret.
If the Killer Guild hadn't applied pressure this time, he had intended to live out the rest of his days in this city.
Unfortunately, the Killer Guild was simply too ruthless—a beast far beyond what his fragile arms and limited influence could deal with.
And then there was John.
That man was like one of those enigmatic, carefree characters from legends, shrouded in mystery, impossible to predict, and utterly terrifying.
Yes, 1,000 silver coins was a massive fortune. If he could get his hands on that kind of money, he and his descendants would never have to worry again.
But that was the catch—could he actually get his hands on it?
Let alone the woman being hunted—she was definitely no ordinary target. Someone like him, a small fry, wouldn't stand a chance of finding her.
And even if he did find her, he'd probably die before he could report it.
That bounty was nothing more than a tempting but deadly trap.
So, for the sake of his own safety and survival, he had made up his mind to get out while he still could. This place… was no longer worth staying in.
Having climbed up from the lowest ranks to the position of captain in the city guard, Stanley had developed a keen sense for danger and opportunity—far sharper than most.
"Farewell, my beloved Winterhold."
He let out a long sigh, tightened the straps on his bundle, and turned to leave.
He hadn't gotten far when a familiar figure caught his eye.
He squinted and called out hesitantly, "Monk? That you, kid?"
The skinny man carrying a pack of his own turned around upon hearing the voice. When he saw it was Stanley, his face lit up with surprise.
"Captain Stanley? What are you doing here?"
"That's my line, isn't it?"
They exchanged looks, and then the man—Fucci—cleared his throat awkwardly and tried to steer the conversation elsewhere.
"Captain, I was actually just trying to catch up to you. You move fast!"
Stanley looked a little awkward but quickly recovered. "You've always been the type to avoid work whenever possible. So why are you in such a hurry to leave the city?"
"Well, I saw you leaving. And even though I'm not exactly a genius or anything, I figured if you're getting out of here, that must mean something bad's coming. I'd rather stick close to you—safer that way!"
"And what if I was just sneaking off to meet a female friend?" Stanley teased.
Fucci blinked. "Captain, you've got plenty of female friends, sure—but you've always met them at night, never during the day. And let's be real—you appointed me to that important task even though I'm completely hopeless. That's gotta be a sign, right? You were hinting I should get the hell out of here too!"
Stanley didn't know how to refute Fucci's twisted but weirdly accurate logic. So he just went with the flow and said, "Exactly. I was hinting you should leave with me. We can watch each other's backs on the road."
Fucci nodded enthusiastically. "I knew it! Captain, you're a genius. You must've sensed the danger before the rest of us."
"We may be escaping this mess, but the friends we leave behind… they might not be so lucky. I doubt we'll ever see some of them again."
"It's alright, Captain. Once we've settled down somewhere safe, we can honor their memory."
Stanley was silent for a moment, then nodded solemnly. The two of them turned and disappeared into the distance.
…
Late that night, under a moonlit sky with only a few scattered stars, the eastern district of Winterhold remained lively. This area was known as a hotspot for awakeners—a place where those with special abilities gathered. It bustled with life, strange rumors, and even stranger classes.
On this particular winter night, a group of people was quietly converging on the district under cover of darkness.
They all wore matching uniforms—local pimps who knew every alley and corner of the city. Their network of informants ran deep, and when the Killer Guild issued the bounty, they were among the first to take notice.
Now, leading the way for the guild's assassins, they approached their target with eager anticipation.
"Everyone, the girl is in that house. We've been watching all day—she hasn't left once!"
The leader, a tattoo-covered pimp with greedy eyes, rubbed his hands together as he spoke.
1,000 silver coins.
So close, he could almost taste them.
"You're sure she's in there?" asked a masked middle-aged man beside him, his expression hidden beneath a jester's face. His voice was cold and sharp, like a blade drawn in the dark.
"I swear on my life—she's in there!" the tattooed man said, patting his chest.
"Good." The jester-masked man nodded. His hand gripped the hilt of the long blade at his waist. A deadly aura surrounded him, like a magical beast lurking in the night, waiting to strike.
"So, uh… about that 1,000 silver coins," the pimp asked excitedly. "Are you bringing them here? Or do we need to go to the Killer Guild to collect?"
"No need for all that trouble," the assassin said flatly.
"Oh, no trouble at all! We'd be happy to come get—"
Before he could finish, a flash of steel swept across the night.
A fountain of blood burst from the man's throat, and the rest of his sentence was cut off—literally.
"You… you monsters!" gasped one of the other pimps, trembling as he backed away.
They hadn't expected the Killer Guild to break their word and silence them so ruthlessly.
"In your next life, maybe you'll be billionaires," the jester-masked assassin said mockingly. "No need to thank us."
With another swing of his blade, crimson rain sprayed through the air.
In a matter of seconds, the killers following him moved as one—cold, efficient, merciless. The pimps who had led them here became nothing more than headless corpses on the frozen ground.
Once the witnesses were dealt with, the jester-masked man turned his attention to the villa ahead.
The other assassins fanned out silently, encircling the estate.
Then, all at once, they leapt into the compound, landing silently like shadows.
"Something's wrong."
The moment his feet hit the ground, the jester-masked assassin felt every hair on his body stand on end.
An icy sense of danger crawled down his spine.
His instincts screamed—run.
Like a cat whose fur had suddenly puffed up, he wanted to escape immediately.