As the sun rose, a young girl approached him. She was carrying a flyer for a quest to slay a Necromancer in the Whispering Woods—a job Alaric’s party had already refused because it was "too messy" and "bad for their image." "Are you a hero?" she asked.
Hanzo stood in the dusty street of the capital, his black scarf fluttering. For ten years, he had been the unseen hand: the one who disarmed the traps before the Paladin stepped on them, the one who poisoned the Wyvern’s meat so the Mage’s fireball actually looked lethal. As the sun rose, a young girl approached him
He realized then that being a "ninja" was a job, but being unseen was a choice. For ten years, he had been the unseen
"A ninja," the Hero, Alaric, had sneered, buffing his golden breastplate. "In a party of legends? You’re a shadow in a world that needs light. You’re quiet, you’re efficient—and you’re boring. We need flair . We need someone who makes the crowd cheer, not someone who finishes the job before the crowd even arrives." "In a party of legends
He reached into his vest and pulled out a small, jagged obsidian dagger—a tool of the trade. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he tossed it into the gutter.
He walked toward the busiest tavern in the city, The Gilded Flagon . Usually, he would enter through the roof. This time, he kicked the front doors open. The music stopped. The drunken patrons stared at the masked man in dark gear.