The Assassin's Idle Cultivation System

Claire’s fingers trailed along Charles’s forearm, slow and deliberate, tracing the ridges of muscle hidden beneath his sleeve.

"You’re awfully tense for someone who just secured a fortune in blueprints," she murmured, tilting her head up at him with a coy smile.

Arlott didn’t move away.

He could have. It would’ve taken nothing at all, just a single step back, but he let her fingers linger, let her believe she was in control.

’Let her think she’s winning.’

Claire’s smile widened, mistaking his stillness for weakness. Her palm flattened against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath.

"My, my, is Sir Charles finally warming up to me?" she teased, leaning closer, her perfume thick in the air between them.

"I’m simply tired, my lady." Arlott’s voice was flat, unreadable. "Unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of napping through the afternoon."

Claire pouted, but there was a calculating gleam behind her eyes that never quite faded, not even during her most convincing acts of innocence.

"Fine, fine. Go rest, then." She patted his chest once, almost affectionately, before turning to leave with an exaggerated sway of her hips.

Arlott watched her go, his expression unreadable until the door clicked shut behind her.

Only then did he allow himself to sigh.

’Troublesome woman.’

He waited a few moments, listening for the fade of her footsteps down the hall, before making his way toward the old wooden cupboard tucked in the corner of his room.

With a quiet click, the door swung open.

Emily sat curled inside, her wrists still bound, her once-immaculate hair now tangled and unwashed. She looked up at him with dull, hollow eyes, the same eyes that once burned with pride and cruelty.

"Good girl," Arlott said, crouching down to her level. "You didn’t scream today either."

Emily said nothing, only stared.

"I’m almost impressed." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small loaf of bread, slightly stale from sitting in his coat since yesterday. "Here. A reward for your obedience."

He held it up to her mouth, and after a moment’s hesitation, she took a small bite, chewing slowly.

"See? It’s not so bad being a good pet," Arlott said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he watched her eat. "Keep this up, and maybe I’ll actually feed you something warm one day."

Emily’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, but she still refused to speak, her silence the only defiance she had left.

Satisfied, Arlott stood back up, closing the cupboard door and locking it shut once more.

"Sleep well," he muttered, before he too found his way onto the bed and collapsed into it.

Two days passed in a blur of idle naps and quiet monitoring, the system’s bar slowly ticking upward with every hour Arlott spent doing absolutely nothing productive.

He was in the middle of a particularly satisfying dream about murdering Boss Chang in seventeen creative ways when a knock rattled against his door.

"Charles? Are you awake?" Claire’s voice came through, muffled.

Grumbling, Arlott threw a loose shirt over himself, not bothering to button it, and opened the door.

Claire’s eyes flickered briefly to his exposed chest before she caught herself, clearing her throat.

"I’ll be departing for the Zordian duchy soon," she said, all business now, the flirtation from before entirely absent. "My family will be sending their own guards to escort me partway, so I’ve made arrangements."

"Arrangements," Arlott repeated, leaning against the doorframe.

"The guards I hired — the ones who know about the forest, about you — they’ll be riding at the front of the convoy." Claire’s lips curled into a small, satisfied smile. "The new guards, the ones I trust, will be stationed behind the carriage instead."

Arlott’s eyes narrowed slightly, already piecing together her intention.

"You want me to kill the front guards."

"Precisely." Claire’s smile didn’t waver. "And once you’ve done that, I’ll ’discover’ you and strike a deal, pretending to trade you rotten supplies in exchange for safe passage. It’ll make for quite the entertaining story to tell my family — how clever little Claire outwitted a highwayman."

"And it conveniently disposes of every witness who knows the truth," Arlott finished for her.

"Exactly." She reached up, patting his cheek lightly. "Aren’t you glad you have such a smart partner?"

Arlott caught her wrist before she could pull away, his grip firm but not painful.

"Careful, Claire," he said quietly. "One day that mouth of yours is going to get us both killed."

Claire only laughed, twisting her wrist free with practiced ease. "Then it’s a good thing you’re around to keep me alive, isn’t it?"

She left without waiting for a response, her heels clicking down the hallway with the same confident rhythm as always.

Arlott shut the door and exhaled through his nose.

’Guess it’s time to work.’

He moved to the corner of his room, pulling out his gear — the worn leather straps of Charles’s armor, the sword he’d been provided as part of his cover, its blade dull compared to the spear he was used to, but serviceable enough for the job ahead.

Strapping it all on methodically, he glanced once more at the locked cupboard before heading out.

The forest was quiet, save for the occasional chirp of birds and the rustle of leaves in the wind.

Arlott sat comfortably on a thick branch, one leg dangling lazily as he took a bite from an apple he’d swiped from the kitchen earlier.

’Idle time is good time,’ he thought, savoring the sweetness of the fruit.

The system’s bar ticked steadily in the corner of his vision, climbing with every passing minute of him doing absolutely nothing.

He wasn’t in a rush.

Claire’s convoy would take hours to reach this stretch of road, and until then, he intended to enjoy every second of his stillness.

Finishing the apple, he tossed the core aside and leaned back against the trunk, closing his eyes.

Then, in the distance, the faint rumble of wheels against dirt reached his ears.

Arlott’s eyes snapped open.

Through the gaps in the trees, a carriage rolled into view, flanked by a considerable force of armed guards marching alongside it.

His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword.

’Showtime.’