"Anyone with a shred of normal caution, hearing voices from a pitch-black sea, would naturally respond with a fish-spear." He folded his arms and surveyed the mermaid. "Is my... voice that unpleasant?"

  "Worse than merely unpleasant." The mermaid was visibly wounded by his assessment. "Though it's improved somewhat now."

  Her tail began tapping out a rhythm again; Gilbert had learned this signaled her pleasure. "Because we usually sing, you see, we rarely speak, so, so..."

  "What are you doing here?" The apprentice had no intention of hearing her explanation; he had matters to attend to. "Just swimming, coming up for a look." She narrowed her eyes slightly. "You're staring so intently, you're making me self-conscious. Have you never seen a mermaid before?"

  "No," he answered honestly. "Never a living one." That statement instantly erased Shinaz's smile.

  "I once saw a merfolk corpse." While merfolk enjoyed surfacing on clear days to rest on rocks, they held little fondness for human observation. Consequently, apart from fishermen who regularly ventured to sea, few had ever glimpsed them. In the Seven Seas Kingdoms, people maintained relatively friendly attitudes toward merfolk, treating them as humanoid beings—exchanging glances when meeting at the shore, perhaps offering a greeting, rather than reaching for stones or wielding clubs and casting nets. The latter approach characterized how Brin Isle and Tolin Isle—the two free-trade city-states—dealt with merfolk. "Pirates from Tolin once intended to sell a captured mermaid, but she perished on their deck in less than two hours."

  Shinaz Morkachka lowered her head. "Generally, we cannot remain ashore for extended periods."

  "Then return to the water immediately," Gilbert said impatiently. "The shore is dangerous—especially if humans spot you. The mermaid I mentioned was likely captured when she ventured onto land. Because your kind is rare, no kingdom bothers establishing laws for your protection. And because you're rare, your price on the pirates' black market reaches staggering heights. Go, Shinaz."

  Hearing her name from a human male's lips stirred an unexpected shyness in her. "The people of Bellita are mostly kind-hearted." She tossed her wet auburn hair back. "And I can stay on land for a short while."

  "Go. Now." Gilbert showed no interest in her coquettish behavior.

  Unaccustomed to rejection, the mermaid pouted angrily. "Fine. I'll leave." Her tail-fins slapped hard against the wooden planks. "But first, answer my question."

  "What question?" The apprentice simply wanted her gone.

  "You said 'It's time.' Time for what?"

  Gilbert rolled his eyes, mentally cursing her a thousand times over. "Time for sleep, my lady."

  Shinaz Morkachka locked eyes with him, assessing the truthfulness of his answer. "Very well. I'm going." She seemed satisfied she had won some small victory, wriggling her body while her tail-fins waved through the air. "Farewell, sir."

  Even after closing the door, Gilbert maintained his vigilance. He kept a hand crossbow ready; even Old Fisher's loud snoring couldn't distract his focus. Only after confirming no unusual sounds came from the pier outside did he set down his weapon and proceed with the task he should have already completed.

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  A single candle wouldn't disturb the old fisherman's slumber—nor would ten. Nothing short of a slap across the face would rouse Old Fisher tonight. Gilbert opened his chest and arranged the various vials and jars on the table. These peculiar alchemical potions possessed distinct colors, creating a kaleidoscopic display. He carefully measured specific quantities, divided them into portions, and mixed them according to precise ratios. Without smoke or even a sizzle, his required concoction was prepared. The apprentice held the alchemical mixture up to the candlelight, examining it. Drawing on memory and experience, he determined the deep purple liquid had been properly prepared without error. Then, from his clothing chest, he retrieved a white mask without eyeholes, simply decorated with blood-drawn totems that even Godma's most renowned archaeologist would fail to decipher.

  Initially, the purple potion congealed at the bottle's neck, refusing to pour—shy as a maiden experiencing first love. Gilbert tapped the base of the vial. "Get down there. No tricks." Finally the liquid yielded, streaming out; the totem mask, ravenous, gaped its blood-painted maw and quaffed every drop.

  "Ready, friend?" he whispered to the mask. "Time to work, Bryce Banhart." Having consumed the potion, the totem mask resumed its inert state, its mouth tightly sealed.

  Gilbert stood over the sleeping old man and sighed despite himself. Though he had measured the old fisherman from behind multiple times, confirming their heights differed by less than three centimeters, he still hesitated at the critical moment. Partly because Old Fisher was genuinely good—in every possible meaning. Partly because fear of failure always haunted him, as it had before each disguise throughout his twenty-one years as an assassin. Gilbert—or rather Bryce Banhart—lived by one principle: always anticipate the worst outcome. Before striking, assume failure, prepare every contingency, and accept the consequences as if they had already occurred beyond redemption. Sitting beside the bed, he studied the face that had repeatedly battled time, his hands trembling uncontrollably. He feared using excessive potion; feared improperly mixing the proportions; feared their height difference; feared the old man's heart-rending screams. Yet he recognized one truth: fortune consistently favored him—though a seasoned assassin must never rely on luck. The mere fact that Old Fisher approximated his height had already eliminated numerous obstacles.

  "Journey well, Fisher." He gently placed the mask on the old fisherman's face.

  Old Fisher's agonized screams, spasms, and convulsions erupted without warning—sudden, visceral, and horrifying. Gilbert found a stool, sat down, and maintained distance, allowing the old man space to thrash upon the bed. The assassin had verified that all doors and windows were securely shut, minimizing any sound that might escape the cabin. The totem mask's eyes and mouth opened, joining the old man's screams, though its cries resembled maniacal laughter more than pain. Despite hearing this sound numerous times before, the assassin could never quite accustom himself to it—finding it unbridled and devoid of elegance, reminiscent of reckless youth. And he was no longer young. Blood-tinged vapor writhed above the mask as Old Fisher desperately tried and failed to remove it. Gradually, his movements diminished until he eventually returned to his previous sleeping state, as though nothing had occurred.

  Gilbert tapped the mask with his knuckle and, receiving no response, carefully lifted it from the old man's face. Contrary to expectations, there was no bloody mess—just a normal-looking face, though not the original one. "It's been a long time, Bryce Banhart." Gilbert climbed onto the bed and kissed the old man's cheek. He hadn't seen him since becoming Gilbert. "I won't keep you long, friend." He hurried as though afraid the air might corrode Bryce Banhart's features. "Quick work." Drawing a deep breath, he placed the mask on his own face.

  The same horrific process repeated with him—screams, spasms, convulsions, and hissing blood-vapor. Gilbert's transformation lasted longer than Old Fisher's and proved far more agonizing. Yet, he bore it.

  The totem mask detached itself automatically. His face showed no wounds or blood—only the sudden addition of forty years of age. Gilbert now wore Old Fisher's features.