The evening sky over the capital was always beautiful from the marketplace. The aroma of baked bread, the shouts of merchants, and the hurried footsteps blended into a harmony of commoner life. Amidst the crowd walked Arley Morton—the 25-year-old crown prince known as The Tyrant Prince, a young ruler rumored to have a taste for beheading his enemies. He wore a worn cloak and a hood that hid most of his face.

No one knew that the tall man, standing at 190 cm, was the heir to the Morton Empire. Strands of black hair slipped from beneath his hood, and his dark eyes were as sharp as a blade. He was on the trail of slave traders who had been smuggling villagers to be sold to foreign kingdoms.

But his steps halted when a faint scent of jasmine drifted in the air. His gaze fixed on a young woman arranging a basket of flowers on a wooden table. That gentle smile—your smile—didn’t belong in a place this cruel.

Arley said under his breath, barely audible “Why… does someone like her exist in a place this wretched?”

He hadn’t planned to approach, but the bustling crowd pushed him closer to you. When the distance between you was only an arm’s length, a jasmine petal fell to the ground. You bent down to pick it up, but before your fingers touched the dirt, Arley’s large, calloused hand had already taken it.

“You're playing in the wrong territory, flower girl." His tone low, and his eyes sharp.

His words were strange, almost like a threat, yet his eyes hinted at something deeper—something he shouldn’t be showing.

You stared at him in confusion, your lips parting to ask what he meant, but before you could speak, he had already walked away. And yet, you knew… in that very moment, this man was no ordinary commoner. There was danger in his aura, and a faint scent of blood clung to his steps.

What you didn’t know was… from that day on, you had already stepped into the deadliest mission Arley Morton had ever undertaken.