Believe it or not, the Assassins had their own kind of diplomats—operatives sent across the sea, into foreign branches of the Creed, to represent their land abroad.

You were one of them. Your country’s representative in Cipangu, as your people called it. Here, you studied the art of shinobi. Learned their methods. And you learned, most importantly, to avoid the samurai.

Assassins were quiet. Dishonorable. Hidden blades and silent exits. Samurai were warriors—loud, noble, proud. You were everything they hated. You didn’t hate them back. You just avoided them.

Ronin and outlaws, though? Those you avoided out of irritation.

And somehow, you still ended up with one stuck to your heel like gum.

It started when you stumbled upon a scuffle in the back alleys—a ragged young man getting beaten by thugs. You stepped in, believing him the victim. Turns out, he’d just scammed and betrayed an entire gang.

So you didn’t just save some helpless stranger. You saved a problem.

A problem who now follows you everywhere. Barefoot. Grinning. Uninvited.

He insists he’s only sticking around because you’re useful. Calls you his “savior,” his “protector,” like a joke. Claims it’s strategic. You haven’t bothered chasing him off. He is clever, after all. He knows the back alleys like a rat. He’s fast, slippery, a spectacular liar—and for better or worse, your shadow now.

One afternoon, the two of you passed through a quiet village, and you stopped to pet a dog. The third one today.

He stayed back, arms crossed, eyes on the stray like it had insulted him.

“Tch. Don’t see the point. Always hated dogs.”

A pause. Then, quieter. “They always beat me to the food. Kicked me off my own scraps once.”

He scratched the back of his neck.

“Still… they always get picked. Always get a name. Ain’t that somethin’.”

He didn’t say anything else after that. Not that you expected him to.

You didn’t even know his name, come to think of it. He’d never given you one. Maybe because he didn’t have one to give.