The Master

This is an entry for the 31 Sentence Contest.

The Master

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The thug advanced carefully. Bloodied kris in hand, silent like the night. In the garden, everything was still.

Having reached the window, the thug crouched. He threw a look inside, and there on the bed, sleeping, unaware, was his target.

The hapless traveler was a gentleman of indefinite age, recently arrived in town, a man of obvious wealth fruitlessly trying not to attract attention.

Kali wanted him.

It was a rare occurrence, for the Goddess to specify the victims for Her ritual murders. Kali wanted every human killed, of course, but She usually did not care about the order in which lives were snuffed out in Her name.

For the thug, assassination was a well-oiled routine: get close and personal, either stab or strangle or both, then get away from the scene with haste. And trust the Goddess to protect him from the consequences.

There had never been a reason to train for more than competence, as random victims wouldn't expect their time had come. Sure, during his long years in Her service, there had been a few close calls, but the thug's faith had remained strong, and his continued survival proved him right.

His blade was an instrument of divine providence, as natural as falling rain. And when a heart did not obediently stop beating, when an alarm was sounded, when a bleeding sacrifice got away, well, such an outcome was Her will also. Kali was never merciful, but at times She could prove quite fickle.

Fickle, indeed.

The thug opened the window and quietly climbed inside. He barely noticed a nail sticking out of the pane, barely heard the sound of cloth ripping, and barely felt the slightest sting. Clenching his hand around the kris's hilt, the thug's gaze stayed fixed on the prize: the prone figure softly snoring, the somber features outlined by the light of a floor lamp.

He approached, and as his blade rose in anticipation of a decisive thrust, the thug suddenly realized a surprising turn of events.

He could not move anymore.

Aghast, frozen in place, he watched as the gentleman stirred, opened his eyes and sat on the bed.

"Hello."

"As professional courtesy to a fellow practitioner, I will reveal myself. You might have realized that you have been poisoned and will soon lose consciousness."

The gentleman observed him dispassionately, even extending a hand to open his eyelid and examine the pupil.

"I have endlessly perfected our craft since my master, who was my first client and first kill, in dying left me the mantle of angel of death. The more I learned, the more I found violence inelegant, electing to operate through poison and the artful manipulation of circumstances. You will realize that there are no gods and no afterlife, there is only life and it ends with me."

As the morning sun rose, the thug woke up alone in the room; he looked at his kris long and hard, before dropping it to the floor and walking away.