Warhammer 40k : Space Marine Kayvaan

Kayvaan didn't hesitate. "I need a killer. The best." He leaned forward. "Price doesn't matter. I want the most skilled assassin you have."

Fatty chuckled, his belly shaking. He laughed for a long while before finally wiping his eyes and looking at Rhianna. "A newborn chick, huh?" Then, with an amused sigh, he poured wine for all three of them before speaking. "Kid, I've been in this business for years. I've seen plenty of young men like you—noble sons, rogue traders, would-be crime lords. But at least they had the sense to wear a hood or a cloak when they came in. You, on the other hand? You just strolled in here, sat down, and immediately asked for the best." He shook his head, still grinning. "That's rare."

Kayvaan met his gaze evenly. "Are you taking the job or not?"

"Of course, of course. Money's money." Fatty waved a hand dismissively. "But since you came here with Rhianna, I'll give you some free advice first. Are you sure you need this done? If this is just some petty grudge, you might be better off handling it another way. Hiring a professional doesn't always solve the problem—it often creates more." He took a sip of wine. "Are you certain?"

"I'm sure."

Fatty sighed, setting his cup down. "Alright then. Tell me the target, and I'll find the best match. You see, killing is like… playing an instrument. There's no 'best' killer—only the right one for the job. A troubadour with a six-string lute can't perform an opera at the grand theater. So once I know what you need, I'll recommend the most suitable killer for the task. And their prices will be fair."

Kayvaan's fingers drummed against the table. "Rhianna told me the Nighthawks have the best assassins."

"They're not assassins," Fatty corrected. "They're scavengers. We don't kill people—we clean up messes. And as I said, there's no such thing as 'the best'—only the most appropriate for the situation."

Kayvaan leaned back, unimpressed. "Rhianna mentioned someone named Youlun. The 'Executioner.'"

The reaction was instant. Fatty's entire body stiffened. His jovial expression vanished. For a few seconds, he didn't move, didn't breathe. Then, with a slow exhale, he rubbed his face and muttered, "Throne preserve us…" After another pause, he looked at Kayvaan with something between caution and pity. "Yes… The Executioner. Youlun." His voice was quieter now. "That thing isn't human. He's a daemon wearing human skin. If you're serious about hiring him… you'd better be prepared."

Kayvaan smirked. "What's his price?"

Fatty let out a strained laugh. "Youlun's price isn't just high, it's insane. Even I wouldn't—"

Kayvaan cut him off by tossing a small pouch onto the table. The bag hit the wood with a soft clatter, and several small, glittering stones spilled out. Fatty's eyes widened. He inhaled sharply, suddenly very interested. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out a pair of copper tweezers, then retrieved a monocle and perched it on his nose. He took a deep breath before carefully picking up one of the stones, holding it to the light. Silence. Then his breathing grew heavier. This wasn't just a gemstone. It was a diamond. And not just any diamond—an exquisite one. Perfect clarity. Flawless cut. A colorless masterpiece, the kind nobles would kill for. Fatty's hands trembled slightly. Then his gaze flickered back to the pouch. 'Were… all the diamonds inside this high-quality?'

The fat man carefully set aside the diamond he had been inspecting and picked up another, his pudgy fingers trembling slightly. The second stone was just as flawless as the first. His excitement growing, he abandoned the tweezers altogether, reaching into the pile and plucking out another at random. 'Perfect. Again'. His breathing turned ragged. His mind roared. 'One diamond of this quality is a fortune, but a whole bag of them? How many could there be? Fifty? No, too low. A hundred? Still too conservative. Three hundred? Throne, have mercy.' His blood pounded in his ears. His head spun. The sheer value of what was before him made his vision blur.

Across the table, Kayvaan watched the display with a faint smile, though inwardly, he was quite pleased. 'Natives are always easy to fool'. The scenario reminded him of the old stories—when Imperial traders first made contact with feral-worlders, exchanging their primitive gold trinkets for worthless baubles. The traders left satisfied, and so did the natives, believing they had made a fair deal.

Now, Kayvaan was playing the same game. Natural diamonds were rare, even in the Age of the Imperium. But synthetic gems? Those were worthless. The manufacturing process had been perfected millennia ago, making them cheaper than glass. The technology was so advanced that only master jewelers—or highly specialized augur systems—could distinguish a lab-grown diamond from a natural one. Because of this, no civilized world in the Imperium used gems as currency anymore. Their value was too volatile, too difficult to verify. 

But in this backwater? Here, where people still relied on crude smithing techniques and had no concept of artificial gemstones? These diamonds might as well have been priceless relics. Kayvaan took a slow sip of wine. Then, casually, he asked, "So, is this enough to hire Youlun?"

Fatty's laughter erupted like a cracked pressure valve. "Enough?" He nearly choked on his words, his face flushed with greed. "Throne, lad, this isn't just enough—this is too much! You could hire me to kill my own mother with this kind of wealth! Hah! I love doing business with nobles." His eyes gleamed. "Tell me—who's the unlucky bastard? Hell, with a payment like this, I could have Youlun follow you around like a personal executioner. Just point, and he'll kill whoever you don't like."

Kayvaan pulled the pouch back toward him. "I'll pay the deposit first." He gestured to the diamonds Fatty had been admiring earlier. "Those three. Two as a down payment for hiring Youlun. The last one is yours. A token of goodwill. Perhaps we'll do business again in the future."

Fatty let out a shuddering breath. His hands trembled as he gently set the tweezers down. Then, abruptly, he shoved the table aside with surprising speed for a man of his size and dropped to his knees before Kayvaan. "Oh, you're too generous, too generous," he babbled, his voice thick with devotion. "Even my own mother wasn't this kind to me! You—you are the messenger of the God-Emperor, a shining beacon in this wretched world!" His voice broke as he clutched at Kayvaan's boots. "How can I ever repay you? How do I thank you properly? Name it—anything! A bed warmer, perhaps? Rhianna, how about you? No? Ah, but I've fallen in love with you already, my dear employer. You've given me hope! Purpose!"

Kayvaan rolled his eyes. "Get up. The job isn't done yet."

"Of course, of course." Fatty wiped at his face, nodding rapidly. "Who's the wretch you want erased? Do you have a name? A target?"

Kayvaan leaned back, stroking his chin in mock thought. "Actually… I haven't quite decided."

Fatty blinked. "What?"

Kayvaan smirked. He turned his gaze to Rhianna, who was still standing at his side. "let's make it her."

The room went still. Fatty's expression froze, his mouth slightly open. He slowly turned his gaze toward Rhianna, as if checking to see if he had misheard. Rhianna just stared at Kayvaan in disbelief. "Me?"