Elliot's answer had clearly caught the old man off guard.
He stood there in a daze, his expression subtly changing as he kept looking at the ranger lounging half-reclined on the sofa with a look that said, "Are you serious?"
Unfortunately, the latter did not spare him another glance. He merely stretched lazily, then, only after sensing that something was off about the atmosphere, coughed. "I want to train a little more."
For some reason, he did not sound particularly confident.
That made sense. Although Elliot believed he possessed many means of preserving his life, and the old man before him was a veteran long retired, the name Ninth Manor still rang like thunder in the ears of rogues across the Prime Material Plane.
It was the supreme hall of rogues.
If every thief who entered the Shadow Realm could be said to have mastered the art of assassination, then joining Ninth Manor meant that no matter where one went in the multiverse, no one would dare underestimate one's abilities.
Perhaps your level was not especially high, and your personal killing power was not particularly formidable, but the name Ninth Manor itself meant strangeness, conspiracy, fine wine, and poison... as well as countless terrorist attacks—though at least half of those attacks had been pinned on them against their will.
In short, Ninth Manor was the holiest sacred ground in the hearts of rogues, thieves, and rangers.
It was said that every rogue who entered Ninth Manor underwent a qualitative transformation.
That was something no other assassin organization could offer.
It was not some training method or unique skill, but the core secrets of the Shadow Realm that granted these assassins, conspirators, and rangers a transcendent status above their peers.
The reason the Shadow Realm was condemned by so many factions