The town of Dewhurst was located on the outskirts of the vast country of Lunanova. It was the kind of place where people lived simple lives, where the sun's descent signaled the end of business for the day. The streets, lined with old-world lamplights and narrow stone pathways, would soon fall silent as residents retreated into their homes, the doors locking, the curtains drawn.
It was the kind of town where trouble rarely lingered.
Tonight, however, was different, as the trouble came just before sundown.
The tea shop at the end of the main road, a humble, family-run establishment, had only a handful of patrons when a hostile group of men entered—about five or six of them. Their leader—a thick-shouldered man with a jagged scar tracing his jawline—walked with the ease of someone who had never been told no. The noren door curtains shuddered violently as they strode in, the scent of sweat and liquor clinging to them.
Conversations hushed.
The shopkeeper, an aging man with tired eyes, stiffened behind the counter. A bead of sweat traced down his temple, though he dared not wipe it away.
Among the group, one man stood out—the one who moved with certainty, as if he had already decided how the night would end. His presence alone shifted the air, turning the once-warm tea house cold.
Slung over his shoulder, he carried a weapon that should have been too unwieldy for casual use—a sword-scythe, its curved edge dulled only by time, not mercy. In any other hands, it would take both arms to lift, but he balanced it effortlessly, as though it were a mere extension of himself.
Varek "Jag" Mordain exhaled sharply, surveying the shop with open disdain. His lip curled. "Cozy," he mused, voice thick with mockery. "But you're missing something." He turned to the nearest patron—a middle-aged woman still clutching her teacup. "Know what that is?"
She said nothing, her hands trembling.
The man beside her rose, voice tight with apprehension. "We don't want any trouble."
Varek grinned. "Then leave."
Silence stretched. Then, the scrape of chairs, the shuffle of hurried feet. One by one, the patrons slipped past the group, disappearing into the dusk-lit streets, leaving only the shopkeeper standing behind the counter.
Varek sighed. "There. That's better." He stepped forward, planting his hands on the counter with a heavy thud. "Now, elder, fix us a table."
The shopkeeper hesitated but said nothing, only nodding and hastily setting up a place for them in the center of the room. His hands moved with the instinct of someone who had learned long ago not to resist.
Varek leaned back, satisfied. "See? Wasn't so hard, was it?"
He snapped his fingers, pointing to one of his men. A lanky figure with sunken eyes and an ever-present smirk. "Follow him. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."
The smirking man grinned wider. "With pleasure."
As the shopkeeper disappeared into the back, his unwanted shadow following close behind, the remaining four dropped into their seats.
The night deepened.
Laughter punctuated the group's conversation, their voices hushed yet laced with a careless bravado—the kind that came from believing they were untouchable.
The tea shop, now eerily empty except for the gang, felt smaller, like the walls had drawn closer. Varek leaned back in his chair, arms draped over the backrest, his sword-scythe resting against the table beside him. The dull candlelight flickered against the jagged scar running along his jaw.
The first to speak was Lenn, the lanky man Varek had sent to watch the shopkeeper. He slouched over the counter toward the back kitchen, idly spinning a stolen silver spoon between his fingers. "Still nothing on that missing convoy," he muttered, clicking his tongue. "You'd think a couple of farm rats wouldn't be so hard to track down."
Across from him, Matteo, the youngest of the group, chuckled. "Does it really matter? We already got paid for the first batch, didn't we?"
A sharp look from Varek cut through the table like a blade. His fingers drummed against the wood in a slow, deliberate rhythm. "It matters." His voice was cold, calculated. "We were supposed to move those people across the border before the week was out. Now they're out there—unaccounted for."
The table fell silent.
Lenn smirked, leaning in. "So what? Some do-gooder must've let them loose." He tilted his head. "Or maybe the buyer decided to cut us out and take the whole haul for themselves."
Matteo clicked his tongue. "If it's the buyer, we torch their whole damn operation. Nobody screws us over."
Varek exhaled sharply through his nose. "That's what I'd like to think. But if the RSAA's behind this…" His fingers flexed over the table, slow and deliberate. "Then we were dead men the moment they took an interest."
A tense pause.
Matteo shifted uncomfortably. "Think it was them?"
Varek let the silence speak for itself.
Then, Elias, a broad-shouldered man with a scarred knuckle, finally spoke. "No sign of the bodies, no ransom, no threats. If it was the RSAA, we'd already be seeing arrests." He shook his head. "My bet? Some foolhardy locals with more guts than sense. They don't know what they've done."
Varek considered this, then nodded. "Then find them." His voice was calm, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. "Find out who's responsible. If it's some town heroes, burn them down. If it's a rival operation, gut them."
His men nodded in agreement, satisfied with the plan. The tension at the table faded into wicked amusement, the conversation shifting back to meaningless drivel as they finished their drinks.
The door to the back creaked open, and the shopkeeper hesitantly stepped out, his unwanted shadow—Lenn—following close behind. The elder man's eyes flickered toward the table, toward the men who had stolen the peace from his shop.
Varek sighed and pushed back his chair. "Guess we'll be off, then." He stood, stretching his shoulders. "Good tea. Shame about the atmosphere." He shot the elder with a grin. "Your customers don't seem to have much of a backbone."
The shopkeeper remained silent, his face unreadable.
Matteo stood as well, flicking a single silver coin onto the counter. "For your trouble," he sneered.
The shopkeeper didn't move to take it.
Lenn leaned in, his grin sharp. "Hey, Jag. Maybe next time, we take the whole place."
Varek chuckled. "Maybe."
Then, without another word, they stepped out into the cool night.
The streets of Dewhurst were quiet, the only sound being the distant chirr of insects and the whisper of the wind. The group moved at a leisurely pace, unconcerned with anything or anyone that might be lurking in the dark.
That was their first mistake.
The leaves in the nearby trees rustled unnaturally, like a phantom wind had swept through them. A whisper of movement—too fast, too fluid—brushed past the branches, sending a shiver through the still night. It wasn't the wind.
Something was there.
Something that hadn't been there a moment before.
And then—he appeared.
A figure stood at the center of the road, bathed in pale moonlight.
He was young, but there was nothing youthful in his stillness. His presence was unsettling, like a statue placed where it shouldn't be—motionless, waiting. His coat shifted slightly with the breeze, revealing the hilt of a katana resting over his back, the only thing betraying the weight of his existence.
He said nothing.
Simply stood.
Watching.
Matteo was the first to scoff. "The hell is this?"
Lenn grinned, stepping forward. His fingers hovered near the knife at his belt, but something in his posture was different now—stiffer, tenser. His instincts screamed at him, but he ignored them. "Looks lost. You lost?"
The stranger remained silent.
Varek's expression darkened. Unlike his men, he could feel it. This wasn't chance. This wasn't some idiot standing in the road. This was deliberate. The way the figure held himself, the way he had appeared out of nowhere—this wasn't someone who had stumbled onto them.
This was someone who had been waiting.
And then, the young man spoke.
His voice was calm, yet heavy with something unreadable.
"Varek Mordain."
That was all.
A name, spoken like a sentence.
Varek's fingers flexed. Then, a slow smirk crept across his face. "That's me." He slung his sword-scythe off his shoulder, planting the blunt end against the ground. "You got something to say?"
The wind shifted.
The stranger tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. Then, just as quietly, he answered.
"I'm here to kill you."
Silence.
Then—Lenn burst into laughter. "Oh, that's rich." He turned to the others. "Did you hear that? He's got a death wish."
Matteo cracked his knuckles. "Let's grant it."
Varek, however, wasn't laughing. His gaze remained locked onto the stranger, studying him. Something about him felt… off. Too still. Too calm.
The streetlights overhead flickered.
A gust of wind rattled a wooden frame. Somewhere in the distance, a stray dog barked—once, then silence.
The young man turned slightly, just enough for the dim lantern glow to catch the edge of his profile. His eyes, now fully visible beneath the stray locks of dark hair, reflected nothing. No anger. No amusement.
Just finality.
Then—he moved.
A blur in the moonlight.
Lenn's laughter was still in the air when a chilling streak of silver sliced through it.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then, a thin red line appeared across Lenn's throat. His smirk froze. His eyes widened. His mouth opened—but only blood came out.
A choked gurgle. A step forward. Then—he collapsed.
The others barely had time to react.
Matteo swore and stumbled back. "Shit—"
Malik was already in front of him.
A single step. A whisper of movement. His katana slid through Matteo's ribs like a breath of wind.
Matteo gasped. Froze. His body didn't seem to understand it had already been cut.
Then, as Malik stepped past him, blood burst from the wound like a delayed realization. Matteo crumpled.
The others finally reacted.
Two left.
The last two men shouted, drawing weapons—one with a short sword, the other with a pistol.
The gun fired.
Too slow.
Malik's form flickered—his entire body seemingly dissolving into shadow. The bullet passed through where he had been, hitting only air.
Then, he reappeared behind them.
A sweep of his blade—the short sword wielder collapsed, his spine severed.
Elias, the only other man left standing, the one with the gun, turned wildly, pulling the trigger again—
Malik's hand flicked.
A thin mist spread from his fingertips—ice.
The moment the bullet left the barrel, it froze midair.
Elias's eyes widened in horror—before Malik's katana silenced him forever.
The street was quiet again.
Only Varek remained.
Varek hadn't moved. He hadn't flinched when his men fell.
But his smirk was gone.
I should've known, he growled to himself.
I should've known they'd send him!
Varek's grip on his sword-scythe tightened. His Modus activated.
Malik exhaled, his breath visible in the cold mist forming around him. He sensed it before it happened.
A whisper in the air. A disturbance. A slashing presence.
He twisted—just in time.
The first invisible slash carved through the space where he had been standing a second before. The street behind him split open, stone severed cleanly.
Malik landed several feet away, katana raised.
"Laceration Manipulation," he murmured, eyes narrowed.
Varek's voice was calm. "Sharp."
Then—he attacked.
A swipe of his sword-scythe—the air itself tore open.
Malik moved, but the attack struck before he saw it.
A gash blossomed across his shoulder.
The cut hadn't existed a second before—then, suddenly, it was there.
Malik gritted his teeth. So that's how it worked.
He lunged—then vanished.
Varek turned—too slow.
Malik reappeared behind him in a swirl of shadows. His blade came down—
Varek twisted at the last second, but not fast enough.
A deep slash carved across his ribs.
Blood sprayed onto the pavement.
Varek growled, eyes flashing. "Not bad."
His Modus flared.
Malik moved to press the attack—but stopped.
Something sliced through his leg.
The wound appeared out of nowhere.
A delayed cut.
Malik staggered back, blood seeping into his boot.
Varek grinned despite his own injury. "You're fast, but you can't dodge what you can't see."
Malik inhaled.
Then—the air around him dropped.
Frost crept across the ground. The mist swirling from his fingertips thickened.
Varek frowned. "Tch. Ice Modus?"
Malik sank his blade into the ground.
The street froze.
Varek's boots slid. His stance wavered for half a second.
That was all Malik needed.
He disappeared.
Shadows swallowed him whole.
Varek tensed—then hissed in pain.
A cold pierced through his chest.
He looked down.
Malik's blade was buried deep, frost spreading from the wound.
Varek exhaled shakily.
He tried to swing—but his arms were frozen solid. Instead, the two stood frozen in stalemate, the overhead lights clearly and finally revealing the young man's face up close to Varek.
Coughing, he chuckled. "I knew it."
Malik stepped back, pulling his sword free. "This is over."
Varek collapsed to his knees. Blood and ice pooled beneath him.
He chuckled—low, rasping. "You're good."
His breath shuddered as he struggled to speak. "Malik Enola. You know, I should've known they'd bring only the best to come after me. I should've known… that she'd send… you."
Then—he fell.
The night swallowed his final breath.
Malik exhaled, his grip on his sword tightening for just a moment before he released it. The blade, still slick with crimson, gleamed beneath the flickering streetlamp.
The bodies lay still. The town was silent.
Only the quiet tap, tap, tap of blood meeting stone remained.
Another mission complete. Another set of lives erased. And yet, he felt nothing.
He dragged a hand through his dark hair, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against his scalp. A dull ache pressed against his temples, a weight that had been growing heavier with every life he took.
The faces of his past targets blurred together in his mind, merging into a single, nameless void.
He swallowed hard. His throat was dry, his chest hollow.
"How many more?" he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "How many before I stop feeling like a ghost in my own skin?"
He crouched beside one of the fallen targets, staring blankly into lifeless eyes.
Once, long ago, he would have flinched. Would have felt something—guilt, maybe.
But now?
Nothing.
"This isn't living," he said, shaking his head. "It's just existing. And I don't know how much longer I can keep this up."
The echoes of his own voice along the street made him feel as though he were speaking to a specter, a version of himself that had long since faded away. Rising to his feet, he wiped his blade clean and sheathed it, his movements practiced and mechanical.
The RSAA had trained him well—too well. Efficiency over emotion, precision over conscience. And now, here he was, an instrument of death with no sense of what it meant to be human anymore.
Malik glanced up at the moon, its pale glow casting shadows across his face. He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling sharply as a quiet plea escaped his lips. "Gods... if you're listening, forgive me," he lamented. "Forgive me for what I've become. For what I've lost."
He had never doubted the gods' existence—no one did. Their presence was woven into the very fabric of the world, undeniable and eternal. Yet, they had never seemed to answer him before. And why should they? He had long abandoned whatever humanity was left in him, trading his soul for a life of worldly obedience and bloodshed.
His chest tightened as the silence stretched between him and the heavens, offering no absolution, no sign that he could still be saved. Perhaps there was nothing left of him to redeem.
"I need to get out," he admitted aloud, his own words feeling heavier than ever. "Before there's nothing left of me."
But leaving wasn't an option—not yet. Not until he figured out how to slip away unnoticed, how to sever ties without drawing Noriko's wrath. If there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that the Director didn't let go of her assets easily.
He paused momentarily as the vibration of his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced down, reading the illuminated text—a summoning order from Noriko Tachi herself. A direct meeting. His pulse quickened, not only from fear, but from resolve.
This was it. The opportunity he needed. The only way out was through the front door, and if he was going to leave this life behind, he would have to face her directly and pray. Pray that she would let him go. Pray that she would see reason. Pray that the gods hadn't already abandoned him.
He wasn't sure if he believed his own words, but for now, they were enough. With a final glance at the scene before him, Malik turned on his heel and disappeared into the night, the weight of his future pressing heavy on his shoulders.