The air in the slums was eerily still, the only sound a distant breeze howling through the cracks of abandoned buildings. The citadel, an ancient structure long forgotten by the noble houses, stood silent and crumbling, its towering silhouette blending into the moonlit ruins. Faded banners, once belonging to an unknown kingdom, still clung desperately to the walls, their sigils erased by time. Dust hung in the air, disturbed only by the faint movements of figures lurking within.
Inside, twenty assassins stood in perfect silence, each one cloaked in dark robes designed to meld with the night. Their hoods were deep, hiding their faces, their outfits lined with intricate leather straps that held a terrifying arsenal—throwing knives, hidden daggers, and even small crossbows latched onto their backs. The gleam of polished steel peeked from beneath their cloaks, betraying the deadly precision of their craft.
Yet despite their training, despite their cold-blooded nature, an unsettling tension clung to the room, weighing down on their shoulders.
Then, the doors groaned open.
A figure entered.
The Phantom Slayer strode in like a storm given form. His long black hair flowed over his shoulders, his blindfold tied tightly, hiding the sightless gaze beneath. His golden sword hung at his waist, glimmering even in the dim lighting, and the golden ring on his finger caught the glow of the torches as he moved. His posture was relaxed, but the pressure in the air made it clear—this was not a man to be trifled with.
A sharp aura pressed down on the room like an invisible weight, making even the most seasoned assassins flinch as he walked past them.
Vivienne stood at the center, her red curls falling over her shoulders, her brown eyes watching him with a mix of arrogance and something else—something cautious.
The Phantom Slayer stopped a few paces before her, his head tilting slightly. "Explain," he said, his voice low, edged with irritation.
Vivienne's lips curled into a smirk. "I have a job for you."
He exhaled through his nose, clearly unimpressed. "I don't take jobs from noble daughters who play with knives in the dark. And I don't work with cannon fodder. Let me guess they are here to help, because it's a high profile target. Well I don't need such worthless people". He said looking around in disdain. He could kill everyone here with his eyes closed. Ironically, they were.
A few of the assassins stiffened at the insult, but Vivienne's smirk remained. "You'll want to take this one," she replied, crossing her arms. "It's an assassination."
His brow twitched, his voice dripping with boredom. "They usually are."
"This one is special." She leaned in slightly, her smirk widening. "The target is a student from the academy. His name is—"
The room shifted.
"Ren Ariake."
The Phantom Slayer froze.
For a brief moment, the air curled with something dangerous. The assassins felt it—a sharp, razor-like presence, one that whispered of something deeper, something old.
Then, his lips parted, and his answer came—not hesitant, not questioning, but absolute.
"No."
Vivienne's smirk faltered. "No?"
His expression remained unreadable, his stance unchanged. "No offense, but no slight, no insult, is worth going on a suicide mission. Not only will I not accept it. I will not take you as my costumer again". The phantom Slayer has met his fair share of monsters. But nothing compared to what he felt. The first time he laid his eyes on Ren. He felt it, During the death carnival event, the silent insanity behind his eyes, Ren was an even greater threat than the cicada. The phantom Slayer was reckless but not suicidal. He sighed.
Vivienne's eye twitched. "You don't even know what he did."
"I don't care what he did." He shook his head, the weight of his rejection final. "Even if you were a duke's daughter, I wouldn't waste my time on this."
"You're refusing me?"
"That's what 'no' means, yes."
Vivienne's fingers clenched at her sides, her carefully crafted arrogance beginning to crack. "Do you know what happens when someone refuses a noble's request? What about your brother? Going to abondoned him like you did before?" She mocked laughing at the man before her now. The so called most dangerous assasins was rejecting her because of a kid.
The Phantom Slayer laughed. Laughed.
A deep, rich chuckle, one that sent chills down the spines of those present. He took a step forward, tilting his head at her. "You think you're the first noble to threaten me?" He knew there where nobles, who refused to take no for an answer. This arrogant noble before him reminded him of Marquis Beri Winkle. The marquis of the winkle household. He wanted to kill the child of another marquis, a client of the phantom slayer. He refused. So he killed Beri Winkle pregnant wife. And fed her to Marquis Winkle. Upon finding out that the delicious meal he had mistake for precious mana beasts where his wife and kids. Suffered stroke and has been paralyzed since leaving his property confiscated by the other nobles. The Phantom Slayer wasn't good but he sure wasn't evil. Marquis Beri Winkle had burned one of his orphanages owned by the guild. The children and the staffs, all along with his precious black gold. He wasn't going to let that slide. He made an example one none should have followed yet this dukes daughter is threading those same steps. He wasn't going to mess with the duke. But he wasn't going to get himself killed because of a spoiled brat.
Her lips curled in frustration, but before she could respond, one of the assassins stepped forward, his voice rough and mocking.
"You're just a fraud," he sneered. "You ride on the back of Argent Mycroft, hiding behind his reputation. Without him, you're nothing."
A mistake.
The Phantom Slayer moved.
A crushing force erupted from him, thick and suffocating. The assassin who had spoken gasped, stepping back as if physically struck. The air itself seemed to warp, the room growing smaller, the pressure pressing against their lungs.
And then—
A new presence entered.
The shadows deepened, curling unnaturally around the figure now standing at the center of the pulpit.
A teenage boy stood there, bathed in the crescent moon's glow.
His silver-white hair gleamed like silk, and his red eyes burned with an impossible intensity, a glow that made even the most hardened assassins stiffen. His long black trench coat draped over his form, shadows rippling off its edges like living things.
A scythe rested against his shoulder, its curved midnight blade resting at his own throat as though death had embraced him long ago. He stood there effortlessly, his presence unnatural, as if the world itself bent around him.
Vivienne's blood ran cold.
Her confidence, so unshakable moments ago, wavered as she gazed at him.
The boy smiled—a slow, deliberate curve of his lips, filled with something unreadable.
Vivienne swallowed, steadying her voice. "Ren Ariake? How no student should be let out of the grounds" she asked, though there was a slight tremor to her tone.
The boy's grin widened.
"People mistake me for him a lot," he murmured, voice smooth as silk, yet carrying something deeply wrong. He tilted his head slightly, inhumanly fluid, his red eyes never leaving hers.
The Phantom Slayer remained silent, but the way his body tensed was unmistakable.
The boy let the silence stretch before finally speaking.
"But no," he said at last. "I am not Ren."
The shadows pulsed around him.
"My name is Ken Ariake."
"Am I intruding?" , He asked looking on at the drama with such amazement.
Vivienne felt the weight of his name settle in her chest like lead.
Her heartbeat quickened.
The moonlight, so bright before, now seemed distant.