Nightwalker Headquarters, Belfast.
The dark room reeked of blood and sweat, illuminated only by the pale glow of moonlight seeping through the narrow windows.
Shadows clung to the corners, making it difficult to discern faces, and yet the tension within was palpable. Every assassin present could feel it—an unspoken sense of dread.
They stood motionless, eyes darting towards their leader, waiting for his command.
The leader of the assassins, a man known only as "the Specter," sat in his high-backed chair. It resembled a throne, elevated to emphasize his dominance over the room.
His sharp, calculating eyes were half-hidden beneath the shadows of his hood. One arm was propped on the armrest, supporting his head as if he were bored.
But his eyes told another story. They flicked towards the door as it creaked open.
Mister M strode in, his long black trench coat swirling around his feet, cane in hand. His face was a mask of barely suppressed fury, nostrils flaring as if trying to expel the rage that boiled within him.
His eyes gleamed with desperation and anger, and though his posture remained composed, there was a certain frantic energy about him that made the room grow tenser.
"What do you mean, 'escaped'?" Mister M's voice, though controlled, was laced with venom. "Aren't you supposed to be the best assassins in all of Belfast?" His gaze scanned the room, locking onto each figure, daring them to defy him.
The Specter remained still, his fingers drumming softly on the armrest of his chair. He allowed the silence to stretch, filling the room with discomfort.
Finally, one of the assassins, a man with a scar running down the side of his face, took a step forward.
"Mister M," the assassin began, his voice steady but tinged with caution, "the information you gave us was incomplete. We encountered something unexpected."
Mister M's eyes narrowed, and the tapping of his cane against the stone floor ceased. "What could have been so 'unexpected'?" he hissed. "You were given every detail. The targets should have been taken care of by now."
The assassin hesitated, glancing towards the Specter for permission to continue.
The leader gave a slight nod, barely noticeable in the dim light. Encouraged, the assassin continued. "Mugg is not just a magician. He's an Ascender."
For a moment, Mister M seemed to freeze, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief. "An Ascender? That's impossible," he whispered, almost to himself.
He looked back at the assassin. "Are you sure? He was not an Ascender yesterday morning. He couldn't have hidden it for this long."
"There's no mistake. His power was unlike anything we've encountered before," the assassin replied grimly. "It wasn't just magic—he fought like someone who has ascended. His strength was near Dreamer level."
Mister M's grip on his cane tightened until his knuckles turned white. His breath came in short, angry bursts. "If he was an Ascender, then that means..." His eyes widened with realization. "Sealed Artifact 2-34…"
"No," the Specter interrupted, his voice deep and resonant, commanding the room's attention. "Sealed Artifact 2-34 curses its victim to death. It does not grant awakening."
"Then he's a false awakener!" Mister M snapped. "He must have been pretending all this time. A ruse to throw us off his trail.
If he truly were an Ascender, and he had read the contents of Sealed Artifact 2-34, his soul would've been consumed. He would've transformed into a monster, like the priest all those years ago."
"Regardless," the Specter said calmly, "he is still alive, and he has evaded us. The ritual cannot proceed without both girls. If we fail, the consequences will be catastrophic."
Mister M's face twisted in frustration. "What do you suggest we do now? Mugg's location is unknown. Our contacts in London haven't seen him, and those girls—Chloe and Eleanor—are just as vital to the ritual as Mugg's death."
The Specter's expression remained unreadable, his voice smooth and unhurried. "Mugg and Eleanor will return home sooner or later. It's only a matter of time.
As for Chloe, she can always be retrieved. She is unaware of our plans and, once located, can be captured without issue."
Mister M wasn't satisfied with this passive approach. His entire life's work was hanging by a thread. "We don't have time to wait," he said, his voice growing sharp. "The more time we waste, the more sin corrodes this world. Do you understand what's at stake here?"
The Specter's gaze darkened, and a faint, dangerous smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "I understand perfectly. But rushing in without a plan is what led to our failure tonight."
He straightened in his chair, his eyes locking onto Mister M's. "I will send a series two assassin to watch the Mugg household. The moment they return, we will strike. The magician will die, and his sister will be brought to me alive."
A figure emerged from the shadows, a tall man draped in black, his face obscured by a dark veil. The room seemed to grow colder in his presence, and even Mister M stiffened as the assassin approached.
"Shadow," the Specter said, his tone commanding. "You will go to the Mugg house. Kill the magician as soon as he returns, but bring his sister to me unharmed."
The assassin bowed his head, his voice a mere whisper as he responded, "As you wish."
Without another word, Shadow disappeared, melting back into the darkness as though he had never been there at all.
Satisfied, the Specter turned back to Mister M. "You should leave now. If your absence is noticed for too long, it will raise suspicion. Return to your usual activities. I will take care of the rest."
Mister M, still visibly shaken, nodded slowly. "Yes… yes, I'll head back now. But mark my words—if you fail again, there will be no more chances. Eleanor must be brought to the altar, or everything will be lost."
He placed his cap over his head and bowed slightly before exiting the room. His footsteps echoed down the corridor, each one a reminder of the delicate balance they were trying to maintain.
As soon as he reached the empty streets of Belfast, he quickened his pace, his cane tapping furiously against the cobblestone. He didn't look back until he arrived at St. Vernis Street, and even then, he couldn't shake the ominous feeling that lingered over him.
After walking for several minutes, he finally approached his destination—the Abell household, a grand manor with perfectly trimmed lawns, surrounded by guards.
But as he neared, something felt wrong. His stride faltered, and his heart leaped into his throat. The house...was gone.
Not damaged, not in disrepair—obliterated. Nothing but rubble remained, smoke rising from the ruins as the last embers of destruction flickered in the night.
"This... This isn't possible." His voice was a fragile whisper, disbelief tightening his chest. His breath quickened, his mind racing to comprehend what he was seeing. He stumbled forward, collapsing to his knees at the edge of the debris, his hands sinking into the ash and dust.
"No!" His shriek echoed into the empty night. "No, no, no, this wasn't part of the plan! I didn't ask for this!"
His life's work, everything he had meticulously built, was reduced to ashes. His savings, his altar, the trapped souls he had collected for the descent of his lord—it was all gone. Worst of all, the vessel for the lord's arrival—his daughter—was now lost, her body destroyed in the explosion.
The grief was overwhelming, but soon it was replaced by an all-consuming rage. Mister M rose shakily to his feet, tears staining his cheeks as fury took over his rational mind.
He turned on his heels and stormed back towards the assassin's hideout, his cane tapping out a violent rhythm as he ran. He didn't care if anyone saw him. He was beyond caution now.
When he finally burst through the doors of the meeting room, the assassins were just wrapping up their next mission briefing. They all turned to face him as he staggered into the room, out of breath, his eyes wide with fury.
"What did you do?" he screamed, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. "You destroyed the house! You destroyed everything!"
The Specter's eyes narrowed, his calm demeanor cracking slightly. "What are you talking about?"
Mister M advanced towards him, hands trembling. "The house! The altar, the souls, the bodies, the vessel for the lord's descent—it's all gone! Blown into oblivion! You've ruined everything!"
For a moment, the Specter sat in stunned silence, processing the gravity of what Mister M was saying. Then, in a single motion, he stood, slamming his hands down onto the table. The wood splintered under the force of his anger.
"Everything?" he growled, his voice low and menacing. "You're telling me ten years of preparation—gone?"
Mister M's voice was barely more than a choked whisper. "Gone."
The Specter's eyes gleamed with fury. "Then we have no choice. Use every resource we have. Find whoever is responsible for the explosion....
And kill them."