Rukn al-Din Khurshah, the seventh and final Assassin King of Alamut Castle, was not a true monarch. He ruled no kingdom, yet no corner of Central Asia's thirty-six realms was beyond his reach. He commanded no subjects, yet from nobles to commoners, his name alone could make even the boldest tremble.

He was the Assassin King of Central Asia.

No one could truly measure the King of Assassins' skill. He never competed in open duels, and those who sought him—whether to challenge or to be hired—met the same fate: swift and absolute death.

Rukn al-Din had few enemies to speak of, for he left none alive. Those he killed perished so thoroughly that not even the dogs at their sides escaped his blade.

The Assassin King lived by two immutable commandments. These principles, more sacred to him than life itself, had never been broken. But when news of his eighth son's grievous error reached him, his fury knew no bounds.

Seven generations of Assassin Kings had reigned over more than a century, their blades claiming countless lives. The gates of slaughtered households could have formed a small nation, yet never before had there been such a disgrace: the wrong person had been killed.

A row of severed heads lay neatly upon a long table, their lifeless eyes reflecting the Castle Master's wrath. The foreign guest, who had come to identify the corpses, wisely retreated into the shadows, unwilling to provoke the tempest before him.

Rukn al-Din picked up one of the heads and hurled it at his pale-faced eighth son. This head was the source of his humiliation, an insult in front of an outsider that no amount of reparations could undo.

"Are you my son? Are you truly my son?"

Rukn al-Din's face, gaunt and slightly darkened, bore deep-set eyes that seemed carved from the harsh winds of Central Asia. His bloodline, long rooted in these lands, carried inevitable traces of nomadic ancestry. When angered, his gaze was as cold and unyielding as the snow-capped peaks of the Gobi Desert.

The question required no answer. The eighth son, a younger version of his father, flushed crimson, his face a molten red as if forged from two burning slabs of iron.

For the King of Assassins, there was only one way to extinguish his rage: killing. Not even his own flesh and blood was exempt. Patricide and fratricide were not unheard of in the House of Alamut.

But Rukn al-Din hesitated. He thought of the boy's mother, a woman who had once brought him great joy. Her mischievous smile and perfect form were etched vividly in his memory, even after all these years. She had died of an unknown illness, leaving behind a final wish that lingered with him. Like all women who poured their love into men, her last thoughts were for her child.

"Raise our son to be a man like you."

Rukn al-Din believed he had honored that promise. He had given the motherless boy a life of comfort, the strictest training, and his utmost trust.

"Women are nothing but trouble," he thought, as his rage simmered like a caged beast seeking an outlet. Drawing a blade from his waist, he suppressed his desire to kill and instead severed the boy's right hand—the hand that wielded the blade.

The beautiful, sorrowful face of the woman faded from his mind.

"Seven days. Bring back the correct head."

The hapless survivor who had escaped the Castle's blade lingered as a faint impression in Rukn al-Din's mind. That person was doomed. To cause the Assassin King to sever his son's hand was already a fate worthy of note.

Rashid staggered out of the great hall, brushing off the hands of his subordinates who sought to steady him. Like his father, he burned with rage. Blood poured from the stump of his arm, staunched only by a thick layer of golden ointment, but no remedy could stem the hatred in his heart.

He hated his father, who had not even given him the chance to explain. One word from a foreigner, and his failure was decreed. This had been his first independent mission—a symbol of his rise to the level of his elder brothers. Now, with his right hand gone, his martial prowess crippled, and his honor in tatters, his future lay in ruins.

He despised his incompetent subordinates, whose carelessness had led to his downfall.

But most of all, he loathed the fugitive—a boy who should have died yet lingered stubbornly, escaping fate for a few brief days. No matter how many times that boy was killed, it would never restore Rashid's severed hand.

His fury demanded release. He could not direct it at his father, nor could he plead his case. The fugitive was not here to bear the brunt of his wrath. His only targets were the dozens of assassins and mercenaries under his command.

These men, who had once pledged unwavering loyalty to their young master, now trembled like lambs awaiting slaughter as Rashid stormed into the chamber, his pale face twisted with fury.

Blade rose and fell, fell and rose again. None dared resist. Severed hands fell like frostbitten leaves, one after another, as silent terror gripped the room. These men had been marked for sacrifice the moment they were assigned to Rashid, their loyalty demanding no less.

Only when Rashid's anger had finally cooled did he cease his rampage. He realized too late that these were his men—crippling them would only weaken his power further.

"Kill him! Kill the bastard now!" he roared, his voice echoing through the chamber. "Leave no corpse intact except for the head!"