Craige felt warmth for the first time. As he opened his eyes, he saw two children clinging to his body, their faces buried against him, their sobs shaking their small frames. Tears streamed from their eyes, soaking his tattered clothes.
He looked around. This wasn't his luxurious home—it was a cramped, rundown space. A poor man's house.
"Brother, please wake up! I promise I won't be stubborn again. I'll listen to you… just please, open your eyes!" The girl cried against his stomach, her tiny hands trembling.
Warmth. It was an unfamiliar feeling. Throughout his entire life, no one had dared to look him in the eye. And if they did, they wouldn't live to see another day. Yet here, in this moment, two innocent children embraced him without fear, only love.
He placed his palm gently on the girl's head. Her tear-streaked face turned toward him; her eyes full of desperate hope.
"What happened?" His voice was rough, unfamiliar. The girl flinched but clung to him tighter, as if terrified of losing him again.
"The uncles… they beat you, brother. It was the deadline for our father's debt."
So, the reason this body was beaten to the brink of death was because of their father's debts.
Craige attempted to sit up, but an unbearable pain shot through his entire body. Damn it. If this body ever recovers, he swore to drag those bastards to hell himself.
His gaze landed on the other child—a boy. Unlike the girl, his eyes weren't filled with warmth, but with cold hatred. He stared at Craige as if he were filth. But what caught Craige's attention was the state of the boy's body—bruises covered him, his left eye swollen and wounded, his clothes stained with dried blood.
He had been beaten too.
"What happened to you?" Craige asked, but the boy remained silent. Instead, he picked up a damp towel and pressed it against Craige's forehead with a cold, emotionless expression.
It was then that Craige realized just how hopeless their situation was.
"Brother, don't worry. We'll work hard to earn money and buy you medicine so you can heal faster," the girl said softly.
Craige's eyes widened. Work? These children—barely past their childhood—were working?
"What work are you talking about? There's no way—"
Before he could finish, the boy suddenly slammed a glass against the wall, shattering it.
"Why are you acting like you have amnesia? This is the life we were born into, so stop pretending like you don't know, stupid brother!" The boy's voice was filled with frustration. He stormed out of the room, leaving only Craige and the girl behind.
The girl wiped her tears and looked at him with a small, hesitant smile.
"Brother, if you really lost your memory, then let me introduce myself again. My name is Lory, and the one who just left is my twin, Yuan. You're our older brother, Killan."
Killan.
A name that belonged to the boy whose body he now inhabited.
Such a good girl. Don't worry. This man will protect you. I'll restore this family into something you could never imagine.
And so, Craige—now Killan—began his new life.
He soon learned that Killan had lived in absolute misery.
His fragile body made survival a struggle, but Craige refused to remain weak. He trained every day, pushing himself to his limits, even when it left him in worse shape than before. But if there was one thing that remained unchanged from his past life, it was his instinct—the deadly ability to wield any weapon with perfection.
The more he dug into Killan's life, the darker it became.
One day, while searching through the boy's belongings, he found a diary hidden deep inside a drawer. Its pages were stained with dried blood and smeared ink, but the words etched into them were filled with raw emotion.
A record of suffering.
Killan had been bullied at school, tormented without mercy. The meager salary he worked tirelessly for was stolen by his classmates. He had written down the names of those who had made his life a living hell.
As Craige read through the diary, he could feel the boy's rage—his helplessness.
While Craige had lived a life where others feared him, Killan had lived a life where others trampled on him.
Craige clenched his fists, staring up at the sky.
Killan, you don't have to suffer anymore.
I will protect your family. I will take back everything that was stolen from you. And I will make them pay.
For the first time in his existence, Craige had a purpose beyond killing.
And for the first time, he wasn't alone.
Craige had never gone to school with his sibling before. This was the first time, and it felt surreal. He had spent years training his body, recovering from wounds both seen and unseen, and pushing himself beyond human limits. But now, his priority was different—survival in a different sense. He worked tirelessly to cover the household expenses, filling the void left by Killan's father, who was absent. According to Lory, Killan's father had been chased away by ruthless loan sharks, unable to return home for fear of his life.Craige had entertained the thought of making quick money through assassination. After all, it was a skill he had mastered, one that had earned him a fearsome reputation. However, this time, he wanted a normal life. He longed for stability, for peace within his family. But peace required security, and security required money. Without it, he had no real way of protecting the ones he loved. He chose to set aside his past, at least for now, and work as a delivery driver by day and a construction worker by night. He pushed through exhaustion, determined to carve a new path for himself.
Yet, the past is never truly buried. Craige was no ordinary man. He had once been the most feared assassin, a legend in the underworld. His expertise lay in disguises, slipping in and out of places undetected, eliminating his targets with precision. His enemies had given him a name—"The Sun." The title was not given lightly. It signified the inevitable and the unstoppable, just as the sun rises and sets without fail. Craige was relentless, and he always completed his mission.
However, there were others like him—warriors of the night, trained killers belonging to an elite organization known as the Dark Universe. They were more than human, possessing incredible skills and inborn talents that set them apart from ordinary assassins. The founder of the Dark Universe saw potential in Craige and sought to recruit him, believing he would be an invaluable asset to their cause.
Craige refused.
He despised being controlled. He had spent too many years being a pawn in the hands of the powerful, and he swore never to let anyone dictate his life again. But his refusal came at a price. The Dark Universe, angered by his defiance, declared war against him.
They underestimated him.
What followed was a bloodbath. Craige struck first, delivering the only lesson he knew best—death. He single-handedly massacred half of the organization, ensuring that every high-ranking member met a gruesome end. The Dark Universe, once proud and unshaken, was humbled by his wrath. In the aftermath, they surrendered, vowing never to cross paths with him again. His name became one that was never spoken, even in whispers, out of fear that it might summon him from the shadows.
At the height of his reign, even politicians and underground syndicates feared him. His clients were not ordinary people. He dealt only in high-profile assassinations, eliminating targets with frightening efficiency. No one ever survived once they were marked, and his missions were completed within thirty minutes—swift, silent, and absolute.
Yet, despite the blood he spilled, Craige was not a man without conscience. The money he earned through assassination was never kept for himself. Every cent was donated to orphanages and refugee camps across the world. He believed in balance, in atonement for his sins through giving others a chance at life.
Then, in the end, he made his final decision.
With no more wars left to fight, no more enemies to face, Craige disappeared from the world. Some say he retired to a quiet life, while others whisper that he ended his own existence, leaving behind only a legacy—a name that once shook the underworld to its core.
The Sun had set, never to rise again.