The night was deep, the sky choked with thick clouds that hid the moon's gaze. The wind slithered through the village, whispering secrets through the cracks of old wooden houses. Salvatore stood in the abandoned room, staring at the remains of the first assassin—nothing more than a pile of withered flesh and bone dust, erased from existence.
Cleansed.
But it was not over.
Salvatore knew this was merely an opening move. The King of the North was not a man to send only one assassin. The first had been a message—a test. Now, the real hunt would begin.
He stepped outside, his boots pressing into the damp earth. The village was quiet, the air thick with the scent of burning wood from distant hearths. He knew the villagers sensed something was wrong. They always did. The animals had grown restless, the crows circling lower than usual.
Death was coming.
And it arrived sooner than expected.
A shadow flickered at the village's edge, near the old well. Salvatore's eyes narrowed. He watched without moving, without breathing. A figure stood there, cloaked in deep brown, the hood obscuring their face. Unlike the first assassin, this one did not hide.
He wanted to be seen.
Salvatore stepped forward. The stranger did the same.
No words. No hesitation.
They met in the empty square, the space between them charged with silent intent.
"Priest of Hollow Hill," the figure finally spoke, his voice hoarse, as if his throat had been ruined by smoke and screams. "Your time has come."
Salvatore smiled, a slow, indulgent thing. "Has it?"
The stranger lowered his hood.
His face was a ruin. Scarred. Melted. Twisted beyond recognition. Skin peeled in places where it had once burned, the remnants of a cruel past etched deep into his flesh. But his eyes—his eyes were alive with hatred.
Salvatore tilted his head, intrigued. "You are not another assassin."
"No," the man rasped. "I am vengeance."
A Past Sin Returns
Salvatore studied him, the gears in his mind turning. Then, like a blade slicing through fog, he remembered.
It had been years ago—no, decades. Another kingdom, another war. Salvatore had been a conqueror then, leading his army through fire and blood. A noble city had fallen before him, its people dragged to their knees, begging for mercy that would never come.
And among them—
"Ah."
Salvatore almost laughed.
"You were a child then," he mused. "A boy who cried while his father burned."
The man's jaw clenched. "I did not forget."
"And yet," Salvatore gestured toward his ruined face, "you live."
"A curse of survival." His voice trembled with rage. "I was left to rot in the ashes of my home. But I was found. I was trained. And now, I bring you judgment."
Salvatore sighed. "Do you truly believe in such things?"
The man did not answer. He only reached into his cloak and withdrew a blade.
Not just any blade.
A relic.
Salvatore's smirk faded slightly as he recognized the metal—a deep black, marked with ancient sigils of ruin. The air around it felt wrong.
This was no ordinary weapon. This was for him.
The King of the North had sent more than a mere assassin this time. He had sent a weapon designed to kill even the undying.
Salvatore took a step forward, undeterred. "So, what will it be?"
The man exhaled sharply, adjusting his grip. Then he lunged.
The Dance of Death
Steel sang through the air. Salvatore sidestepped at the last possible moment, feeling the blade graze past his ribs. Close—too close.
He moved with practiced ease, avoiding the next strike, his body weaving through the assault like a specter. But the man was relentless, fueled by hatred, by something deeper than duty.
A scarred hand grasped Salvatore's robe, yanking him forward.
For the first time in centuries, Salvatore felt the bite of steel.
The cursed blade sank into his shoulder.
A searing pain—something unnatural. His body recoiled, rejecting the wound. He could feel the metal trying to root itself inside him, trying to unravel what he was.
His eyes flickered with something close to amusement.
"Ah… so that's what this is."
The man twisted the blade, his teeth clenched in pure rage. "Do you feel it, monster?"
Salvatore did.
And he laughed.
With inhuman strength, he grabbed the man's wrist and snapped it. The bones shattered with a sickening crunch, the cursed blade slipping from limp fingers. Before the man could react, Salvatore slammed him into the ground, dust rising around them.
The warrior choked, struggling for breath, but Salvatore was already moving, shifting, his fingers curling around the man's skull.
"You wanted judgment," he whispered. "Then let me show you what it truly means."
A Fate Worse Than Death
Salvatore did not simply kill.
He did not simply destroy.
He made them watch.
With one hand still pinning the man down, his other hand pressed against his forehead, fingers splayed.
A low hum filled the air.
Then—agony.
The warrior's eyes went wide as something tore through him, something unseen but all-consuming. It was not just pain—it was extraction.
Memories, fears, emotions—ripped from his mind.
He tried to scream, but no sound came. His own voice was stolen.
His mind was unraveling.
He could see it now—his childhood burning again, over and over, endlessly replayed, an infinite cycle of suffering. The fire never stopped. His father never stopped screaming.
He never stopped dying.
And above it all—Salvatore, watching.
"This is purification," Salvatore whispered into his ear. "You will never leave this moment."
The man's body convulsed violently. His eyes rolled back. His limbs stiffened.
Salvatore released him.
The body did not move.
It was not dead. Not truly.
The man remained frozen, his mouth hanging open, his mind trapped in an endless loop of terror.
A breathing corpse. A prisoner within his own head.
Salvatore exhaled, rolling his shoulder. The wound left by the cursed blade was already closing, the dark energy within it fading like an ember swallowed by the night.
He stepped over the broken man.
No one would understand what had happened to him. No healer, no priest could save him. He would be left in the village, a cautionary tale, a monument of failure.
Let the next ones come.
Let the King of the North see.
There were fates worse than death.
And Salvatore had perfected them all.