RevenGers

Sarion's breath came in short, uneven gasps. His chest ached. His knees felt weak. The bloodied corpse of the Black Tower young man lay sprawled across the ground, the life in his eyes snuffed out before Sarion had even processed what had happened. A moment ago, there had been words—mockery, a cruel laugh, the promise of death. Now there was silence. A thick, suffocating silence.

The man who stood before him was its source.

The Shadow Assassin.

The night itself seemed to gather around him. He stood at the threshold, framed by the doorway, his heavy black armor reflecting only the faintest glimmers of light. There was nothing decorative about his appearance, no embellishments, no arrogance—only the cold practicality of war. His boots pressed deep into the earth, weighty, unmoving.

Sarion had heard stories. A Rank 8 swordsman. A killer without hesitation. A former member of the Crows of Death. His name alone was enough to freeze the blood of nobles, knights, and common folk alike. And worst of all, he had a history here, in Decartium. An assassin who had once slaughtered a noble of the Poblico Family—a feat few dared even attempt, let alone succeed in.

And yet, here he was. Standing before Sarion.

His grip tightened on the black short sword in his right hand, blood still trickling from its edge, staining the earth. In his left, the curved scimitar rested with unnatural ease, its deadly arc a whisper of motion away from another kill. His stance was controlled, relaxed, as if none of this mattered to him in the slightest. As if he had just finished an errand, something insignificant, something routine.

But it was the helmet that sent ice through Sarion's veins.

The shape of a wolf's skull, dark, smooth, as though carved from night itself. The slits where his eyes should have been glowed—a searing, unnatural red. A predator's gaze. It burned into Sarion's mind, hollowing out his thoughts, leaving only fear in its wake. For a second, he felt like prey. His body screamed at him to run, to flee before those crimson eyes turned their judgment upon him.

His body refused to move.

Sarion swallowed, the motion slow, deliberate. He was almost sure—almost—that this man was here for another reason. That if he wanted Sarion dead, he already would be.

Almost.

But certainty was a privilege he did not have.

The Shadow Assassin remained still, silent. The air between them stretched tight, suffocating.

Then, he spoke.

"Breathe."

Sarion flinched. The voice was not the terrifying rasp he had expected. It was calm. Steady. Almost… ordinary. The kind of voice that belonged to a man, not a legend. Not a monster.

Yet there was something awkward about it, something uncertain. As if the assassin was unused to speaking to a frightened child and was struggling to find the right words.

"You're safe."

Sarion didn't know how to respond. His mind whirled, still grappling with the image of the infamous assassin standing before him, far younger than he had imagined. He had always pictured the Shadow Assassin as an old specter, a ghost of death itself. But this man—he couldn't be much past thirty.

Sarion's throat felt dry. His mind was a whirlwind of confusion, fear, and disbelief. The man before him—the Shadow Assassin—stood there, calm and unmoving, his crimson eyes glowing faintly beneath the wolf-like helmet.

Sarion wanted to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. His hands trembled at his sides, his breath uneven. This man was supposed to be a villain, a murderer, someone whispered about in hushed, fearful tones. So why… why did he not feel the overwhelming dread he had expected?

He swallowed hard, his lips parting slightly. The words felt stuck, tangled in hesitation, but finally, his voice came out, quieter than he intended.

"Why… why are you here?"

The assassin tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. "To save you. Or to save as many as I can."

His words carried no heroism, no grand declaration. Just a simple statement.

Sarion's fingers curled slightly, his nails digging into his palms. He shouldn't trust this man—couldn't trust him. The Shadow Assassin was a killer, a specter of death, a name spoken in fear across the kingdom. And yet…

The man before him was nothing like the monster he had imagined. His voice, though firm, lacked cruelty. His presence, though overwhelming, did not suffocate. He had saved Sarion. He had chosen to save him.

Sarion's breath trembled. His mind screamed at him to be cautious, to question everything—but deep inside, a desperate, fragile hope flickered.

He hesitated, his throat tightening, before forcing the words out, quiet and unsteady.

"Then… what—what should I do?"

"Don't move from this doorstep." The assassin's tone sharpened slightly. "A friend of mine will be here soon. Adventurer's gear, large blonde beard, short hair. He's around my age. You'll know him when you see him."

"What about you? Where are you going?" The young boy asked.

The assassin turned slightly, his scimitar shifting in his grip. "To save the others."

He took a step forward, but Sarion called out again, desperation seeping into his voice. "Why are you doing this? Aren't you supposed to be—" He hesitated. "An evil guy?"

For the first time, something like amusement flickered through the silence. A low crackle of what might have been a laugh escaped from beneath the wolf-like helmet.

"That's what they say about me, apparently."

He left it at that.

Then, without another word, his form blurred. In a single moment, he was standing before Sarion. In the next, he was at the end of the street. Sarion barely had time to process what had happened. His eyes widened. His breath hitched. He had never seen something move that fast in his life.

...

The night was thick with smoke and the stench of burning wood. Shadows danced wildly across the cobbled streets, cast by the flames that consumed homes and shops alike. Screams filled the air—shrieks of terror, of agony, of loss. The village was drowning in chaos, a living nightmare painted in blood and fire.

Black-cloaked figures moved through the carnage like reapers, their presence a promise of death. The Black Tower's Arts Users struck without mercy, their hands crackling with unnatural energy, their air and water spears gleaming with fresh blood. They slaughtered indiscriminately—men, women, the elderly, even children. Some did it with cold efficiency, cutting down their victims in a single motion. Others took their time, relishing the suffering, drawing out final moments with twisted amusement.

A young boy sobbed as he clung to his mother's lifeless body, her blood pooling beneath him. A man, likely his father, rushed toward them, sword in hand, only to be blasted off his feet by a burst of energy. His body landed in a broken heap, unmoving.

The village guards fought valiantly, but they were hopelessly outmatched. A group of them had formed a defensive line near the town square, desperately trying to buy time for the fleeing villagers. One raised his shield against a searing bolt of Arts-infused fire, only for the flames to wrap around him, setting him ablaze. His agonized screams echoed before he collapsed, twitching, then still.

Yet, even in the face of certain death, some guards managed to succeed. One, a grizzled veteran with a deep gash across his cheek, led a group of villagers through a side alley, his sword cutting down a lone Black Tower enforcer who blocked their path. Another, a young recruit, threw himself between a mother and an attacking Arts User, taking an air spear through his chest but managing to drive his own into his enemy's throat before he fell.

The streets were an endless battlefield, a place of despair where survival was a fleeting hope. Fire spread in waves, turning night into a distorted twilight of flickering orange and red. Black smoke billowed into the sky, choking the stars from view.

And still, the slaughter continued.

...

From the rooftop of a half-burned house, crimson eyes gleamed beneath a wolf-like helmet.

The Shadow Assassin clenched his jaw. His grip on his scimitars tightened until his knuckles ached. He had arrived too late. Again.

His information network had failed him. Reports of the attack had come far later than they should have, and by the time he reached the village, the slaughter was already well underway. It infuriated him. If he had been here sooner—if he had known—how many lives could he have saved?

Instead, he had been forced to choose.

He had spotted the noble's mansion in the distance, its walls barely holding against the onslaught. He saw Sarion's father fighting, holding his ground. And so, he had made his decision. The boy was defenseless. His father, at least, had Arts.

Now, Leif was on his way to the mansion to secure the nobles, and Sarion was hidden away, waiting.

The Shadow Assassin exhaled slowly, his anger simmering beneath his skin. The weight of the night pressed down on him, but he had no time to dwell on failure.

The Black Tower was still here. And as long as they remained, there was still work to do.

...

The air split with the whistle of a blade.

A shadow blurred between the flames and falling bodies, and in its wake, heads rolled.

The first Black Tower member barely had time to react before his vision spun—the last thing he saw was his own body crumpling to the ground. Another turned at the sound of rushing wind, his lips parting in alarm, but his throat split open before a sound could escape.

The Shadow Assassin moved like a specter, faster than the mind could comprehend. He darted from one enemy to the next, his scimitar carving through flesh with ruthless precision. The cobbled streets ran red, blood pooling between the stones, splattering against the burning debris. The scent of iron grew thick, choking the air.

To the villagers, the Black Tower members had been untouchable. Their Arts had made them unstoppable against ordinary guards. But now—now they were nothing more than wheat before the scythe.

One by one, they fell.

Limbs tensed in preparation for an Art performance—too late. A flicker of movement, a sharp whistle of steel, and a severed hand hit the ground before its owner even realized what had happened.

A figure tried to turn and run. The Shadow Assassin blurred behind him, and a flash of silver ended his escape before it began.

The carnage took mere moments.

And then, finally, some of the Black Tower members noticed.

The moment realization struck, the battlefield shifted.

One of the Black Tower members, his hands trembling, breathed out in sheer disbelief. "No… it can't be—"

"The Shadow Assassin," another choked out, his voice barely above a whisper.

A shudder rippled through the cloaked figures. Fear gripped their limbs like an unshakable vice. Who hadn't heard of the infamous killer? Not just in Rosendar, but across the entire world—his name was spoken in hushed tones, a tale of terror among those who thrived in the dark.

And he was here.

Slaughtering them as if they were nothing.

A few reacted on pure survival instinct. Their bodies lifted into the air, escaping. The village was a lost cause, but their lives—those could still be salvaged.

But not all of them shared the same fear.

"He's fast, but that's all he's got," one of the more battle-hardened Arts Users growled. "He doesn't use Arts. If we strike together—"

A few others hesitated, then nodded. He was only one man, wasn't he? A single swordsman, no matter how skilled, couldn't stand against a combined force.

They would test the legend for themselves.

...

The Shadow Assassin's gaze locked onto the clustered Arts Users, their hands already moving, conjuring attacks in a desperate attempt to overwhelm him. Fire roared toward him, licking hungrily at the air. Jagged spears of wind shot forward, nearly invisible in the night's darkness. Water twisted into violent torrents, spiraling like serpents seeking their prey.

His form blurred.

The fire passed harmlessly through empty space. The wind spears struck nothing. The water tornadoes collapsed in on themselves, their targets gone before they could even take shape.

By the time the Arts Users registered his movement, it was already over.

Their bodies tensed in unnatural stillness, the fight still burning in their eyes. And then—one by one—their heads slid from their shoulders, rolling unceremoniously onto the blood-soaked ground.

The assassin exhaled slowly, his blade gleaming in the firelight, untouched by a single drop of blood.

Then, his gaze lifted.

Above him, the cowards who had chosen to flee floated higher into the night sky. His sharp eyes tracked each one with practiced ease.

A quiet click of his tongue broke the silence.

Annoyance simmered within him. He couldn't use Arts—under normal circumstances, chasing them would be impossible.

His hand moved to his bosom, fingers brushing against a small token. He pulled it free, the metallic surface pressing against the cold steel of his gauntlets.

A new gadget, crafted by the renowned technology inventor, the Shadow Gunslinger.

A token that, when supplied with the One Power, granted the ability to float—whether its wielder was an Arts User or not.

He reached out, grasping at the faint blue strings drifting unseen through the night air—the One Power. As they curled around his fingers, he guided them into the token.

The effect was immediate. A faint hum vibrated through the device, and then—his feet left the ground.

It was an unnatural sensation. The weight of his body, something he had always relied on, suddenly felt distant, disconnected. He had only used this gadget once before, and even now, it unsettled him. He was a man of precision, of control. But this? This felt like surrendering himself to something foreign.

His balance wavered for half a second before he adjusted. Awkward. Strange. Yet… useful.

The Shadow Assassin's gaze lifted, locking onto the Black Tower members still in the air. Some, in a final act of desperation, raised their hands and began weaving Arts, trying to slow him down.

Blades of wind, spiraling torrents of water, bursts of fire—every element was thrown his way.

At first, he found it difficult to maneuver. His movements, so precise on the ground, felt slightly off in the air. The shift in weight, the unnatural floating sensation—it threw him for only a moment.

But that moment was all they had.

Then, his body adjusted.

He zipped between attacks, slipping through narrow gaps with terrifying ease. The first Black Tower member barely had time to widen his eyes before a clean slash separated his head from his body.

Another tried to scream—his throat was severed before a sound could escape.

One by one, they fell. Blood rained down onto the burning village below, bodies dropping like lifeless puppets with their strings cut.

Those who had hoped to escape now realized the truth: there was no escape from the Shadow Assassin.

...

Sarion crouched behind the crumbling remains of a stone wall, his breath ragged, his body shaking. His eyes flickered toward the battlefield—no, the slaughter.

Blades gleamed under the firelit night, and wherever the black blur passed, bodies fell. Heads tumbled, blood painted the streets, and the screams of the Black Tower members were brief, cut off as fast as they came.

Sarion had heard the stories. A monster who killed in the night, an assassin who reveled in death. Shadow Assassin—the name alone carried weight, whispered in fear across the continent.

But now, as Sarion watched the figure move with impossible speed, cutting down those who had burned his home, who had slaughtered his people, he found himself hesitating.

A monster? Maybe.

But at this moment, the only ones dying were those who had come to destroy everything he loved.

A scream tore through the night—high-pitched, terrified. A child's.

Sarion's breath caught. His body tensed.

He turned toward the backyard. His backyard.

His mind raced. His mother… his sister… They had fallen there. He should check on them. He had to check on them.

But the Shadow Assassin had told him to wait. His friend was coming. Maybe he was just as strong, just as unstoppable. Maybe he could help.

Sarion clenched his fists. He was only seven, but he knew one thing—he couldn't wait.

Not when he had just heard that scream.

He spun on his heel and bolted down the narrow passage, breath shallow, feet barely making a sound against the dirt.

Sarion stumbled to a halt.

A young guard lay motionless on the ground, his armor smeared with blood. His wide, empty eyes stared at nothing.

His sister was crying—her small frame trembling, her purple hair messy and clinging to her tear-streaked face. She had screamed.

Two men stood nearby.

One was young, maybe in his late teens, with a grin stretched across his face as he stared at his sister. His eyes looked… wrong. Like he was enjoying something.

The other was older, with a messy beard, his hands twitching as he fiddled with something bronze. A small, metallic thing. Sarion couldn't tell what it was, and he didn't care.

His gaze dropped lower.

And then he saw it.

On the green grass, under the pale glow of the moon.

His mother's body.

—End of Chapter.