Old Nemesis

For three days, she had remained unmoving, unwavering, kneeling before the fire as if in prayer. She showed no fear, no anxiety—only patience. Youlun had observed her from the darkness, waiting for a sign of weakness, waiting for her to slip, to make a mistake. But she never did. Her resources were carefully rationed. She did not leave to hunt, did not wander. The only water source nearby was an open, flat stream—impossible to poison, impossible to ambush. The camp itself was minimalistic, yet it left no vulnerabilities, no openings for Youlun to exploit. She was waiting for him. And in doing so, she had forced his hand.

Had he chosen to wait longer, he might have gained an advantage. Eventually, her supplies would dwindle, forcing her to leave the camp. The moment she set foot outside, she would be exposed, vulnerable. He could have waited. But he didn't want to. Because this time, the target wasn't just some nameless mark. Youlun had killed countless people over the years. He had committed more atrocities than he could count, but they had never weighed on him. Killing was his profession. It was work, nothing more. He took no joy in it, nor did he feel guilt. He did not seek cruelty for its own sake, nor did he revel in suffering. He simply performed his duties with precision, efficiency, and unwavering focus.

Had fate played out differently, had he not been sold to the Nighthawks as a child, perhaps he would have led an entirely different life. He might have been a laborer, a craftsman, a merchant—whatever he did, he would have done it with the same diligence, the same devotion to his craft. That was simply who he was. He was not a man burdened by morality. Others, even the most talented killers, eventually succumbed to such things—conscience, guilt, attachments. Those were the weaknesses that ended careers early. The best assassins were not the ones with the sharpest blades, but the ones who never let their emotions cloud their work.

That was why he was still alive. That was why he was still the best. But there was one memory he could never shake. One moment from his past that refused to fade. A look. A single gaze that still haunted him. Decades ago, he had taken a contract on a nobleman. Standard work—get in, eliminate the target, disappear.

The noble had two daughters. One was a young woman, barely into adulthood. The other was a child, no taller than his waist. After the kill, Youlun had lingered. He had indulged himself, taken the elder sister in a moment of cruel pleasure. Her body had been soft, her resistance futile. She had sobbed quietly, enduring it in silence, doing everything she could to shield her little sister from witnessing the horror. 

The girl never realized how futile her resistance had been. The contract never included the sisters. Youlun hadn't intended to harm them, hadn't planned to waste time on anything beyond his assignment. The job had been simple—eliminate the target and leave. And that was exactly what he had done. After securing his belt, Youlun had been about to step out the door when instinct made him glance back.

The older sister lay sprawled on the floor like a discarded doll, her clothes torn, her spirit shattered. She didn't move, didn't react—her eyes were vacant, her body motionless. And then, in the dim candlelight, Youlun saw her. 

A small, trembling figure huddled in the corner. A child. That was when he met her gaze. Even now, decades later, he could still see those eyes. The raw, unfiltered hatred. It should have been meaningless. He had killed so many, left behind countless enemies. What was one more pair of vengeful eyes? But something about that look had unnerved him. He had turned back, walked toward the little girl, and reached down. His fingers brushed against her fragile throat.

A single squeeze, and the problem would be gone. No more loose ends. Behind him, the broken girl snapped back to life. She lunged at him like a wounded lioness, her scream raw with desperation. Youlun had barely glanced at her before swatting her aside. She crashed against the floor, crumpling into a heap. All he had to do was finish it. But he didn't. Because, in the end, he wasn't some mindless butcher. He was a professional. A killer with a code. The contract hadn't included them. So he walked away. Now, after nearly a decade, here she was.

"You grew up," Youlun muttered. His voice was unreadable. "It's been ten years. Is your sister still alive?"

"Nine years, eight months, and thirteen days," Rhianna corrected, her voice steady. "I thought I'd spend the rest of my life counting. But it turns out today will be the last number. And my sister? She's alive. You don't need to worry about her."

Youlun snorted. "I knew from the day you joined Nighthawk that this moment would come. Isn't this what you wanted?" He smirked, shaking his head. "But I didn't expect it to happen so soon. Someone paid an absurd price for your head—and they named me for the job. Makes you wonder if fate's playing tricks. Maybe it's the God-Emperor's will?" He chuckled at his own words. "Ridiculous. Why would the God-Emperor bless someone like me? No, the only one blessed today is you—blessed to die."

Rhianna exhaled, gripping the hilt of her sword with both hands. She raised the blade across her chest, feet steady, shoulders square. "Then let's see who dies first."

Youlun's expression remained cold. "You're not strong enough to kill me."

Then he moved. With a sharp kick, he sent the bonfire surging toward Rhianna, embers scattering into the air. The flare of heat and smoke was meant to blind her, to force an instinctive flinch. Most people reflexively closed their eyes in the face of flying sparks—a fatal mistake in a fight.

For a killer, a blink was all it took. But Rhianna didn't blink. She twisted sideways, keeping her eyes open, tracking his movement through the fire's glow. Through the embers, she saw his silhouette—closing in fast. She struck first. A horizontal slash—fast, controlled, aimed at his midsection. Even the best assassin couldn't ignore the sheer range of a longsword.

Youlun had no choice but to defend. Steel met steel. But Rhianna didn't stop at one attack. She followed through with another slash. Then another. A diagonal cut. A sudden thrust. The strikes came in rapid succession, relentless and precise, forcing Youlun into a desperate retreat.

For the first time, the Executioner was on the back foot. He dodged, parried, but she pressed forward, refusing to let up. Every time he tried to reposition, she kept him locked down with another sweeping arc. Her technique wasn't perfect—there were still gaps in her form—but her sheer aggression was overwhelming. He hadn't expected this. One misstep, one mistimed dodge, and he stumbled. Rhianna saw the opening. She slashed down—fast, merciless.