Chapter 7 Temple Of Assassin

Somewhere on a Caribbean island, inside a secret facility of the Temple of Assassins.

Over a hundred assassins, draped in black cassocks and wearing ominous Shinigami masks, clashed in a chaotic, brutal training ground.

No abilities were allowed—only pure, honed skill.

Blades slashed, spears thrust, axes swung, and hidden weapons like needles, throwing knives, and darts flashed through the air.

When cornered, some even resorted to using smoke bombs or clever misdirection.

Despite the mayhem, every assassin radiated an aura of deadly proficiency, each movement calculated, lethal.

Some, more terrifying than the rest, fought without a single weapon—using only their fists, elbows, knees, and even foreheads as instruments of destruction.

Deeper inside the facility, in a solemn chamber, ten masked figures sat around a grand, circular table.

Five men. Five women.

Each calmly sipped their morning tea, wrapped in their own worlds of silent meditation.

It was a sacred routine. No words were exchanged.

Until the heavy doors of the hall slammed open.

An assassin, mask slightly tilted from rushing, hurried in and knelt.

"My dear Messrs and Mesdames," he muttered urgently, "I have an urgent report."

A woman, her tone laced with deadly calm, replied,

"You're interrupting our morning meditations.

This had better be worth it—or I'll personally toss you into the Bermuda Pit."

The assassin flinched but pressed on.

Another member, a handsome youth with blood-red hair and icy blue eyes, waved a lazy hand.

"Enough threats. If there's a report, out with it."

The messenger gulped, then said,

"There's a new Temple challenge... and it's unlike anything we've seen."

Around the table, a collective groan echoed like a group of tired parents hearing their child cry yet again.

"Argh, another one?"

"We were just starting to relax..."

"It's not just any challenge," the assassin said hastily.

"The challenger has... somehow awakened all the secret mission charts and has already broken through Level 99. He's only one level away from unlocking the Secret Room."

Dead silence.

A woman leaned forward, her voice sharp.

"What? Is it a system malfunction? No unregistered member can access those charts."

"I thought so too," the assassin said.

"But we triple-checked. The Artificial Intelligence linked to the Temple shows no abnormalities.

Furthermore... the challenger is a first-timer."

A chilling hush spread around the table.

More details spilled from the assassin's trembling lips:

"The challenger entered the Temple just for registration.

Yet, he reached the finish line in one minute and twenty-five seconds, shattering every record in our history.

Immediately afterward, the system, for reasons unknown, unlocked the hidden charts for him."

The ten masked leaders—the pseudo-leaders of the Temple of Assassins in the decade-long absence of their missing Grandmaster—each wore different expressions.

Shock. Curiosity. Excitement. A flicker of fear.

Finally, one woman, giggling lightly in Japanese, said,

"Yokatta na. This is good news! Looks like we're finally witnessing the birth of a genius."

Her masked face tilted toward the messenger.

"Show us everything. I want to see all the information about this 'challenger.'"

The messenger bowed slightly, then produced a sleek, obsidian-black tablet from his robes.

With a few swift taps, the transparent, pearl-like sphere embedded in the center of the round table began to hum softly, like a slumbering engine waking up.

Then—whirrrrrr—a burst of dazzling, multicolored light shot out from the sphere.

A high-resolution, three-dimensional hologram materialized in the air above the table.

First, the image showed Earth slowly rotating in space.

Then the hologram zoomed in rapidly, homing in on the eastern part of North America.

No one spoke. They were used to this display—it was standard protocol for tracing origins.

The view sharpened further, locking onto a small town labeled Wheeler Town.

Then it tunneled down to a specific location: Branch Academy, a humble institution compared to major power centers.

Finally, the image focused on a complex structure of aged stone slabs and weathered bricks—the Temple.

Inside, the face of a man came into view.

"Is that him?" asked one of the masked men, his tone disinterested.

"I don't think so," replied a woman in a sharp, accented voice, speaking fluent German. "That's Thor Shelby—a prodigy of our Grandmaster. He registered long ago, before the Grandmaster went missing."

"Correct," the messenger affirmed. "The challenger is not him. It's a young man from the same town. Observe."

He tapped the tablet again, and the projection shifted—this time focusing on a tall youth with striking black hair, an intense gaze, and a sharp jawline.

"Oh-ho…" The German lady leaned forward, her eyes gleaming behind the mask. "He's sweet. I wouldn't mind pulling him into my camp."

"Enough flirting," snapped the red-haired youth leader, his voice sharp. "Why aren't you displaying his personal details?"

The messenger stiffened. His hesitation was obvious—shoulders tense, fingers trembling slightly.

But an order was an order. He nodded grimly and tapped several more times.

Text and data filled the air around the youth's holographic image—name, age, vitals, talent metrics, neural sync ratio... until one line appeared that made the temperature in the room drop:

Parentage: Son of [REDACTED]. Codename: The Calamity King.

Silence.

Then—

"What?!"

"He's that bastard's son?"

"Impossible!"

"I thought he vanished!"

The chamber erupted into chaos. Chairs scraped. Teacups clinked. Masked heads turned to one another in disbelief.

Expressions twisted into scowls behind the masks.

Hatred. Disgust. Fury.

The once-calm atmosphere of morning tea had turned volatile, like a powder keg with a lit fuse.

"That monster should've been wiped from history, not left behind a child!"

"Do you know what this means?"

"Even the system recognizes him! That's the only explanation for the charts unlocking."

The red-haired youth growled low.

"This boy… this spawn… he cannot be allowed to pass. If he unlocks the Secret Room…"

No one finished the sentence.

But they all thought the same thing:

If this child inherited even a fraction of that man's power, the Temple's fragile balance might never hold again.

"We can't do that," the German lady finally said, breaking the silence with firm resolve.

Several heads turned to her.

"What do you mean?" one of the masked men asked, suspicion laced in his tone.

She didn't flinch. "He's already registered in our mainframe. The AI has accepted him. There's no going back now. Plus…" —her voice sharpened— "he is himself. The sins of the father do not pass to the child. Not in this Temple."

She raised a gloved finger and tapped the hovering projection.

"Look."

The image shifted to live footage from within the Temple. The youth was currently battling a winged dragon, its scales like obsidian mirrors, breathing gouts of emerald fire.

The boy dodged, countered, and struck back—not with overwhelming power, but with precision, courage, and most importantly—Light.

Brilliant arcs of radiant magic shot from his hands, weaving around him like ribbons, then lashing into the dragon's open mouth. The creature howled, staggered, and collapsed into a crumbling heap of charred scales.

Gasps rippled through the room.

The woman narrowed her eyes behind the mask. "Light elemental magic."

That alone stunned them. It was rare. Too rare.

She added with emphasis, "It's exactly the same as Grandmaster's affinity. And yet he's untrained, raw—and still pulling this off. Do you really want to terminate someone like him?"

The silence that followed was not from fear—but reconsideration.

"I will not allow that," she declared, rising slightly in her seat. "He's my responsibility now. As I said before—I'll bring him into my camp."

Someone across the table cleared their throat.

"Are you sure, Nyx?" a calm voice asked. It came from a man whose mask bore a raven motif. "You'll be held accountable for him. If he slips, if he turns like his father…"

Nyx didn't hesitate.

"Then I'll be the one to put him down."

A flicker of dark promise passed through the room.

But then she smiled softly, her voice turning almost melodious—deceptively sweet.

"…Until that day, he'll have my protection. And please, you old farts, don't even think about trying any underhanded means on him." Her tone sharpened like a blade. "The moment I smell your stinking fart, I'll end that person."

Gasps, curses, a shuffle of tension rippled among the council.

She tilted her head mockingly. "I believe I can beat and kill anyone of you here. Even all of you together."

Her words were followed by a sudden, oppressive pressure—her aura exploded outward like a collapsing black star. Shadows flooded the room, and for a heartbeat, everything was drowned in darkness.

When the light flickered back on, her chair was empty. She was gone.

The nine pseudo-leaders sat frozen.

"Bitch!" one finally spat, trembling.

Others wiped away the cold sweat forming under their masks.

They hated how she was always one step ahead. Hated how easily she could silence a room meant for equals.

But most of all—they feared her.

Yes, strength-wise, they were on par. All of them were elite assassins, trained killers with years of death behind them.

But Nyx was different. Her ability warped reality. Her movements blurred logic. And her willingness to cross lines made her deadly even among monsters.

"She'll protect him, no matter what," someone whispered.

Another added with a frown, "Then we'll just have to watch and wait. One mistake... and she'll be too late." Their hatred toward the youth's father was too strong.