Who... Who're You... ? [1]
The room was dimly lit, the scent of incense barely masking the underlying stench of blood and damp stone.
Shadows flickered along the cracked walls, cast by the dull glow of lanterns hanging from rusted chains.
The place was a den of crime, a wretched hive where the worst of the underworld gathered—mercenaries, thieves, smugglers, and those who dealt in things far more sinister.
It was the heart of Azrael Darkbrone's operations.
And tonight, it was a slaughterhouse.
A single figure moved through the chaos, a dagger glinting in the low light.
Silent.
Methodical.
Death incarnate.
The first man barely had time to register the presence before cold steel slid across his throat.
He gasped—a wet, gurgling sound—as warm blood sprayed from the wound.
His hands shot up, desperate to hold his life in, but it was already too late.
He collapsed in a heap, the flickering light of his eyes fading into nothingness.
The second man turned, his face twisting in shock.
"Who the fu—?"
A dagger flew.
It buried itself between his ribs, right where the heart should be.
A perfect throw.
His knees buckled, his body twitching as he struggled to process what had just happened.
He clutched at the hilt, trying to pull it free—
Another hand caught his wrist.
A whisper of breath against his ear.
"Don't bother."
The blade twisted.
The life drained from his eyes.
The figure let the body drop, stepping over the corpse without hesitation.
It had been far too easy.
Pathetic.
Was this truly the level of protection an underworld king could afford?
These men weren't warriors—they were animals dressed in steel, thinking numbers would protect them from something far beyond their understanding.
Footsteps.
Three more, approaching fast.
Their voices carried through the dimly lit corridor.
"Shit—someone's here!"
"Who the hell got past the front?"
"Get your weapons! NOW!"
The figure exhaled softly, rolling his shoulders.
Perhaps this would be slightly interesting.
The first man rounded the corner, a massive brute wielding a serrated cleaver.
Thick muscles rippled beneath his stained leather vest, his face marred with old scars.
His eyes locked onto the intruder, narrowing in fury.
"You got a death wish, bastard?"
A slow tilt of the head.
A dagger twirled between gloved fingers, its edge still glistening with fresh blood.
"No,"
The figure said, voice calm.
"But you do."
The brute roared, charging forward.
The dagger flickered.
A step—just a single step to the side—effortless, practiced.
The cleaver whistled through empty air.
And in that same breath—
Steel kissed flesh.
A clean slice across the Achilles tendon.
The brute's charge turned into a stumble.
His foot faltered.
His balance shattered.
And before he could recover—
A dagger buried itself in his throat.
His eyes widened.
A choking sound, desperate, pitiful.
His hands clawed at his neck, trying to stop the inevitable, but the warmth draining from his body told him all he needed to know.
He hit the ground.
The others hesitated.
Smart.
But not smart enough.
The second man had a sword—a standard longsword, well-maintained, its edge gleaming in the dim light.
He was more cautious, taking a stance rather than rushing in like his fallen comrade.
His grip was steady, his breathing controlled.
A trained fighter.
Good.
The figure's lips curved slightly.
"You're not like the others,"
He mused.
The swordsman didn't answer.
No words.
No bravado.
Just action.
He moved first, his blade slicing through the air with precision.
A diagonal cut—sharp, lethal, calculated.
No wasted motion.
A parry.
The dagger met steel, the sound of clashing metal ringing through the corridor.
Sparks danced.
The swordsman pressed forward.
Another strike.
A thrust.
A feint—then a sudden shift to the left, his blade arcing for an opening.
Fast.
Efficient.
Dangerous.
But not enough.
The figure stepped inside the reach of the blade, too close for the sword to be of any use.
A palm struck out—lightning-fast, hitting the wrist with a force that sent the weapon clattering to the ground.
The swordsman's eyes widened.
A moment of hesitation.
That was all it took.
A dagger plunged into his stomach.
The figure twisted the blade.
A low gasp—choked, pained.
The swordsman stumbled back, gripping at the wound, his strength fading with each passing second.
And yet, the figure leaned in, voice a whisper.
"You're the first one who almost made it interesting."
A final, swift slash across the throat.
The body crumpled.
Only one remained.
He hadn't moved.
Hadn't drawn his weapon.
He stood there, staring at the carnage, fear carving deep lines into his face.
His hands trembled, his breath shallow.
"Y-You…"
His voice was barely a whisper.
"W-Who… what are you?"
The figure tilted his head.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
He took a step forward.
The last man stumbled back.
"You already know the answer,"
The figure murmured.
"You just don't want to say it."
A dagger spun between his fingers, catching the dim light.
Then it flew.
The last man collapsed, lifeless.
Silence.
Only the steady drip of blood onto cold stone remained.
And then, with the slow grace of a man unbothered by the corpses surrounding him, the figure stepped forward, pushing open the heavy doors that led into the chamber beyond.
Inside, seated behind a grand desk of polished ebony, was Azrael Darkbrone.
The crime lord had seen many things in his lifetime.
He had survived betrayals, assassinations, power struggles.
He had built his empire through ruthlessness, through cunning.
But in that moment, as his gaze met the cold, unfeeling stare of the man standing before him, he felt something he had not felt in decades.
Terror.
The assassin took another step, his dagger gleaming.
Azrael swallowed.
"You…"
His voice was hoarse, barely audible.
"You're…"
The figure smiled.
"Henry Blackwood."