Assassin

"Revenge."

The concept was so… emotional. To inflict on someone the pain you've suffered. An endless cycle of harm, of grief.

And still, right now, that single thought occupied every corner of Vael's consciousness.

The Echo was to blame. But it was already dead. He had made sure of that.

The true perpetrator was Veltren.

His attack had forced them to flee.

Which led to the confrontation with the Echo.

Which led to his mother's death.

"I won't kill him. Not directly. For four days, I'll torture him.

One for every family member he killed.

And on the fifth day, as he begs me to end it all…

I'll leave him to die, in a pool of his own blood, sweat, and tears."

As Vael fantasized about the unimaginable pain he would inflict on Veltren, he arrived at the campsite hidden deep in the forest — where the large noble's men were already preparing for the attack.

"Two days left," thought Vael.

He had brought enough food for two meals, but hunger was the last thing on his mind.

So, instead, he sat down and went over his plan.

"First, for the next two days, I'll slowly kill a few of Veltren's men.

Maybe it'll reduce casualties.

If not… then screw it. I'll do it just to fuck with that fat-ass bastard."

"Second, I recreate the fight with Veltren… and lose. On purpose."

At the thought of letting himself lose again to that abomination, Vael's expression twisted in disgust.

But it was necessary.

He was going to lose either way — might as well walk away with a few burns, not a molten arm and amputated leg.

"Third, I bide my time in the lab. Grow stronger. I won't make a move until I reach Stage Two."

"Lastly… sweet, sweet revenge.

And don't worry, Doctor Smith — I haven't forgotten about you either."

With that set in stone, Vael unsheathed his dagger.

Time to put the first part of the plan into motion.

Mark Tetura, 23 years old, stood guard at the entrance of the camp, bored out of his mind.

"Fuck… why the hell did I get stuck with this shitshift?" he muttered, rubbing his arms against the cold. "Nothing's gonna happen. These mountain savages wouldn't dare attack us. Even if they knew we were here…"

He turned to glance at his partner, expecting a lazy smirk or some snarky comment.

But instead, he saw Robert — slumped over, eyes wide open, his throat neatly slit, blood pooling silently beneath him.

Mark staggered back.

His heart stopped.

That cut was clean. Too clean. Not an animal. Not a beast.

An assassin.

He opened his mouth to scream—

—but before the sound could escape, a sharp pain exploded at the base of his neck.

As the world dimmed around him, he heard a low whisper, cold and close:

"That's five."

And then, everything went black.

Back at the camp, a day had passed since the first body dropped.

Veltren was growing more agitated by the minute. His jowls quivered with every stomp he took around the tent, face flushed red with rage and paranoia.

His men — dropping like flies.

This was supposed to be a simple operation. Sixty awakened soldiers against a backwater village of untrained peasants. A massacre, not a battle.

But someone — or something — had discovered their plan.

And decided to fight back.

Twenty-five dead. In a single day.

The goal had been simple: complete annihilation. No survivors. A message.

Now? The message was being rewritten, in blood.

"Damn it! JACKSON!" Veltren roared, his voice like a boar choking on its own spit.

A mountain of a man entered the tent, ducking slightly to fit under the flaps. His broad shoulders were strapped in thick steel armor, and his face wore the expression of a man who didn't fear death — only failure.

"Yes, sir?" Jackson said, voice calm but alert.

"Did you catch the bastard that's been picking off my men?" Veltren snarled, pacing like a caged animal.

Jackson shook his head. "No, sir. Since the twenty-fifth, he's gone dark. No more kills. No sightings. Nothing."

Veltren spat on the floor. "Tch. Coward's probably hiding in the woods now. No matter. The attack must go on. I want ashes by sunrise."

Jackson bowed wordlessly and disappeared into the night.

From the treeline, a pair of cold eyes watched the soldiers leave the camp.

As the last man vanished down the winding trail to the village, Vael stepped out of the shadows.

His expression was calm. Focused. The face of a man with a mission.

No daggers this time. No rapier. Just a long wooden staff in his hand.

A weapon that wouldn't leave fatal wounds.

A tool for a man playing a part.

He couldn't afford to be recognized. Not yet.

If Veltren caught even a whiff of who he really was, he might kill him on the spot — and that wouldn't do. No, Vael had to be captured.

Thrown into the lab.

Made a test subject again.

Because this time, he was ready.

He approached the private tent with the swagger of a clueless villager playing hero, dragging the staff behind him.

Inside, Veltren was mumbling to himself.

"Shit hole of a place. Food tastes like dirt. These mountains stink. Why do I have to be here, when I could be feasting on honeyed duck in the capital…?"

Vael smirked.

"Phase Two," he whispered under his breath. "Start."