"Haah… Haah…"
Each breath was fire in his lungs. Each step felt like it would be his last.
But he couldn't stop.
Wouldn't stop.
The man tore through the dense forest, his legs burning with the effort, his muscles screaming for reprieve. His Etherion reserves had long since depleted, his core hollowed out from the reckless bursts of energy he had forced from it. He was running on nothing but sheer willpower now—driven forward by an instinct older than time itself.
Fear.
Dread.
Desperation.
They said the trip from the capital to Silv, his hometown, took thirteen hours by carriage.
He had made it in four. He prayed that the report about an assassination attempt that had landed on his desk was wrong. That it was forged. That it was just given to him as a prank.
But as he reached the city gates, a fear began to creep up in the back of his mind.
'No. They'll be alive.'
He cut through alleyways, scrambled through crowds, climbed rooftops just to get there faster.
"Sir, you need to stop! You're violating several laws right now!"
The city guards shouted at him, their voices distant, inconsequential. They gave chase, but what hope did they have of keeping up with a man racing against death itself?
He rounded the final corner—and there it was.
Home.
A simple cottage on the hillside. Modest, unremarkable to most.
But to him, it was everything.
His world.
His life.
And his life was burning.
The scent of iron was thick in the air.
Smoke curled from the back of the house, winding toward the darkened sky like the hand of some unseen specter. He knew the scent immediately. Not just fire.
Blood.
"No."
His body moved before his mind could catch up. His feet barely touched the ground as he pushed himself harder, tearing through the entrance, careening up the steps three at a time.
His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, the walls around him a blur of shifting shadows. But none of it mattered. Not the pain in his chest, not the dizziness clouding his mind.
Only one thing mattered.
"Alina. Sylphie."
Their names were a silent plea in his mind.
He reached the bedroom door.
He didn't slow down.
Didn't hesitate.
He slammed through it with all the force his body could muster, the hinges snapping as the door crashed against the opposite wall.
And then—
He stopped.
The world stopped.
A figure stood at the center of the room. Tall. Unmoving. His face obscured beneath a dark hood.
A blade gleamed under the dim lantern light, slick with fresh blood.
The man barely noticed him.
His eyes were fixed elsewhere.
On the bed.
On the two bodies crumpled upon it, still locked in a final embrace.
His wife's arms were wrapped around their child, shielding her even in death. Her body had taken the brunt of the blade, but the effort had been meaningless. The girl's small frame was still, her soft, golden curls matted with crimson.
His world.
Gone.
A choked sound clawed its way up his throat. His vision blurred—rage, grief, agony, all crashing down on him like an avalanche, crushing, suffocating.
But there was no time for grief.
The hooded figure turned, his presence a void of suffocating stillness.
For the first time, the man felt the weight of it—the overwhelming, paralyzing aura of killing intent.
A predator standing before a broken man.
His hands clenched into fists. His nails dug into his palms, the sharp sting grounding him. His core was empty. His body was weak.
It didn't matter.
Because this wasn't about survival.
This wasn't about winning.
It was about taking something back.
Even if it cost him his life.
He reached for his weapon—
And the assassin moved.
A Shadow in the Void
Pain.
It lanced through him, sharp and sudden, cutting through his senses like a blade through silk.
His body hit the ground before he could process it. His limbs felt weightless, detached from reality. The scent of his own blood filled his nose, mingling with the heavy iron of the room.
The assassin stood over him, silent. Unmoved.
A shadow with no face. No name.
Only purpose.
The man coughed, a wet, gurgling sound. His arms refused to move. His body no longer obeyed.
But his eyes—
His eyes never left his family.
A trembling breath escaped him.
"I'm sorry."
The words fell from his lips like a dying prayer.
His vision wavered, edges blurring into something dark, something suffocating. His limbs were numb. His body was failing him. But the agony that twisted in his chest—that wasn't numb.
That was alive.
That was tearing him apart.
"You're sorry?"
The voice was not his own.
It was deeper. Colder. A breath of frost in the burning ruin of his mind.
Slowly, painfully, he shifted his gaze.
The hooded figure stood over him, his presence an immovable shadow against the dim light of the room. The blade in his hand still dripped red, staining the wooden floor beneath them.
But something was wrong.
His stance. His posture.
The weight of his presence was familiar now, uncomfortably so.
The hooded man raised his head.
And Orion saw his own face staring back at him.
His breath hitched.
The same sharp jawline. The same golden eyes—except they weren't his. They were hollow, empty, reflecting nothing but cold detachment.
His own voice cut through the silence, but it was not his lips that moved.
"You should have been faster."
The words struck like a physical blow.
"You should have saved them."
Orion's breath turned ragged, his hands twitching uselessly at his sides.
"You ran. You ran, but you were too late."
The assassin—he—took a slow, deliberate step forward.
"What use is your strength if it means nothing?"
"What use are you if you couldn't even protect the ones who mattered?"
Orion clenched his teeth. The room around him twisted, the edges of reality warping like a mirage, as if the world itself wanted to crush him beneath the weight of those words.
The figure knelt beside him, tilting his head, golden eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
"You blame yourself, don't you?"
Orion sucked in a sharp breath.
"It should have been you," the assassin whispered. "Not them."
Something in Orion snapped.
His body lurched forward, his hands moving before he even thought about it, fingers wrapping around the assassin's throat.
The other him didn't flinch.
Didn't struggle.
Didn't fight back.
Orion's grip tightened, but no matter how hard he squeezed, no matter how much strength he poured into his arms—he felt nothing.
No resistance.
No warmth.
No life.
Like he was trying to strangle a shadow.
He clawed and punched but his hands just passed through the shadow.
He could feel the tears running down his face.
The thick anguish blocking his throat.
He wanted to scream, to shout, to say he tried his best. But he knew... he knew it was his fault he wasn't there for them.
The assassin simply stared at him. Unmoved. Unbothered.
"This isn't about them anymore."
His voice was calm.
"This is about you."
Orion's breath was uneven, his chest heaving.
"You will never outrun it," the assassin continued. "You will never be able to change what happened."
His tone softened, but it wasn't comforting. It was razor-sharp, cutting straight into the marrow of Orion's soul.
"You are not a hero."
"You were never meant to be one."
The hands around his throat faltered.
Orion wanted to deny it. Wanted to scream that it wasn't true.
But wasn't it?
Hadn't he spent every waking moment of his life trying to be stronger, to be better—to make sure it never happened again?
Hadn't he built himself into a weapon because he was too weak to save them?
He felt it now.
The truth.
The reality he had been running from since that night.
His fingers uncurled.
His hands fell away.
And for the first time—he stopped fighting.
The assassin stared at him, unmoving.
Orion met his gaze.
And the anger, the self-loathing, the endless ache that had consumed him for years—
It didn't vanish.
It didn't fade.
But it settled.
Like a storm finally learning to rest.
Orion exhaled. A long, shuddering breath.
And then, softly—
"I know."
The assassin didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
And then—
The world fractured.
The illusion cracked, splintering like glass. The room wavered, reality folding in on itself. The assassin's form rippled, his golden eyes losing their gleam as he began to fade.
But before he disappeared entirely, he whispered one final thing—
"Then live on, my love. Live for us."
Orion's eyes widened.
He looked up and saw his wife smiling at him, but before he could say anything—
He was gone.
His eyes snapped open.
His chest heaved, lungs dragging in a sharp breath as if he had just surfaced from drowning.
For a moment, all he knew was silence.
His body felt heavy, drained, like he had just walked through hell and back. His muscles ached, but the pain was distant—muted compared to the storm that had raged inside him.
And then—
He felt it.
Something warm.
Someone was next to him.
His gaze shifted, and he saw Evolis sitting nearby, his golden eyes steady, unreadable. Aeliana sat beside him, her head resting lightly against his shoulder, her breath slow and even.
Orion let out a breathless chuckle.
Of course.
They had been waiting for him.
He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his head, wincing slightly as he took in the dimly-lit chamber around them. His fingers flexed, testing, feeling. He was here.
Not in the past.
Not in the illusion.
Here.
He turned to Evolis, tilting his head.
"So," he muttered, his voice hoarse. He didn't want to break down. Not now. Not again."What the hell did I miss?"