(Timeskip Three months)
It's been three months since I regained my memories from my past life, since I inherited Altair's talent and the Origin System, and since I uncovered that the Templars were plotting something against the Auditore family.
But strangely… they haven't made a single move.
No assassination attempts. No mysterious men lurking in alleyways. No cryptic letters tucked under doors or sudden betrayals from within. Just… silence.
Too quiet.
I don't trust silence.
Not in Florence. Not when my father is investigating the banking records of the Pazzi. Federico was kicked out of the bank last month for hiding a sack of the bank's money on the roof of the building as a joke. Being an Auditore, he was merely removed from the payroll and saved from harsher consequences.
The only carefree ones are Ezio, Claudia, and Petruccio.
As for me? I've been preparing.
The Hidden Blade blueprint—Arno's variant—remains tucked safely under the floorboards beneath my bed. I've read it a dozen times. I've memorized the mechanisms. I know exactly how to craft it.
But I don't have the tools.
But guess what, four days ago I met him.
Leonardo da Vinci.
And let me tell you, he is one hell of a person... I still get goosebumps from his gaze... on my ass.
Then I remembered, hearing rumours of him being gay in online forms in my past life.
And guess what?
They might've been very accurate.
The man stared at me like I was a freshly sculpted David, and not in a "you have a noble bearing" kind of way. No, it was the kind of gaze that lingered a little too long on my hips when I bent over to pick up the blueprint I'd dropped.
"Ah, Dante," he said with an air of dramatic flair, eyes twinkling with amusement, "you're far too symmetrical to be real. Are you sure you weren't carved from marble?"
"Uh… thanks?" I replied, doing my best not to look completely flustered.
Leonardo was brilliant—no doubt about that. His workshop looked like a hurricane had mated with a library, and then gotten into a fight with a blacksmith's forge. But the moment I showed him the blueprint, all of that manic energy focused like sunlight through a lens.
"Fascinating," he muttered, turning the parchment sideways, then upside down, and finally squinting at it while holding it against the light. "It's unlike anything I've ever seen. Who designed this?"
"I, uh… found it. Hidden. An old legacy," I said, careful not to say too much. "Can you make it?"
He didn't even answer. Just grabbed a quill, started sketching a dozen variants, muttering in Latin, and asking myself rapid-fire questions about wrist torque, grip strength, and—at one point—blood velocity during ejection. I had to fake-cough into my sleeve when he leaned way too close and murmured, "Let me see your forearm. For science."
I swear he winked.
Long story short—Leonardo agreed to help. With a grin that could either mean eureka or I'm going to flirt until this man combusts, he promised to have a prototype within five days.
Leonardo's workshop became my second home.
For the past four days, I'd been in and out of there, helping him with parts, answering his questions, and occasionally dodging the man's increasingly enthusiastic compliments.
"I swear," I muttered one evening as I carefully fitted a spring into place, "if he compares my bone structure to ancient Greek statues one more time—"
"—you'll finally accept that you're a walking Renaissance masterpiece?" Leonardo quipped behind me, entirely unapologetic.
I didn't even flinch anymore. "You have a one-track mind."
"Only when the subject is aesthetically pleasing," he said, waving a hand before leaning over my shoulder to inspect my work. "But in truth, your focus is what truly impresses me, Dante. You have a clarity of purpose. That's rare."
That caught me off guard. I glanced at him.
He wasn't smirking.
For once, his expression was serious—eyes sharp, like he was reading more than just the blueprint in front of us.
"I've met many people," he said quietly. "Some dreamers, some doers. But you… you're both. That blueprint? It's more than a weapon. It's a symbol. Of something old. Something secret."
I swallowed. "You're not wrong."
He smiled faintly. "Good. Then I'll help you. Not just because you're pleasant to look at—but because I think… whatever this is, it matters."
***
"It's done," Leonardo declared, holding up the finished device with both reverence and pride. "Your Lama Celata."
It was beautiful.
Slim, deadly, and mechanically sound. A blend of old assassin craftsmanship and Leonardo's ingenious refinements. The Arno variant, just as I remembered it from the game—sleek design, retractable mechanism, and a wrist harness that allowed for full hand movement without compromise.
"Try it," he urged.
I strapped it on, feeling the weight against my forearm. Not heavy, but present. A reminder. A promise.
With a practised flick of my wrist—snikt—the blade extended with a satisfying hiss.
It gleamed under the candlelight, sharp and precise.
I grinned.
"Works like a dream."
Leonardo clapped his hands like a delighted child. "Magnifico! Though I must admit, it's rather… exciting seeing you with it."
"Exciting in what way?"
He gave me a coy smile and changed the subject. "Anyway, I took the liberty of reinforcing the locking mechanism. It should resist damage even during high-impact maneuvers. You'll need to train with it, of course. But something tells me that won't be a problem."
It wouldn't.
Now the only thing missing is my very own Assassin robes, the fashion statement and the symbol. I couldn't exactly wear my regular clothes into battle and expect to be taken seriously—especially not by the kind of people I'd be hunting.
The Hidden Blade may be the weapon, but the robes? They were the identity.
The moment I stepped out in them, it would be a declaration:The Assassins are still here. And I am one of them.
The problem was, I didn't have a set. Not yet.
But I had a plan.
Leonardo glanced up from a half-finished gear sketch. "Still thinking about the outfit?"
"Thinking," I said, "plotting… dreaming. I need something functional. Something symbolic. Something with a hood."
"Aha! I knew you were one of those dramatic types." He gestured with his charcoal-stained fingers. "Cloaks. Capes. Concealment. You want to glide through the shadows like some kind of… nocturnal predator."
"…Yes," I said. "Exactly that."
He leaned back, tapping his chin. "Give me a few days. I know a tailor—Antonio, in Venezia. But if you don't feel like waiting, there's someone here in Florence you could try. A seamstress named Rosa. She owes me a favour or six."
"Florentine," I said thoughtfully. "Closer, faster. I like it."
Leonardo arched a brow. "And her prices are… fair. Unless she starts flirting with you too, in which case, I'll be very offended."
I gave him a look. "You're the only one allowed to objectify me?"
"I'm a genius," he said with a wink. "I get special privileges."
—
The shop was tucked between a silversmith and a bakery that always smelled like heaven had been deep-fried. Rosa Sartoria, the sign read, in curling gold script.
Inside, it was all lace and velvet, with mannequins standing like silent sentinels dressed in everything from noble wedding gowns to rugged mercenary garb.
Rosa herself was… a firebrand.
"You must be Dante Auditore," she said the moment I stepped in, eyes gleaming. "Leonardo sent word ahead. Said you'd need something... special." She looked me up and down, lips twitching. "And mamma mia, he wasn't exaggerating."
"Strictly business," I said quickly, raising my hands. "I need a set of robes. Light, flexible, hooded. Something I can move in. Fight in."
"And look devastatingly handsome in, yes?"
"...That too."
She laughed and got to work like a whirlwind. Measuring tape flew, a smack on my shoulder made me flinch, and I think I got flashbanged by a sudden flurry of fabrics.
"Stand still!" she barked, looping the tape around my chest with the same care a butcher uses for carving prime cuts. "You're not the first man to walk in here asking for something 'mysterious and brooding.' But you are the first one to actually pull it off."
I tried not to react when she muttered something in Italian that sounded suspiciously like "Che bel culo..." and pulled the tape tighter.
Rosa was fast, precise, and surprisingly perceptive. "You're not just some spoiled noble playing vigilante, are you?"
I hesitated, then met her eyes. "No. I'm not."
She studied me for a second, then nodded. "Good. I don't work with liars. Or cowards."
I could already see it: the blade on my wrist, the robe trailing behind me in the wind, a rooftop under my feet and a target in my sights.
Soon.
***
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