The tavern reeked of desperation and sweat. Shimmering oil-lamps cast jagged shadows on cracked walls, while desiccated laughter coughed up from parched throats—souls feigning that they hadn't already lost. Among them, at a corner table far from warmth or commotion, sat a solitary figure shrouded in road-grimed black. Only his eyes were apparent—sharp, quiet, unnervingly still.
Zero observed.
He wasn't always known by that name. Once, he'd been different—rougher around the edges, someone with tales to tell. But those pieces had been chiseled away, one by one, until what remained was hardly human but the shell. Now, he was Zero. The title was not a disguise—it was the total of what was left. No attachments. No allegiances. No traceable past. Only results.
He played with his untouched mug, amber beer glinting in the dim light. His gaze swept methodically across the room—a soldier drinking himself under the table with fabricated glory, a thief practicing sleight of hand, a barmaid limping as if each step pained her. And there, half-shrouded in darkness, sat his prey: Virel the Skybrand. A legend. A legend for now.
Zero stood silently and began to move.
His footfalls were light but purposeful—like he'd rehearsed them inside his head a thousand times. He glided between tables like a phantom, the din of the tavern ringing in his ears unheard. Earlier that day, he had walked through this establishment as if through scripture, committing every detail to memory—exit routes, structural weaknesses, lines of sight.
That afternoon, wearing another face, he had planted coins in the right palms and whispered rumors where they would take root.
It was never about power. Just control. Every variable calculated. Every piece positioned.
He stopped at Virel's table.
The hero looked up with eyes too red, cheeks too flushed. His legendary sword, Stormbite—the blade that had made kingdoms bow—leaned forgotten against the table leg like a beggar's cane. Zero offered a disarming smile—warm, a bit crooked, the kind that once meant something. "Mind if I join you?"
Virel growled, waving a clumsy hand. "If you're paying."
"I already have," Zero replied, placing an ornate bottle of elven spirit on the table. Not poisoned—tonight, death would arrive in its proper form, at its proper moment. Not like mercy. Like justice.
Virel's face brightened, and for an instant, he looked young once more. "Now that is how a man makes an entrance!"
They drank—Virel, long and indiscriminate; Zero, barely touching his lips to the glass. They talked—or rather, Virel prattled on about women, battles, and monsters that never roamed the earth. Zero nodded when appropriate, laughed when expected. The charade remained solid.
But there was a piece of him who listened.
A part of him couldn't help but wonder what it would've been like to have believed in the ideals this man had once fought for. Glory. Brotherhood. The foolish hope that good could ever endure.
"Tell me," Zero asked, voice deceptively light, "do you ever think of the ones who didn't survive?"
Virel blinked in confusion. "What?"
"The other heroes. The ones who hadn't lived long enough to decay in a place like this."
Virel's forehead furrowed, and for the first time, the mask fissured. "What kind of question is that?"
Zero's smile transformed—no longer friendly but cold and curious. A mirror of what existed beneath. "A tactical one. How often do the dead appear in your mind?"
The impact of the question fell like a guillotine. Virel reached for Stormbite, but too late—too slow. Zero's boot sent the sword sliding across the floor like a kicked falsehood.
The tavern fell silent.
Zero rose, calm as a dusk tide.
"You killed them," Virel hissed, more memory than man now. "You're one of the Fallen."
"I'm one of the ones who learned," Zero corrected coolly. "You're just another who didn't."
Virel's charge was wild, heart-led. Zero flowed around it like wind. A fluid twist. A precise sidestep. A devastating blow. The once-mighty hero crumpled to the floor, coughing blood and disbelief.
Zero crouched beside him, voice barely above a whisper.
"You had potential," he said, and—for a breath—there was something like regret in his tone. "But potential's just a fancy word for delay. Strategy wins wars. And luck?" He leaned closer, almost intimate. "Luck gets tired."
Virel tried to speak—to plead, to curse—but Zero's blade, a slender needle of gleaming steel, was already sliding in, elegant and silent. One strike. One more soul weighed, judged, and measured.
The quiet shattered. The barkeep bellowed, "The bounty's claimed! Witnesses confirm Virel was corrupted!"
Cheers erupted as confusion transformed into celebration. History—yielding like wet paper—reshaped itself before their eyes.
Zero vanished into the night.
Later, standing on a windswept ridge overlooking the subdued town, Zero reviewed the data stored in his enchanted gauntlet. Virel's memories—extracted at the moment of death—were methodically cataloged, filtered, and stored. Conversations. Weaknesses. Connections within the hero guilds.
One name pulsed brighter than the others: Captain Lioren, champion of the Silver Pact.
Zero felt a flicker—not anticipation. Not excitement. Something more difficult to define. A ghost of something old.
He didn't merely kill heroes to grow stronger—he harvested knowledge. Each death wasn't an ending but an upgrade. Every fallen enemy provided another tool to orchestrate the downfall of the rest.
He gazed up at the stars—distant, indifferent.
"Let's see how long your luck holds, Captain."
And then, with his cloak snapping in the bitter wind and the scent of blood fading into memory, the Zero King disappeared once more into the waiting darkness.