Inside the grand palace of Samsara, the glow of brass-yellow lanterns reflected off the polished marble floor. Malik sat slouched on his throne, his body drained. Shoulders sagging, cold sweat trickled down his temples, and his eyes burned red from exhaustion.
"Physician," he said, voice heavy but still carrying authority. "Is your new elixir really going to work? Look at me... I’m like a walking corpse after overusing that power."
Before him, an elderly woman in a long silver robe approached with slow, deliberate steps. Her face was a map of wrinkles, but her eyes were sharp—gleaming with conviction.
"Trust me, Sultan," she said softly. "This potion has been refined with thirteen sacred roots and extract from the rarest oasis herbs."
Without hesitation, Malik took the potion from her hands. The liquid was greenish, thick, and had a pungent, piercing aroma. He downed it in a single gulp, then slammed the small glass onto the stone table beside him.
Instantly, his breath caught—heat flared in his chest. His body trembled for a moment—then came the sensation of warmth and strength, as if new energy was threading into his bones and muscles.
With a sudden motion, he rose from the throne. His face looked fresher now, his eyes sharper. He glanced at his reflection in a nearby water basin. His muscles appeared more defined. The faint magical veins across his arms still glowed—but they no longer raged.
"Haahaa... nicely done. Ask for anything—gold, land, titles—I’ll make it happen," he said with a light laugh, full of relief.
The physician only gave a thin smile and bowed. "I ask for nothing but your mercy, Sultan. And perhaps... the chance to see the stone."
Malik narrowed his eyes. "Oh? You’re after the stone too?" he said, his tone now laced with suspicion. "You’re not the first to take interest in that little rock from Mezes. What’s so special about it, anyway?"
She didn’t answer directly. She only bowed deeper. But Malik already suspected the truth.
"I don’t fully understand why people have started hunting for that stone. But I guess... they believe it’s some kind of key," he murmured, shrugging. "Whatever. I’ve already gained everything I wanted—this throne, power, and the fear of an entire nation."
He walked slowly toward the throne’s balcony, looking down at the palace courtyard where guards trained in military formations.
"We’ll meet again. And that meeting... won’t end well for either of us," he added, as if speaking to a shadow from his past.
His chief aide—a young man clad in white and gold armor—approached with a report in hand.
"Forgive me, Sultan. But... are you not concerned about the situation? Our intelligence confirms movement beyond the city walls."
"Concerned?" Malik chuckled. "I command three thousand soldiers inside this fortress. And six squads of Hazmat—Samsara’s elite guard who don’t even know what fear is. What is there to worry about?"
He turned to his aide. "And what about the alchemists’ experiments? The Takwin—what’s their status?"
The aide flipped through his notes. "Last report from the Lower Lab confirms one Takwin unit has been stabilized. The creature is said to possess partial cognition—it can think, analyze, and learn. But due to damage in its regenerative system, it lives in constant pain."
Malik nodded, recalling the grotesque description. "And how do they keep it under control?"
"They’ve carved binding runes directly into its skin. Talismans with protective magic. That way, the pain can be muted... to a degree."
Malik grinned. "Then the creature deserves a name. Hmm... how about Tiger of Jabir?"
"A fine name, Sultan," said the aide, though he seemed visibly uneasy.
"Right?" Malik walked back and slouched into his throne again. "Now, tell me about those Hassasins. I don’t like ghosts creeping around."
"No one knows where they are, Sultan. Although rumors say they once served the previous sultan," the aide answered carefully.
Malik narrowed his eyes, gazing through the tower window at the dark skies over Samsara.
"Strange... Ever since our rebellion, not one covert strike from them. Not a single warning. Not one sudden attack."
The aide stayed silent, body tense. He knew better than to speculate in front of a ruler who loathed uncertainty.
"What disgusts me most," Malik continued, "isn’t the threat... it’s the ignorance. I hate not knowing."
"I can deploy the Hamzat squads for extra patrols," the aide offered, aiming for a practical solution.
"And then what about my safety?" Malik’s voice rose, tinged with frustration. "You know my power... only works on a large scale. Up close, I’m just a man with a heavy breath."
"Then... shall I activate the reserve unit?" the aide asked, hesitantly.
"No need," Malik said flatly. "Besides... those Hassasins are just a legend. Bedtime stories for young guards. None of us really knows if they exist... or if they’re just phantoms the old sultan used to keep fear alive."
Meanwhile, ten minutes earlier, on the other side of the desert—at the hidden camp of the Band of Massiah—the atmosphere suddenly shifted. There was no wind, no sound of footsteps. Yet the air grew heavier, as if something had pierced through the dimension of silence.
Ren, who at that moment was stirring a culinary experiment made from local ingredients—some kind of desert rabbit curry—froze mid-stir. The fragrant aroma still hung in the air, but his eyes had already fixed on a single direction, the ladle still suspended in his hand.
"Ultro?" he murmured.
『No movement detected. Radar is clear.』
"Liar," Ren replied flatly, then dropped the pan and stood. His hand reached for the side of his sleeve, summoning the light armor always prepped for emergencies.
Within seconds, the entire camp was on high alert. Weapons were drawn, arrows nocked, and the perimeter locked tight. Everyone encircled the landing point of three figures—now standing calmly at the center of camp as if they’d been there from the beginning.
They wore deep black attire, cloaked in layers of fabric that were soft yet fortified. Their faces were veiled, revealing only eyes—sharp and cold, like those of a predator bird.
Khan stood at the front, Susan at his side. The Band of Massiah formed a defensive ring, yet none of the three mysterious visitors showed a single sign of intimidation.
"I’m sorry... Farid," Susan whispered, her eyes heavy as she looked toward the young man.
"Khan," he corrected stiffly. But his gaze on Susan was filled with curiosity.
"Yes, Khan..." Susan stepped forward slowly, moving toward the intruders. "I... know them."
Khan glanced at her with surprise, but did not stop her. The others remained alert—even Ren subtly shifted his stance to cut off any potential escape routes.
"Who are they?" Ren asked, voice low but clear.
Susan stopped one meter from the three. Then she looked directly at the one standing in front—taller, lean but not frail. "You... you’re Arash?"
The figure didn’t reply, only gave a single nod. That small motion echoed in the silence.
Susan turned back toward Khan, her voice now steadier. "They... are the Shadows of Samsara. The black daggers. Hassasin."
A long sigh and murmurs of disbelief spread through the Band of Massiah. Even faces seasoned by death and battle tightened at hearing that name.
The figure in the center finally spoke. His voice was deep—neither old nor young—and almost without inflection.
"We are not here to kill. We are here to judge."
"Judge?" Khan narrowed his eyes, staring at the three black-robed figures with unhidden tension.
"To judge whether you are someone worthy of being served," Arash said calmly, his tone unchanged—flat, cold, like a shadow at night.
Ren, standing not far away, exhaled sharply. "Okay, I usually love a bit of theater... but please, don’t bring your ninja entrance exam into this. This is real life, not a stage play."
One of the two behind Arash—the shorter one with curved blades—shifted his hand, perhaps in warning or intent to strike. But Arash simply raised a palm. That single motion was enough to stop everything.
"We are not part of this world," Arash continued, locking eyes with Khan with an intensity that cut deep. "We merely continue the oath held by our ancestors: to serve the true Sultan of Samsara—not a pretender who seizes power through brute force."
Khan’s eyes narrowed, his posture more composed, though still guarded. "But Malik is there now. He rules, whether you like it or not."
Arash shook his head, slowly. "Power is not validation. Malik is the result of a void in principle. We judge not by crown, but by character. And Malik... by our judgment, is negative. His ambition is greedy, his purpose unholy. He has betrayed the very roots of Samsara."
Ren glanced between Khan and Arash. "So you’re... what, some kind of spiritual guardians of the throne? Like... a ghost protocol?"
"If you wish to call it that, yes," Arash replied, without a smile. "We are not listed in records. We have no family. Our identities were burned with the blood we swore."
"And you show up now... why not earlier?" Khan asked sharply. "Why not when Malik began poisoning the palace? Why not when he ousted my uncle? Why not when he threw my mother into the dungeon?"
Silence hung in the air. The desert breeze slipped between tents, carrying fine grains of sand that floated like time itself had paused.
"Because we were waiting," Arash finally answered.