In a modest manor nestled on the outskirts of Cybele City, the once-peaceful silence was now drowned by dread. The wind tugged gently at the pale curtain through a crack in the window, but the soft breeze was the last thing on anyone’s mind.
Not when fear clung to the air like the thick, suffocating humidity before a storm.
Inside the master bedroom, a man crouched in a concealed compartment—an old, hidden closet tucked within the stone framework of the manor walls. He wasn’t alone.
His wife clutched his arm tightly, and between them were their three children, huddled close. His chest rose and fell in heavy gasps as he tried to keep his breath quiet. Sweat beaded down his brow.
The man—Baron Cybele—once stood proud as a mid-ranking noble, running his estate with moderate success and staying far from major political games. But tonight, that distance had shattered.
Blood had already spilled through the corridors of his home. His servants, men and women he’d trusted for years, had been silenced—some cut down where they stood, others simply gone without a trace.
And now he was prey, hiding like a rat in his own house.
"Daddy," a small voice whispered.
His six-year-old son looked up at him, confusion and innocence still flickering in his eyes like a fading candle. "Daddy, who are we playing hide-and-seek with? Is it uncle Manik? Or auntie Xiani? Why are you and mommy scared? This isn’t fun... everyone’s so clustered and quiet..."
Before the boy could ramble further, his mother gently placed a trembling hand over his mouth. She bent close, whispering soft and sweet as a lullaby into his ear, despite the sheer panic in her gaze.
"Shh... baby, we’ll lose the game if we make noise. And we don’t want to lose, right? Listen, if we win—Mommy and Daddy will buy you any toy you want. The big kind, with lights and music and everything."
The boy’s face lit up instantly. The promise of a toy made his little heart flutter with joy. His chest puffed up, mimicking the heroes he saw on holoscreens. "Okie, Mommy. I’ll be super quiet! Like a ninja! I won’t even breathe loud!"
His mother smiled faintly, brushing his hair back and kissing his forehead, though her hands trembled.
The other two children—an infant barely two years old swaddled in a blanket and their ten-year-old daughter—stayed pressed against their father.
Unlike her younger brother, the girl was old enough to sense something was very wrong. This wasn’t a game. Not even close. Her father’s expression was far too grim, his eyes sunken and glancing toward the door as if expecting it to burst open any second.
Her small hand tightened around his shirt. Her lips trembled, but she didn’t speak.
The entire family froze as heavy, casual footsteps echoed into the bedroom. Each tap of heel to floorboard made the baron’s heart lurch. The sound wasn’t rushed.
Whoever it was—whatever it was—moved with complete confidence. Leisurely, as though certain that no prey could escape.
The voice was laced with mockery, singsong, yet undeniably dangerous. Male. Playful in the worst way—like a cat toying with a wounded mouse.
"I don’t really like waiting, you see. It’s not in my nature. So if you’re testing my patience... well, let’s just say your end might not be pleasant. Especially not for your lovely family."
The man’s voice echoed through the room like a curse, soft but far too clear. He sighed dramatically, as if inconvenienced. "I’m in a bit of a rush, so I’ll make this simple. Just answer one question. One. And I’ll be on my way, maybe even let you all live."
The family didn’t breathe.
The voice darkened. "Tell me everything about the Opalcrest dealings. All the filth you’re hiding inside Everhart. Every crime you think you’ve swept under the rug. How are you funneling resources? Where are you hiding the prisoners? What did you do to the children?"
The baron clenched his jaw, trying to suppress the memory of the reports he’d buried. His hands curled into fists around his children. His heart thundered. The man out there wasn’t guessing—he knew. Somehow.
The voice, still light and unsettling, continued. "I’m only going to ask once more, Baron. Do you really want me to dig through your walls piece by piece?"
"I’ll be gentle with the wife, at least. If that makes you feel better."
No one moved. No one dared.
A shadow passed near the closet—just a blur through the narrow slit of the wooden panel.
The man outside was tall, dressed in sleek black from neck to boot. His skin was a deep tan, his hair and eyes just as dark, and on his belt rested twin curved daggers that shimmered with a faint purple hue—poisoned, no doubt.
He looked less like a soldier and more like a predator molded by shadows and death. The way he carried himself, the way his eyes scanned the room—it screamed of assassin.
But unlike the usual contracted killers sent by noble rivals, this one didn’t act like he was here for gold. There was something far more personal about him.
And worse, he enjoyed it.
The baron knew one thing: this wasn’t about a bounty. This was a purge.
The only solace he had—the only—was the design of the manor itself. The closet had been built centuries ago when assassinations during succession wars were common. Hidden within the thick inner stone of the walls, it was nearly undetectable without direct knowledge of its location.
There was still a chance the man would leave.
The assassin moved in circles around the ruined room, a silent storm of destruction. Chairs were kicked aside, windows shattered into glittering fragments, curtains ripped down like prey caught in a frenzy. Nothing was spared.
He wasn’t searching. He was hunting.
A long breath, almost a sigh, escaped his lips. And then his head tilted upward, eyes settling on the ceiling like he was trying to talk to the gods.
"Hey... what the fuck?"
His voice cut through the air, rough and laced with rising annoyance.
"I know you bastards came here. So what the hell happened? Where did you go? Huh? Did the floor open up and swallow you? Did the walls decide to eat you? Or maybe, just maybe... you left behind a clone or illusion just to mess with me?"
He dragged both hands through his hair in frustration, laughing manically at the absurdity of his own theory. "Ahhhhhhhhhh!"
The scream was raw, echoing, a testament to the storm inside his head.
Hidden behind the false wall, Baron Cybele held his breath. For the first time in hours, he felt... relief. A sick, cautious relief that the man outside might actually give up. That his rage would burn through his stamina and force him to retreat.
’Please leave,’ he prayed. ’Just walk away.’
But hope, as always, was a cruel mistress.
With no warning, the assassin snapped his head toward the wall. And then, just like that—he hurled a dagger straight through it.
The steel blade punched through the wood with a vicious shriek, missing the baron’s daughter by a mere centimeter.
His heart nearly stopped.
He reacted instantly, dragging her behind him with one arm while the other clamped over her mouth to muffle the cry she hadn’t even let out yet. Panic welled in his chest. She was trembling—he could feel it—but she didn’t make a sound. She was strong. Braver than most adults.
"Would you look at that~" the assassin’s voice turned singsong, almost cheerful. "Isn’t this a lovely wall~? So bitter on the touch... it even tastes fake."
His eyes gleamed with unhinged delight.
"Is there someone inside, hmm~? If you’re there, just say hi. Or not. Either way, I’m going to keep stabbing through until I hit something real."
He laughed. Loud. Sharp. Like a child playing a game they knew only they could win.
And then he pulled out another dagger.
With a single, fluid thrust, he stabbed through the wall again—and this time, the blade hit flesh.
Baron Cybele gasped silently, his eyes going wide as the dagger buried deep into his abdomen. The pain was blinding, like liquid fire coursing through him. He didn’t move. Didn’t scream. His wife shielded the children’s eyes, stopping them from seeing the crimson bloom now spreading across his robes.
The man outside chuckled again, clearly savoring the moment.
"Hmm~ no one in there? That’s disappointing~ Let’s try a spinning game then. Spin~ spin~"
He grasped the hilt of the embedded dagger and twisted it.
The blade churned through the baron’s insides like a spoon stirring soup.
He clenched his jaw, hard enough to crack his own teeth. But not a single sound escaped him. He wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction.
But the pain wasn’t the worst part.
No. It was the poison.
The baron could already feel it spreading—an icy burn moving through his veins. His body began to tremble, then seize. Blood leaked from his nose, his ears, even his tear ducts.
The assassin finally pulled the dagger free with a wet, sucking sound, revealing the blood-slicked steel. He held it up like a trophy, admiring the crimson sheen under the light.
A wicked grin split across his face.
"Now would you look at that, Mister Baron~"
His voice dripped venom. Mocking. Triumphant.
"You bleed beautifully."