POV: Zero/Archon
A week. Seven cycles of a sun I still don't know the name of. Time moves differently here, measured not in precise digital chronometers but in the slow arc of a yellow star and the ache in muscles I'd forgotten I had. It has been… pleasant, to say the least. A foreign concept. My days are a simple rhythm: the metallic scent of polishing old tools, the gritty feel of dust on my hands, and the low, rumbling commentary of Borin, my unlikely benefactor.
In our downtime, I piece together the language. The script is angular, flowing, a popular system in the West, or so Borin says. A practical skill. A useful tool. But it raises a question that has been itching at the back of my skull: How can I understand their speech perfectly when their writing is so alien? The universal translator implant behind my ear is standard issue for a citizen of the Pyralis—necessary for a city of a million races and a thousand cultures. I became so used to its silent, seamless work that I forgot it was there. I forgot about the only piece of my old life, my old self, that I didn't have to leave behind. The irony isn't lost on me; the tool that made me the Overseer of a million voices now helps me haggle over the price of rusty nails.
"Zero."
Well, it's embarrassing to say the least. To forget the very tech fused to your bone. I was so immersed in playing the part of a simple refugee that I almost convinced myself.
"Zero!"
Sigh. Those memories give me a headache. The endless debates in polished chambers, the weight of a sector's stability on my shoulders. This is simpler. Harder in a physical way, but simpler. At least it's not as bad as this bread. It has the texture of compacted clay. I wish I could taste it, at least. I wish for a lot of things.
"For the Gods' sake, Zero! Stop munching on that bread for one second and listen to me!"
I jolted back to the present, the dusty stall, the smell of old leather and iron. Borin was glaring at me, his bushy eyebrows knitted together in a formidable line. "Yes?"
"Gods, finally! Your head is always in the clouds, boy. Listen, I have to go… settle a few accounts around the city. Until then, you're holding the stall."
'Work,' he says. Huh. His 'accounts' are invariably at the 'Thirsty Minotaur' tavern.
"...You're trusting me with everything here?" I let the skepticism drip into my voice. The stall may look like a pile of junk, but it's his livelihood.
He snorted, a rough, phlegmy sound. "Aren't you working for me? Or did I take you on for your charming personality and dazzling conversation?"
"Yes, but I'm just curious. Is this 'work' of yours just going to involve you dri-?"
"I'm going now. Try not to sell my anvil for the price of a loaf. Take care of the store!"
And with an agility that defied his age and stature, he was gone, a blur of worn leather and grumpy muttering disappearing into the midday crowd. I marveled, not for the first time, at how a man of his years could achieve such velocity when beer was the destination.
Since I began working under him, I've compiled a detailed mental dossier on his alcoholism. I've had to hide tankards, water down his stash, and once, physically prevent him from attempting to "forge a masterpiece" while seeing double. It's so profoundly… mortal. And stupid.
I should have chosen someone more competent as a teacher than a drunk merchant. But competence often comes with curiosity, and curiosity is a threat.
The next few hours passed with a monotonous rhythm. I sold a hammer to a burly smith, a length of rope to a harried-looking woman, and politely declined to buy a "genuine dragon's scale" from a shifty-eyed child. I'm not much of a salesman. I know how to sell ideas, how to weave rhetoric to sway councils and manipulate populations. But I wouldn't use it here. It feels… profane. Especially not for a few coppers in a stall selling what is essentially well-organized junk.
...But still, no sight of him. The sun began its descent, painting the sandstone buildings in hues of orange and gold. The flow of customers trickled to nothing. Sigh.
Bored out of my mind, the sound cut through the city's din like a knife. A young voice, high and clear, shouting the day's headlines. A newsboy wove through the throng, a stack of papers under his arm.
"The Mr. K strikes again! Three people found dead in the merchant's quarter last night! The Reaper leaves his mark!"
A cold, familiar feeling settled in my chest. Not guilt. Not excitement. Satisfaction.
Looks like my name is getting out there.That's good. The more my name spreads, the more potent the symbol becomes. Fear is a more effective deterrent than any law. Let them whisper. Let them imagine a ghost in the shadows, a reaper who knows their sins. The more they fear, the less work I have to do. It's simply faster, more efficient, to make them police themselves with terror before they indulge their darker impulses further. A clean, quiet world, built on a foundation of silent dread.
...
POV: Guard Captain Marcus
"In all my forty years on the force, I have never seen something like this, Marcus."
Sergeant Kaelen wasn't a man easily shaken. He'd been a guard since before I could hold a sword, his face a roadmap of old scars and older worries. But now, standing in the dank alley, his usual grimace was replaced by a pale, waxy look of disbelief.
He was right. The scene was… artful. In the most horrific way possible. Three men—or what was left of them—had been arranged against the wet brick wall. Not just killed. *Displayed*. The force of the impact had been so immense it had splattered them into a grotesque, unmistakable shape: the letter "K."
The victims had been mutilated with clinical precision. Fingers, noses, eyes, tongues—all carefully removed and laid out on the cobblestones before the final, brutal act that had painted the wall. It was a message. A signature. A performance.
The alley was sealed, a cordon of grim-faced city guards holding back a growing, murmuring crowd. The past week had been a nightmare. Three scenes. Eight bodies. Each more brazen than the last. The city was on the brink of panic, and the City Council was breathing down my neck. We were doing our best to contain the situation, but "best" felt like trying to hold back a flood with a sieve.
"Sigh. The 'victims'," I said, spitting the word out. "Just like the others. Records longer than my arm. Extortion, assault… rape." I gestured to the smallest pile of effects. "That one there? Wanted for the murder of a boxmaker and his family over a gambling debt. 'Victims' is a stretch."
"These murders a—" Kaelen began, but his analysis was cut short.
"Ugh!" The sound came from young Rylan, the new recruit assigned to us. He was doubled over, one hand on his knee, the other clamped over his mouth, his Adam's apple bobbing violently. His polished armor looked obscenely bright against the filth of the alley. "I feel sick, ugh."
"Kid, if you're going to redecorate, do it outside the crime scene," Kaelen snapped, his patience worn thinner than old rope. Babysitting a green recruit while hunting a monster was a special kind of hell.
"Y-yes, Sergeant. Ugh." Rylan stumbled past the cordon and we heard the unmistakable sound of his breakfast meeting the gutter.
"What a pussy," muttered another guard, a veteran named Corbin with a permanent sneer.
Kaelen didn't even look up from the wall. "Says the man who pissed his polished greaves the first time he saw a goblin raid. I remember the smell."
Corbin's face flushed. "S-Sergeant, that was a long time ago! And it was a tactical… moisture…" His defense trailed off into embarrassed silence. Kaelen was already back to work.
After a few minutes of silent examination, Kaelen stood up, his knees cracking audibly. "This wasn't done by a sword. Not any kind I know."
"What?" I moved closer. "Then how do you explain these cuts? They're cleaner than a surgeon's scalpel. It has to be a mana blade, wielded by a master. Someone who can focus the energy so perfectly it leaves no residual trace." The thought was chilling. A master assassin of that caliber wouldn't bother with common thugs. They'd be targeting kings.
"No, Marcus, look," Kaelen insisted, pointing a thick finger at a cleanly severed arm. "A mana blade, even a perfectly controlled one, superheats the air around it. It cauterizes, but it also *wavers*. It would leave microscopic scorch marks, a slight ripple in the cut. This…" He leaned in. "This is pristine. It's like the flesh was parted without any resistance at all. No tool I know can do this."
"Then… what?" Corbin asked, his earlier bravado gone, replaced by a dawning, superstitious fear. "Magic? Some kind of… telekinesis?" The unspoken question hung in the air: *Or something worse?*
The idea of a blade was terrifying enough. The idea of something that could do *this* without a weapon… that was the stuff of ancient, dark legends.
Kaelen met my gaze, his own eyes shadowed with a worry I'd never seen there before. He finally put into words what we were both thinking. "...I hope it was just a sword. A really, really sharp one."
...
POV: Zero/Archon
"Zzzz… snort… more ale, my precious… Zzzz…"
"What a hassle." The job was finally done. The stall was locked, the coins were counted, and the proprietor was currently drooling on my shoulder, dead to the world. I'd found him propped against the bar at the 'Thirsty Minotaur', three empty tankards standing like sentinels before him. Carrying him through the streets had drawn a few looks, but most people just shook their heads with a familiarity that spoke volumes. I was worried he'd get robbed, but it seems the local thieves had more class than to steal from a man who clearly had nothing left to give but snoring advice on ore quality.
But by god, how can a man of his age and size consume that much fermented grain daily and still function? His liver must be made of the same forged steel he sells. …I guess it's true. Some people are just built different.
I laid him on his bed and finally took a proper look around his room. I've been here a week, but I'm always in my small cot in the corner, never lingering. Now, I'm… impressed. And suspicious. This isn't the room of a simple street merchant. It's in a luxurious hotel, all marble floors, polished dark wood, and walls adorned with tasteful, if generic, carvings of mountain landscapes. The bed is large, the linens clean and high-thread-count. The money from his junk stall shouldn't cover a single night here.
Who are you, Borin?
But the opulence, the clean lines, the quiet efficiency of the place… it itches at a part of my brain I've tried to bury. It reminds me of my old world, Of A not-so-pleasant memorys. This room, for all its warmth and tactile materials, feels the same. It's a facade
I looked down at the old drunk, now peacefully asleep, his worries drowned in a sea of ale.
"...Goodnight, Borin," I said to the sleeping form. It was a habit.
In response, he emitted a long, rattling snore, rolled over, and mumbled, "Zzzz… the iron's not for sale, you pointy-eared knave… Zzzz…"
"I understand," I replied, my voice flat.
I did not understand.