Somewhere in the future, in Ashveil City drowning in neon lights, a single skyscraper pierced the sky. Drones buzzed through the cold night like metal wasps.
In a dim room smelling faintly of metal and ozone, a 25-year-old top assassin ate his lunch in silence. He stood 6'3", lean with brown eyes and an athletic build. A thin scar ran across his left eye—a quiet reminder of battles survived.
His watch buzzed.
A holographic screen bloomed from his wrist.
Target: Gangster.
Reward: 50 Million Credits
Warning: HIGH RISK
He narrowed his eyes. "A gangster, huh…"
The target was a gangster named Marco Vernaz. He finished his meal quickly but deliberately, already mapping out the contract in his mind. In the corner of the living room, his gaze fell on the wall, where a hidden micro-biometric scanner—disguised as a camera—watched silently.
[Eye Scan Completed]
A hidden panel slid open, revealing a private lift. That carried him to his personal chamber, lights flickering on automatically as he stepped inside.
Rows of high-tech rifles, blades, and forbidden gadgets rested behind reinforced glass, gleaming under the sterile glow.
At the center, a metallic table projected a holographic map of Ashveil. He uploaded the mission file, scanning the routes and intel provided by the contractor.
He geared up without hesitation. A black combat suit slid beneath a hooded trench coat, built for the shadows. A respirator sealed his breath, while reinforced gloves flexed over his hands, slim steel blades hidden in their seams. Tactical boots completed the deadly silhouette.
At his ribs rested a silenced Counter-Eagle pistol, cold and steady. In the suitcase beside him lay a suppressed sniper rifle, disassembled into precise pieces. Every weapon, every thread of fabric, had a single purpose—silent, efficient death.
Before leaving his house, he sent a message to the contractor:
GET MY MONEY READY.
He headed to the nearest parking lot from his apartment, where his Driftwing waited—folded and dormant. The sleek, rectangular board unfolded in his hands, its surface alive with faint blue lines. It hovered a few inches above the ground, thrusters humming softly. With a single step, he mounted it—the board instantly responding to his balance, gliding silently through the neon-lit streets.
Ashveil breathed around him—towering facades plastered with moving advertisements, street vendors hawking steaming food beneath holographic billboards, and flickering holo-logos that never slept. The rich lived high in glass towers; below, alleys ran with old wiring and newer debts. Ground patrols and neighborhood sentries kept the peace where the city's algorithms didn't, and eyes—both human and metal—watched every step.
A few minutes later, he arrived at a parking lot near the target's residential area and secured his Driftwing. He scanned the building across the street, committing its angles and entrances to memory. According to the plan, he'd book a top-floor room and set up his Arctic sniper rifle before the target arrived. Intel predicted the target would come in the evening—he arrived well ahead of schedule.
Luckily, the area was recently designated no-drone airspace to protect privacy and reduce noise pollution and security is lax for residents.
Enforcement was handled by ground patrols and geofenced drone controls.
He approached the residential tower cautiously, scanning for patrols or surveillance as he carried his minimal gear. Satisfied, he slipped inside.
At the counter, he placed his wrist near the scanner. Micro-biometric checks ran almost instantaneously—eye, pulse, and wrist ID confirmed. Movements calm and precise, he booked a top-floor room, keeping his gun and blade concealed beneath his coat.
The lift hummed quietly as he ascended. On the top floor of the building opposite the target's, he paused at the door, listening for footsteps. The hallway was empty. Satisfied, he stepped inside.
The room was semi-furnished: a narrow bed against one wall, a small desk by the window, and a simple chair beside it. Minimal decorations hung on the walls, giving the space a bare, functional feel.
Suddenly, intel updated—the target was expected before sunset.
"That's more than enough time" he murmured, his movements deliberate as he prepared his rifle.
He assembled the sniper rifle, carefully cleaning the scope before raising it to sweep the streets below.
A flicker of movement caught his eye at the apex of the target building—too deliberate, too precise to be random. Someone was there, watching.
His pulse spiked. Every instinct screamed danger. The shadow shifted, revealing the cold glint of a barrel aimed directly at him. A thin cable ran from the rooftop to a nearby antenna, almost invisible in the dim light.
He froze, finger tightening on the trigger, breath shallow, mind racing. No mistake. No coincidence. Someone had anticipated him—someone who moved like he did.
*FLASH*
A searing pain tore through his chest before he could react. His fingers went numb, and the rifle slipped from his grasp. Vision blurred, ears ringing, breath shallow and ragged. He staggered backward, colliding with the narrow bed, and slumped against the wall. Darkness surged, swallowing the streets, the target, and every plan he had.
As consciousness left his body, the world dissolved into darkness.
…
For a moment, there was nothing—pitch black, silent, and endless. Then, slowly, a faint ray of light appeared before him. He stepped forward cautiously into the void. As he reached toward it, something strange hovered above, catching his attention.
"What the… what is that?" he muttered nervously.
A gigantic eye, filled with glowing stars, gazed down at him. His chest tightened. Panic rushed through him. Then—suddenly—a voice echoed inside his mind.
"I know you're confused, but hear me out. I'm here to help you."
His eyes widened. "What is this place? Where the hell am I? And why do you want to help me?" he shouted at the eye.
"First, allow me to introduce myself, human. I am Norsh, an assistant angel. It is my solemn duty to reincarnate souls"
He narrowed his eyes, testing Norsh's words.
"If you want me to believe you, then show me who killed me."
"Very well human," Norsh replied, his calm voice echoing. "See it for yourself."
The darkness around him split apart, and memories flashed before his eyes—sharp, vivid, undeniable.
Without hesitation, Norsh revealed the truth—
The one who had pulled the trigger: his former comrade, the very person who had sold his soul for 80 million credits.
And behind it all, a meticulously orchestrated scheme by the gangsters of Ashveil City, crafted with one clear purpose—to end his life.
He couldn't believe his eyes. He had walked straight into their trap—betrayed by his own former comrade, the one who sold his soul for money.
His chest burned with rage. So this was the price of trust?
"In the end, loyalty was nothing but an illusion" he muttered, jaw tightening.
He looked at Norsh and asked bluntly, "So what's next? Am I going to be reincarnated into the same world so I can kill them?"
"No…"
"Didn't you say you were going to help me?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Listen, human — stop with your ridiculous questions ," Norsh snapped. "You'll be reborn into another world. Let it be a surprise. By the time you're ready, I'll give you a system to help you survive. Why am I doing this? Because I already know your future questions and demands, so I'm making it quick for both of us."
"A surprise, huh…" he growled.
A strange white ray appeared above him. Warmth spread through his body as light and shadow twisted around him. The world dissolved into stars, and then… nothing.
When he opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was the wooden roof above him. His arms felt thin and fragile, and a sharp sting marked his forehead. The air was crisp and unfamiliar, carrying a scent that made him uneasy.
A wooden door stood nearby. He stood, each movement awkward in this strange body, and pushed it open. Outside, the world stretched beyond anything he had ever known—the sun was setting. A huge wall stood far away, and two moons hung in the clear sky. Small mud huts were spread across the ground. Children played in the mud, women washed clothes in wooden tubs, and some hung them out to dry, while carts rattled along the dusty road.
This world… was nothing like he expected.