Micah Reed never missed.
Not a step. Not a breath. Not a kill.
He moved across the steel beams above the neon-lit alleys of SkillHill like a shadow with purpose. The city was a strange blend; rusting metal overgrown with moss, stone spires laced with vines, and glowing runes beside barred circuit boards. In an eco-world where tech was banned, only the essentials remained: communication, transportation… and death.
Below, through the cracked dome of an abandoned greenhouse, his target laughed, Derek King. A crimelord heir turned political puppet.
Micah narrowed his eyes.
Then it struck him, a sharp, invisible like cold glass slicing through the mind.
A vision.
Derek, collapsing. Blood on the vines. Micah above, blade in hand. A archer hidden and a crossbow raised. The trigger pulls. A bolt flies. Straight to his throat.
His body fell.
Dead.
Micah blinked.
The world returned.
He was still crouched above, breathing steady. The girl hadn't fired, YET.
He adjusted. Shifted two beams left. Waited.
Time wavered.
The girl stood, checked everywhere then left. Odds are it was the call of nature thought Micah.
Perfect.
In two heartbeats, Derek was dead, and in sixty seconds Micah was gone, slipping into the green-shadowed veins of Skill-Hill.
Back at the Rockville Skills Institute, the assassin dorms were mostly empty with students scattered after assignments, or failures. Micah was both respected and avoided. He spoke little. Trained hard. Killed clean.
He sat now, shirtless, toweling blood off his arms.Not his own. Not of another man. After his easy kill, he had gone hunting.
As he finished bathing and was drying himself, his hand moved past the black spider mark just under his jaw. Old, vivid and permanent. Just a cruel joke from before he could remember.
Sometimes he hated it for making him recognizable which was bad especially if he wanted to murder someone in a crowd. He could not afford being seen as the spider was a little famous alongside his name.
But he had grown to ignore it and he had adapted to making sure he was never seen closer to his targets.
The door creaked open.
"Micah," came a voice. Cool. Sharp.
Instructor Darien. A Grandmaster. He was in charge of handing out assignments and Micah had never disappointed ever since his arrival 4 years ago.
"There's a meeting," Dalen said. Obviously a spar thought Micah. "Guilds are watching. Someone wants you. You're to perform tomorrow."
Micah nodded once. "Combat style?"
"Assassin tier. He's also a master. Not from around here of course. They say he is good, but the issue is not about him, it is about your performing."
Micah rose.
"Why though? I am quite sure you don't want your assassin showing his signature moves around." Micah looked straight at Instructor Darien.
Darien sighed deeply and said, " Not my rules and mostly not my choice."
He reached into his pocket and said, " He is your money, 25 gold as promised. Kill has been confirmed." He stretched his hand to give Micah the package.
Micah reached over and took his gold throwing it on the bed and said to Instructor Darien, " Thanks and please..." he paused a little before continuing, "...it's high time you ascend to the Saint tier."
Darien just chuckled and said, " First become a Grandmaster yourself boy."
As Dalen left, Micah strapped his blades to his back. Eyes cold. Heart unreadable.
Micah was not like many and he didn't care for much except getting paid so he could buy weapons, gear, potions and pay secret instructors to teach him.
He just knew one thing and all he did was for one thing.
To survive.
And for now, that was enough.