The air was heavy inside the dusty chamber, lit only by the narrow streams of sunlight piercing through shattered windows. Papers lay in chaos across the floor—ripped, tossed, forgotten by time and anger. John, on his knees, sifted through the fragments like a man searching through memories he never knew he needed.
Then, piece by piece, the puzzle began to form.
Paul's diary.
He turned to the first page, his hands trembling. And he read.
"My name is Paul. Paul Anderson. I was born as an assassin, raised in Temple Number 23. I never had a childhood. My parents were killed by Templars. I was a loudmouth, angry, unpredictable—always one breath away from exploding. I hated that about myself. But I didn't know how to change. They called me 'the angry dude.' They weren't wrong."
John blinked. His father? The man who tucked him into bed, who kissed his bruises, who never raised his voice?
He kept reading.
"After Master Henrich passed, his infant son took the mantle. A child. A baby. We named him 'M'—Mentor. Most of the temple didn't accept it. Rebellion brewed. But I... I silenced it. I raised him. Trained him. I was strict, too strict. Maybe I built him into something too cold. But I gave him the tools to survive. He sent men into death, but he saw the world clearly."
John's eyes flickered. He never imagined his father helping raise the man who would change the course of the Assassin Order.
"Then came Cyntera Corp. They claimed to be a marketing company—but they were a Templar mask. One of the three Crusader faces. That's how they hid. Religion, corporations, and fake causes. They poisoned from within. M feared discovery, so he ordered a migration. Every Assassin, from every corner of the globe, to our last stronghold in China. Everyone obeyed. Except me."
"No one knew why. But M did. He didn't argue. He knew I had unfinished business."
John flipped the page, faster now.
"The artifact. The Heavenly Fruit. They say it's buried here, somewhere in this temple. Even Hawk's letter mentioned it. They searched every cave, every wall. But I wasn't looking for it. I just wanted to protect it. The only way to do that... was to protect this place."
"But isolation is a cruel master. At first, I lost myself. Days blurred into one. I trained. I patrolled. I grieved. I almost went mad. Until one day... I wandered out. And found a village."
John felt the warmth of memory creep in.
"She was there. Three baskets of fruit at her feet. She called out to me. Asked for help. I looked like a shadow of a man in that cape. She made a joke. I laughed. Her phone rang. I heard her mother scream through the receiver: 'If you don't marry someone, you'll die a single old woman!'"
"She was 27. I was 31. We laughed it off. And the next day, I returned. Then the next. And the next. Loneliness faded. I loved her."
"We had a child. We named him John. A plain name. A hopeful name. Maybe he'd have the normal life I never did."
John covered his mouth. His breath was shaky. Tears pricked his eyes.
"I became a new man. Kinder. Gentler. I laughed. I loved. I was... happy."
"But the past never lets go."
"One morning, a letter from M arrived. Two missions. First: eliminate the last group of Teutonic Knights hiding in Germany. Second: clear Son of York from Templar influence. His last line read: 'You are the strongest Assassin alive. Only you can do this.'"
"I cried every night that week. Held my son tighter. Stared at my wife while she slept. I thought of dying. I even considered ordering my own coffin."
"But I made a vow to Henrich. So I went."
John's hand trembled on the page.
"Germany. A slaughter. One hundred fifty knights. All dead. They called it the Massacre of the Teutons. But I came back torn open. A stab to the gut. Surgery saved me, barely."
"Then Son of York. I found five Cyntera men. One of them... Marcy? Mark? I nearly killed him. But they weren't alone. More Templars arrived. My wound burst open mid-fight. I could see my intestines. Felt everything. I ran. I couldn't die there. Not like that."
"I didn't go home. I didn't want my wife or son to see what I'd become. I sealed myself in the temple. Lit the torches. And began writing this."
"Traveler Assassin—if you find this, send it. O'Cile Village. House #43. Cottage #2. That's my final request."
The diary ended.
John lowered the pages, his vision swimming in tears.
"So that's what happened… Mother never told me. Of course she didn't."
He remembered the day she received the book. The mysterious hooded man-Traveler Assassin. How she opened it, read for seconds before crying uncontrollably. She screamed. Tore pages apart. Slammed the diary into his father's old workroom. Locked it away. As if hiding the pain would erase it.
"She was hurting too… just like me…"
He fell to his knees, tears dripping onto the stone floor.
"I'm sorry, Father. I'm so sorry I hated you. I was blinded by grief. By rage. I never saw the truth… but now I do."
He stood, breath shallow. The room around him felt... clearer. The ghosts were quieter.
Cyntera. Templars. Lies. Truth.
And one unfinished mission.
John turned. There were still other letters—other secrets—but they could wait.
For now, he had purpose.
A residential hallway buzzed faintly in the fluorescent light. John stood before a door, a suitcase in one hand, an envelope in the other.
He passed the envelope—gold, converted into cash—to a smiling landlord. In return, he received a key.
The apartment was small. A bed. A desk. A computer. A TV, A bathroom. A window staring into the city.
John placed the suitcase in the corner.
He lay on the bed, face down, fists clenched.
"This city is enormous…" he whispered. "It's going to be hard… so damn hard…"
But his eyes were sharp now. Focused.
John Anderson had arrived.
And he was ready.
End of Volume 1.