Let us leave the past behind and step into the year 2014, the month of August.
In the heart of the United States, behind towering stone barriers, stood a walled city known as Son of York—a place enclosed, isolated, and pulsing with unseen tension.
Roughly six or seven kilometers beyond its northern wall rose a solitary hill, and behind that hill, hidden from the eyes of the city, lay a quiet village. The people there lived humble lives—many were poor, most unemployed. Yet, in spite of their hardships, they were content. Their spirits remained unbroken, grounded by a deep and sacred bond with the natural world around them.
Nestled within this village stood a simple cottage—nothing grand, just a modest home with a small garden and a crumbling fence. Inside that unassuming house lived a 24-year-old man named John.
A man with no family.
No great reputation.
No idea of the storm quietly waiting to change his life forever.
In a quiet bedroom dimly lit by soft sunlight, an alarm clock began to ring.
The sound echoed off the plain walls—bare save for a small bookshelf, a desk, and a bed. Slowly, John opened his eyes. He turned his head toward the alarm. 10:00 AM.
With a groggy sigh, he reached over and silenced it, then sat upright, yawning and stretching his arms. Another late morning. Another quiet start.
John was a simple man. At 24 years old, he worked for the National Museum of Son of York, though his duties rarely resembled anything academic. More often than not, he was sent to dangerous ruins and remote locations to recover ancient relics the museum couldn't legally or publicly acquire. They called it "field work." He knew it was just the dirty work no one else wanted to do.
Rubbing his eyes, John stood up and walked over to his desk. He muttered to himself, "Out of money again..." and began sifting through the bookshelf above it. He was looking for a map—a very specific one.
After a few moments, he spotted it and gave it a gentle tug, but several other books came crashing down with it.
"Dang it," he mumbled, kneeling to pick them up. As he sorted through the mess, he skimmed the titles: How to Live Without Parents? — no.
The Role of Orphanages? — definitely no.
Then he found it. "Ah—finally!" he said, snatching the worn map and unfolding it on the desk.
It revealed several locations:
Son of York, marked clearly but labeled as restricted. His village, marked with an X—he'd already explored every corner of it. And finally, an ancient Assassin temple nestled in the southwest, deep in the wilderness.
He studied the map, eyes scanning the red X marks he'd placed wherever a site had already been explored.
"Most of these places I've covered," he muttered. "But... that temple. I've never really explored it properly."
He paused, remembering. "Sure, I went there once with my father... but I was just a kid back then. I bet there's something left."
He picked up his phone and called his boss—Jack, the director of the National Museum.
"Hey boss, how you doin'?"
The response came through a haze of static and crashing noises. "Huh? John? Is that you? What happened?"
A loud crash rang through the speaker. John winced. Then Jack screamed:
"Not the damn skeleton!"
John smirked. "Hey, I was wondering—mind if I check out that old Assassin temple in the southwest? Might be something worth bringing back."
"The temple, huh?" Jack replied between shouts and background chaos. "Yeah, alright. No problem."
Then, under his breath: "As if you'd listen if I said no…"
"Thanks, Jack! I'll see you soon!" John laughed and hung up.
Grinning, he grabbed his backpack, checked his phone, and stepped outside.
A soft breeze brushed against his face, carrying the scent of the earth and the warmth of the late summer sun. He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. It was peaceful. He needed that.
With steady steps, he began walking through the narrow dirt paths of his village. As he passed by a familiar house, he slowed down.
It belonged to Doctor Ben—a kind-hearted man who had once been a respected physician in Son of York. He was exiled after a grave mistake cost him everything. Now, he lived a quiet life here, offering treatment to villagers, often for little or no money.
Ben was outside, watering his garden. When he saw John, he waved eagerly.
"Hey! Johnny boy! Come here for a sec, will ya?"
John hesitated, then approached with a polite but nervous smile. "Good morning, Mr. Ben."
"Morning! How's life treating you, John? Doing alright?"
"Slowly but steadily."
"Right... You know, I barely see you these days."
"I've been working."
"Working, huh?" Ben squinted at him. "You used to hang out with us all the time."
"That was... back when I was a kid."
"Childhood really is a precious thing, isn't it?" Ben said softly. Then his tone shifted. "Look, John—I'm not trying to guilt trip you. But ever since you came back from Son of York at eighteen, you've changed. You barely talk to me anymore. You don't hang out with Lara. I'm worried about you. You need to let the past go."
John's expression dropped. He looked at the ground. His lips tightened. He couldn't bring himself to meet Ben's eyes.
Just then, a voice called out from inside the house.
"Father!"
Ben glanced toward the door. "Ah, Lara had something she wanted to tell you. I'll call her—"
"No! I mean—" John interrupted, flustered. "I've gotta go. I'm kind of in a rush. We'll talk later, alright?"
Before Ben could say another word, John turned and hurried off. A moment later, Lara stepped outside.
"Dad, who were you talking to?"
Ben sighed. "It was John."
Lara's eyes widened. "John?! Really? I had something to tell him—why did you let him go?!"
"I didn't," Ben replied with a faint, helpless smile. "He sort of... ran away."
He looked down the road. "Poor guy."
Meanwhile, John had reached the edge of the village, where the dirt road met the cracked pavement of the main highway. His footsteps slowed.
He stared at the horizon, thoughts swirling.
"Ben… he's Lara's father. We used to play together every day as kids. But… things changed. A lot changed. Maybe too much."
John stood at the edge of the main highway, eyes scanning the empty road stretching toward the horizon.
Not a single car in sight.
He sighed. "Guess I'm walking." With a resigned shrug, he took his first steps down the cracked pavement.
But then—a car horn blared behind him.
Startled, John turned. A beat-up old sedan rolled out of the village road, its engine coughing and sputtering. The car pulled up beside him, and the window creaked halfway down to reveal a familiar face—Rodry, grinning through a scruffy black beard.
"Johnny!" he called. "Need a ride?"
John smiled despite himself. "Rodry! Sup? How you doin'?"
"Pretty nice, pretty nice! Where to?"
"To the ancient Assassin temple—about fifteen kilometers southwest. You know where that is?"
"Know it? I've been there a dozen times! Get in!" Rodry popped open the passenger door.
John climbed in—but immediately recoiled. A foul, stinging smell hit him square in the face.
He narrowed his eyes. "You drinking again?"
Rodry waved a hand, almost insulted. "No-no-no! Of course not! Just look at me—I'm totally sober!" He hiccuped and grinned.
John pinched the bridge of his nose. "I told you to stop drinking that garbage."
"Ahh, come on, don't be so mad!"
"Fine. Just drive."
"Now we're talking!" Rodry slammed his foot on the gas—and the car jerked forward like a runaway cart.
The old vehicle zigzagged left and right as if dodging imaginary obstacles. Rodry was a taxi driver, technically. He worked the village routes, though most people avoided his rides for obvious reasons. Still, he had his quirks—most notably, his endless praise for a son no one had ever seen.
"My son's brilliant!" he'd often say. "Top university in Great Britain!" Yet whenever anyone asked about the boy, the story fell quiet.
John didn't push it. He'd known Rodry since returning to the village six years ago. In that time, they had become close—celebrating birthdays, New Year's, and even a few lonely holidays together. Though much older, Rodry had never minded John's direct tone or casual disrespect. If anything, it seemed like... he welcomed it.
As if he believed he deserved it.
Rodry was the only person John really spoke to anymore. And yet, John could never shake the feeling—something had happened to him. Something bad. He just didn't know what.
Suddenly, the car skidded to a stop beside a crumbling ruin.
John blinked. "What the hell is this?"
Rodry looked confused. "Ain't this the place?"
"Dumbass," John muttered. "This is the wrong site. Just keep driving—I'll guide you."
"Right, right—my bad!" Rodry swung the car back onto the road, nearly flattening a bush.
Eventually, they reached the forest's edge—and beyond it, the Assassin temple at last.
Rodry stopped the car. John handed him some cash. "Thanks. Drive safe, alright?"
"You got it, kid!" Rodry grinned as he spun the wheel and peeled away, disappearing between the trees like a storm with wheels.
John watched the car fade. A frown crept onto his face.
"I hope he makes it home safe..."
He turned to face the temple.
The ancient Assassin temple stood deep within the forest, cloaked in shadow and silence. Nature had claimed the place long ago. Its stone entrance was blocked by enormous boulders, and three towering spires jutted upward, half-devoured by vines. Around the structure, a cluster of small, moss-covered houses lay scattered—perhaps once used by the temple's caretakers.
John gazed at it all. "Heh... Time to relive some childhood memories, huh?" he whispered.
He headed toward the smaller buildings first. The main entrance was sealed shut, and he doubted he had the tools to clear it. Weaving through the overgrowth, he spotted one house nestled beneath the thick branches of an ancient tree.
The structure was barely visible—its wooden frame collapsed inward, covered in webs and bathed in deep shade. Cautiously, John approached.
He pushed aside the broken door, cleared the cobwebs with a swipe of his arm, and stepped inside. A rotten smell lingered, but it was quiet. In the corner stood a small chest, aged and cracked.
John approached slowly. Kneeling, he lifted the lid.
His breath caught.
Inside was a pile of gold, glinting and untouched. Coins, medallions, old jewelry—it was enough to make a grown man weep.
"Oh my god...!" he gasped. "A chest full of real gold just sitting in this dump?!"
Without hesitation, he started stuffing his backpack.
When he stepped back outside, heart pounding, a fire had been lit inside him. The thrill of discovery, the rush of unexpected treasure. He looked around with wild eyes.
"There's gotta be more," he whispered, already searching the next ruin.
John moved like a man possessed.
He searched through the forgotten village ruins behind the temple, opening every tiny house he could find—clearing out cobwebs, brushing aside dust, and prying open ancient chests. Four more. Each one filled with piles of gold—coins, ingots, ornaments. Untouched. Abandoned.
A treasure hunter's dream.
But in his growing obsession, John never once paused to ask why so much gold was left behind in such a forgotten, decaying place.
With his bag now bulging and his hands shaking from excitement, he glanced back at the towering temple structure. "What if there's more... behind it?" he thought.
And so, he went around.
What he found wasn't more houses—but a field of rubble.
Giant boulders were scattered across the ground as if they'd been hurled by ancient catapults. Shattered stone walls jutted from the earth like broken bones, and fragments of destroyed buildings lay half-buried in the soil.
John scanned the wreckage and yelled out, "Ah! There's definitely nothing valuable out here!"
Disappointed, he turned and made his way back to the temple's front.
There, he stared at the blocked entrance—massive stones piled against the grand door, sealed for what must have been centuries. For a moment, he just stood there in silence.
Then an idea struck him.
"Wait... what if I climb to the roof? There might be another way in from up there."
John approached the stone heap and began scaling the boulders. When he reached the temple wall, he dug his fingers into narrow cracks and used jutting bricks as makeshift footholds. It wasn't easy, but to John, it felt natural—as if climbing was second nature.
Almost like it was a skill passed down through blood.
Within minutes, he reached the rooftop.
From up there, the world opened up. The dense forest stretched in every direction, endless and alive. And far in the distance, beyond the trees, the massive walled city of Son of York loomed like a sleeping beast.
John stood at the edge of the rooftop, wind brushing through his hair. He stared at the city.
"All this gold... it's worth a lifetime," he thought. "I could buy a new house in Son of York. Leave the village behind. Maybe even quit my dirty job and land something better."
But his focus snapped back to the present. He wasn't done yet.
He began searching across the roof, inspecting the surface for cracks, openings—anything that could lead him inside the temple. Eventually, beneath one of the shorter towers, he found it: a hole, wide enough to crawl through. Possibly blasted open long ago by one of those flying boulders.
He crouched beside it and peered inside.
A room lay beneath, two meters down. Not a long drop. He leaned in closer. "If I jump from here, I'll be fine... right?"
But before he could decide, the stone beneath him crumbled.
"Wha—?"
The world dropped out beneath his feet.
John plummeted into darkness, flailing wildly, arms raised to protect his face. His scream echoed through the hollow temple chamber as he crashed to the ground below. The landing was brutal—stone met bone with a hard, sickening thud.
"Aghhhh!" he cried—not from fear, but from pure pain.
He groaned, eyes squinting, breath ragged. For a moment, he didn't move. Just lay there, staring upward through the broken hole he'd fallen through. Sunlight poured in, cutting a golden beam across his face like a spotlight from the heavens.
He blinked.
Then, with a gasp: "That... was scary."
Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself to his feet.
And there it was.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside, the sight before him made him forget the pain entirely.
He stood in the main hall of the ancient Assassin temple—fully intact, massive in scale, and cloaked in centuries of silence. Pillars lined the stone path, carvings of ancient symbols wrapped around the walls, and statues of hooded figures watched from the shadows.
It was as if time had stopped here.
And John had just awakened it.
John stepped deeper into the main hall, eyes wide with curiosity. The place was massive—stone walls carved with faded symbols, old wooden chairs scattered across the floor, tables blanketed in dust, and in the far corners, rusted sword holders stood like ancient guardians.
"Dang... so this is the place, huh? Pretty big," John muttered to himself, his voice echoing slightly.
As he approached the twin statues at the far end of the room, he paused in front of one. It was a tall stone figure of a hooded man, a long scar carved into the left cheek. He wore a white cloak, and beneath it—dozens of small, hidden swords.
John stared at the figure for a while. "I've come here once," he said under his breath. "But I've never been inside the actual building..."
Below the statue sat an old wooden chair, and on it—a folded letter, stained yellow with age. John's curiosity sparked. He picked it up carefully and unfolded it. The handwriting, though faded, was elegant and legible.
"Finally. My mission of killing the Grand Master Templar and retrieving the Heavenly Fruit, which spanned across the cities of 'York' and 'Sysil,' is done. The enemy is dead, and the artifact is secure. I guess... I'll keep guarding the temple. With the rest of the clan.
– Hawk the Assassin."*
"Hawk, huh? Strange name," John said with a small smirk. "If that artifact is that valuable... I could try to find it and sell it. But the chances of me actually finding it in this... junkyard?" He shook his head. "Pretty low."
He placed the letter back and wandered deeper into the hall.
In one corner, a sword holder stood. Three blades, all covered in a fine layer of dust. Something about one of them pulled at him. Without thinking, John reached for it. His fingers closed around the hilt, and in one smooth motion, he unsheathed the blade and began swinging it around his body.
It moved almost too naturally.
Then—a flash of memory.
A bright spring afternoon. Trees overhead, cherry blossoms falling in slow motion. A breeze brushing gently across his young face. He stood in the exact same stance, sword in hand. And in front of him—
His father.
Smiling, calling out to him.
John blinked. The memory was gone as fast as it had come. He stood frozen in the present, staring blankly at the air in front of him.
The hall around him, grand and mysterious, faded into the background. All he could feel was the ache of something lost long ago.
"Dad..." he whispered.
He looked down at the sword in his hand. His grip, once gentle, had grown tense and strained. He realized his hand was trembling.
With a shaky breath, he dropped the sword. It clattered against the stone.
"What's even the use of this thing? It's old, scrappy... and there's no way I'm carrying it out of here," he muttered, a faint smile flickering on his lips.
But it wasn't a happy smile.
He turned away—and his eyes caught something else. A large table near the back of the room, and on it—two more letters.
He stepped closer and picked up the first one. It was signed by a mysterious figure named simply "M."
"I thought the Templars would wait longer, but... they've already started moving. Son of York is being taken over by those monsters. They wear 'masks'—not physical ones, but metaphorical. They hide their true intentions. But I see through them.
I can't fight back—not directly. It would draw too much attention and reveal the temple's location. So, I made a plan.
All Assassins are to immigrate to one of our last safehouses—in China. It's risky, but if we all gather there, we can build a fortress. A new home. A place where our battle against the Crusaders can continue.
As Master of all Assassins... I have to protect them. They trusted me. I won't fail them."*
John absorbed every word, expression tightening. He placed the letter down and grabbed the second one.
This one was more personal. It was signed by Paul.
*"M took all the Assassins and left to China.
I volunteered to stay behind. I made an oath to protect this temple.
Master told me to settle down... make a family.
Honestly?
I feel a little lonely here.*
– Paul, out."*
John stared at the parchment, then at the hall surrounding him. Suddenly, this place didn't feel empty anymore. It felt... abandoned, but not forgotten.
He set the letters down, stood silently for a moment, and took a deep breath.
Something ancient was hidden here. A truth buried beneath years of dust and memory. And maybe, just maybe...
It had something to do with him.
John stood still, the silence of the temple pressing in like a heavy blanket. His eyes lingered on the second letter he had read—the one signed by Paul.
"Paul, huh? My father was Paul…" he mumbled.
Then, for no apparent reason, he chuckled to himself. "Ha… name sharers."
But there was no joy in that laugh. It was dry, forced—like someone trying to convince themselves they were fine. Something in his expression cracked for just a second. Then he looked away from the table, and his eyes settled on something he hadn't noticed before.
A massive stone stairwell, wide and old, carved into the ground. It descended into total darkness.
John took a breath and began walking. His feet scraped against the rough stone steps, barely able to find footing. The light above him faded quickly, swallowed by the deep black below. He pressed a hand to the cold wall to keep balance, the other stretched out ahead like a blind man feeling his way through a nightmare.
Each step echoed with uncertainty—and the storm in his mind grew louder than ever.
"Strange. Everything here is strange. This place... this isn't just some old temple," he whispered, his thoughts spilling out in scattered words. "It feels more like… some kind of conspiracy base. These letters, this silence, this… familiarity. It's unbearable."
He gritted his teeth, frustration seeping into his voice.
"That 'M' guy. What even was that letter? Templars? In Son of York?"
His voice echoed in the dark.
"That's a city I spent nearly half my life in. I never saw a single hint of anything like that. And the timing—when was that letter even written? Son of York only got its name in the late 1900s. So how could that letter, so old, already use it?"
His breathing quickened.
"Are these letters really ancient? Is this temple some historical relic... or am I missing something massive?"
He stopped walking for a moment, hands pressed against the wall, breathing hard. Then he shook his head and muttered to himself:
"Man, forget it. I'll just find the rest of the gold and get out of this freakshow."
He continued down the stairwell, now moving faster. His earlier caution was gone—replaced by an urgent need to escape the unknown. His boots slapped against the stone. His breath came in short bursts. And then—
A flicker.
He froze.
Up ahead, a faint light glowed at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes widened. His steps quickened. He didn't care about falling anymore; he barely cared about the danger.
He just wanted answers. Or maybe... proof that he wasn't losing his mind.
He reached the bottom, lungs pulling in the damp, still air. And there, in front of him, stretched a long, empty hallway, dimly lit by torches lining the stone walls.
Each flame danced in the silence, steady and strange.
But what struck him most wasn't the light itself.
It was what fueled it.
The torches burned not with wood or oil—but with something deep black. Some kind of unending coal, glowing faintly beneath the fire, as if it were alive. As if the flames had no intention of ever dying.
John blinked, stunned.
"How are these even still lit…?"
He walked slowly forward, eyes darting to each side of the corridor. The shadows twisted and stretched with his movement, dancing like ghosts on the walls.
"No one's been here for decades… maybe centuries… so who lit these?"
He didn't know.
But he did know this:
Whatever this place truly was…
It had been waiting.
And maybe—just maybe—it was waiting for him.
John stepped into the torch-lit hallway, eyes wide with disbelief. The ceiling arched high above him like the spine of some ancient beast, and the flames flickered against the aged stone, casting restless shadows that danced with every breath he took.
He gasped.
"How is this place so big?!"
The echo of his voice rolled through the corridor, swallowed by the vastness of the underground chamber.
In a quieter tone, he muttered,
"This isn't just an ancient temple. It doesn't just store gold... it's hiding something else. Something... bigger."
The air felt thicker now. He took a cautious step forward, boots clicking against the stone. Each footstep echoed, mixing with the constant, low hum of silence.
He scanned the walls, noting the detail of carvings long faded, the torches still impossibly burning, and the smooth, symmetrical ceiling that stretched far beyond his sight.
And then—
He stopped.
Right in front of him was a massive gap in the floor, stretching across the width of the hall. A deep pit yawned below, lined with jagged dripstones, their pointed ends thirsting for anything that might fall in.
But it wasn't just a gap.
Laid across the opening were wooden planks, spaced perfectly apart—a path, but one not meant for the untrained.
John crouched beside the edge, studying the setup.
"This… this isn't for defense," he whispered. "This was used for training. Daily."
He stared at the planks in silence. They were wide enough to land on, but narrow enough to punish mistakes. A jump too short, a step too wide—and you'd be skewered on the rocks below.
He swallowed hard.
"If I want to get to the other side, I have to do it like the Assassins did."
He stood up, backed away from the ledge, and took a deep breath. His eyes narrowed. Muscles tensed.
"Let's go."
He charged forward.
Each jump was precise. His legs landed with force, arms swinging for balance, each breath calculated. Wood creaked beneath his boots, but held. He pushed forward—one leap, then another, and another—until finally, his feet hit solid ground on the other side.
He stumbled slightly, then steadied himself, breath catching in his chest. His body trembled from the adrenaline, but a grin crept onto his face.
"Man… that was harder than I thought."
He stood tall, pride creeping into his voice.
"But I made it. Now I need to keep going."
He turned and faced the rest of the hallway. The torches still flickered. The shadows still danced.
And the mystery still deepened.
John walked deeper into the hallway, the silence around him broken only by the echo of his steps. The walls closed in ever so slightly, the torches still burning as if time had never passed. And then—he stopped.
The path ended.
But not just that—it ended in a massive, open pit, wide enough to match the hallway's full width. He leaned over the edge, eyes squinting into the black void. A gust of cold air hit his face, sharp like a warning. He flinched and stepped back.
With a frustrated sigh, he reached for one of the torches on the wall, pulled it from its iron cradle, and returned to the edge. Carefully, he dropped the flame into the darkness.
The fire spiraled downward—and suddenly, a swarm of bats exploded from the abyss.
John stumbled back and fell, arms shielding his head as wings and screeches filled the air. The bats scattered past him into the hallway above, vanishing into the shadows.
Breathing heavily, he looked up.
"It's… a cave?" he whispered, stunned. "So this entire temple… was built on top of a cave?"
He stood up, brushing the dust from his pants, and edged closer again—more cautiously this time. His eyes scanned the darkness, searching for something, anything—a passage, a ledge, a door.
That's when he saw it.
To the left wall of the pit, barely visible in the flickering light, was another stone entrance. Not far, but far enough that jumping was out of the question.
Hope sparked… then faded.
"There's no way I can reach that…"
But then—something caught his eye. A rusted, handle-like mechanism jutting out from the wall nearby, connected to a pulley system. It dangled, still and forgotten.
Curious, John picked up a loose stone and hurled it at the mechanism. The hit was rough—but it worked. The old machine creaked to life, gears groaning as it rotated, shifting forward toward the other ledge... and then back to its original position.
John stared, realization dawning.
"This… this whole setup—no clear path, no bridge—it's part of the training," he whispered. "A real test."
If the Assassins once used this, then so could he.
He stepped back, heart pounding harder than before. His hands trembled slightly, but he clenched them into fists.
"Alright. Let's go."
He sprinted, then leapt—and caught the handle with a hard, jarring grip. The mechanism jerked forward, reacting to his weight, and began carrying him slowly over the yawning chasm. The air turned cold, the height dizzying.
"If I fall now…"
He shook the thought away.
"Did… did any Assassins ever fail this…?"
The edge came closer. His legs tensed. His shoulders ached.
He prepared to swing and drop—but then it happened.
The old metal groaned—and shattered.
The handle snapped clean off, sending John flying forward.
Luckily, the momentum hurled him onto the ledge. He crashed onto the stone floor, rolled once, and came to a stop, breathless but alive.
He lay there for a second.
"Thank God…" he gasped. "I almost fell… I could've died…"
But before he could finish the thought—
RUMBLE.
A deep, thunderous sound shook the hallway.
John turned his head.
"What… was that?"
His eyes widened in horror.
A giant boulder, twice his size, was spinning toward him from the darkness, tearing down the hallway with terrifying speed.
He scrambled to his feet and ran—no questions, no hesitation. Just instinct.
"A trap?! What the hell is this?! I thought… I thought this would be just another routine dig!"
"This temple… it's alive. It's dangerous. And I was never meant to be here…"
His heart pounded, lungs screamed for air, but he ran. The roar of the boulder grew louder behind him. He could feel it closing in.
And then—he saw it.
Another gap.
Identical to the one before.
His eyes locked onto the planks. He didn't stop to think. Didn't slow down.
"Is this… a test? A second chance? No… it's a warning."
He jumped.
One plank. Then another. Each impact shook his bones, but his body—somehow—began to adjust. React. Adapt. Survive.
He landed on the final ledge and collapsed just as the boulder crashed through the planks behind him, disappearing into the pit below with a violent roar.
Silence returned.
John sat on the ground, gasping, drenched in sweat. He wiped his forehead, hands shaking from the adrenaline.
He turned his head to the right—and saw it.
A short hallway, still lit by flickering torches, and at its end… a door.
He stared at it.
"That's… it?"
John slowly rose to his feet, his body aching, clothes coated in dust. Sweat clung to his skin as he staggered forward, each breath shallow. Before him stood the door — old, solid, silent. He reached for the handle, fingers brushing the cold metal, and with tense caution, he pulled it open.
No trap. No gust of wind. No ancient mechanism.
Just… a room.
A surprisingly clean, fancy room.
Inside, a giant bookshelf loomed on the left wall, packed with old tomes. In the corner stood a sword rack with two weapons resting on it. A chest sat silently beneath the shelf, and in the middle of the room stood a small table and chair.
And in that chair—
A skeleton, dressed in what appeared to be an Assassin's uniform.
John's breath caught in his throat. His chest tightened.
A wave of unbearable blood pressure and rising anxiety hit him like a punch to the gut.
Just a skeleton, he tried to tell himself. Just bones. Just… a corpse.
But something about it…
No. Everything about it was off.
Still, his eyes drifted to the chest in the corner. That familiar golden glimmer peeked through its cracks, and instinct took over. He rushed to it, opened the lid, and smiled.
"Gold," he muttered with relief, "finally."
He stuffed the coins into his backpack, eyes shining with satisfaction. One more chest for the museum's record, and more than enough to secure his paycheck.
But no matter how much he wanted to ignore it…
The skeleton was still sitting there.
Waiting.
John forced himself up. He had to bring something back to the museum anyway—gold alone wouldn't do. Something historical. Something... convincing.
His eyes locked onto the uniform the skeleton wore. His hands trembled. Legs unsteady. Heart pounding so hard it echoed in his ears.
"Wh—what's going on?" he whispered, looking at his own shaking fingers. "Why am I reacting like this? It's just a skeleton, right?"
He tried calming himself down.
"Usually I'd just walk past... so why can't I now? What is it about this one?"
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"Come on, John. You can do this."
Slowly, cautiously, he stepped closer. The uniform was old but well-preserved — a grey Assassin cloak, long boots, a hood, and two sword leashes stitched into the fabric: one for a dagger on the back, and one for a longsword at the waist.
"Hm... could come in handy," he murmured.
He gently pulled on the outfit. The skeleton cracked, bones loosening. Piece by piece, the remains crumbled into a pile on the chair as John removed the uniform.
He stared at the pile for a second.
"Poor guy," he whispered, a hint of guilt in his voice. "How'd he even die like that… sitting down?"
He turned his gaze to the uniform in his hands and smirked.
"No way this thing's fitting in my backpack anyway…"
Without hesitation, John began putting it on — first the trousers, then the coat, adjusting it over his regular clothes. The outfit fit surprisingly well, like it had been made for him. He tightened the boots and raised the hood.
Next, he walked to the sword rack. He pulled out the longsword and dagger and slid them into their designated places. The steel was aged, but still sharp. Still deadly.
Everything felt… complete.
The gold? Secured.
The uniform? Acquired.
The museum would buy this story with no questions asked.
He reached into his pocket for his phone to call Jack—but stopped.
Something else had caught his eye.
A single letter, resting on the table. Its edges were crisp, untouched by time. Its presence felt... deliberate.
John sighed, almost annoyed, and picked it up.
– 1999, March 24th
Report #32
He began to read.
"The moment I faced the light of this world, I was an Assassin. Born to an Assassin family. Lived an Assassin life. I… sacrificed everything for it.
This week was hard. M gave me two orders: First, the massacre of the Teutons. Second, the mission in Son of York. The first… I carried out. But not without cost. In Germany, during the operation, I got distracted. The screams... they got to me.
I was wounded. The surgery I received was faulty.
Then came Son of York. I went in to wipe them out... but my body gave in. I failed. I had to flee.
Now, it's dawn. I'm back at the temple. I've sealed the entrance, planted the traps, set the torches to burn for the next 15 years. Just as I swore I would.
I promised M I'd guard this place, and I will—even in death.
I'm ashamed of the failure. In all my years, I've never botched a mission… not once.
But I have a son. A week ago, he promised he'd finish my work. Said we'd do it together.
I believe in him. He has my blood. He's strong.
Sure, I should be at home right now. But I can't break my oath.
Why am I even writing this? No one's going to read it. I'm going to die, and everything will be forgotten, right?
I don't know. Maybe it's just… hope. Or maybe I'm coping.
Damn, my stomach's bleeding again...
Anyway—
I trust my son. He's going to finish what I couldn't."
– Paul, out.
John stood frozen.
The paper trembled in his hand.
His eyes widened—jaw tight, heart ready to burst.
He didn't say a word.
Just stared at the final line of the letter.
Paul.
John backed away, eyes wide and hands trembling. The letter fell limp in his grip, the words echoing louder than the silence around him.
"What... do you mean? Paul... Paul..." he whispered, the name falling from his lips again and again like a forgotten melody returning to haunt him. And then it struck him.
"That's... my father's name," he said, a tremor in his voice. His gaze drifted back to the brittle pile of bones crumpled in the chair. Horror filled his chest. "This letter mentions... my name."
He stepped closer, a lump tightening in his throat as the truth anchored itself in his soul. "Father..." he whispered.
A floodgate burst within him. Memories—distant, blurred, and long buried—rushed in with painful clarity. His breath shortened.
"I remember... I DID promise him... but..."
His knees buckled as he fell forward, the rage and sorrow intertwining. He screamed, voice raw and guttural,
"I PROMISED THAT WE'D DO IT TOGETHER!"
He tore the letter apart, the shredded paper raining down like bitter snow.
"You... you chose this old temple over your family?! Do you even know what happened after you left?"
His voice cracked, and tears now lined his cheeks. "Listen—my mom died! Not peacefully, but out of loneliness, sorrow, grief! On her deathbed, she called out for you. You were gone. She's gone. And I... I had to live in an orphanage. You know where? In that damn hellish city!"
The words poured out in a hurricane of grief and fury. His fists clenched. His mind burned with a painful memory—a brief, jarring flash of his younger self mercilessly beating a boy, driven by trauma he never learned to name.
John's eyes welled again. His voice fell to a whisper.
"You... don't even know what I've been through."
He sank to his knees, eyes locked onto the skeleton. Then, slowly, with a choked sob, he picked up the skull of the man who had once been his hero—and hurled it against the stone wall. It shattered on impact, fragments scattering across the room like shattered trust.
John sat down, knees to his chest, hugging himself, shaking. His voice barely escaped his lips.
"I hate you..."
The truth about John was this: it was all real.
A week before Paul's departure—on March 17, 1999—he had called John, then just eleven years old, to sit down and talk. Paul revealed everything: that he came from a long line of assassins. That their family had always fought in the shadows. That a war was waged between assassins and their mortal enemies—the Templars.
Paul had made his son promise to help him finish the mission: to destroy every Templar rooted in the city of Son of York.
John, still a child, had believed him.
He swore he would do it. That they'd do it together.
But Paul never returned.
And with his mother dying from the weight of heartbreak, John was sent to live in an orphanage. In that very same city.
He endured beatings, bullying, and humiliation. Every day, he felt smaller, weaker. At eighteen, a man named Jack offered him a job at a museum—a stable place, a stable life. Jack treated John like a son, far more than his own father ever had.
And though John returned to his village when he could, he was never the same. He refused to reconnect with old friends. The smile he once carried as a child vanished. The light in his eyes dimmed.
But now, face to face with the legacy he'd buried so deep inside himself, John couldn't run anymore.
He stared at the skeleton again. His voice, this time, came from a place of resolve.
"I sure made that promise, huh?"
He rose slowly, brushing the dust from his suit. His voice steadied.
"Am I even proud of the life I live now? A life full of guilt, of trauma I tried to ignore? I've always run from the past... but now the truth stands before me. Maybe it's time I stop running."
He approached the shattered skull, the remains of a man he once loved, once admired. The anger hadn't vanished. But neither had the truth.
He exhaled.
"I've always felt like a bird in a cage... trapped by a duty I didn't even understand. But now... I see it clearly. This isn't just about you. It's about me."
John reached for his hood and pulled it up. The fabric cast a shadow over his eyes, but it did not hide the fire now glowing within them.
He fastened the sword at his waist. The dagger on his back. He looked every bit the assassin now.
He stood before what remained of Paul.
"Dad... I still hate you. I hate that you left us. That you chose your clan over your family. But still... I will finish your job."
A pause. A single, trembling breath.
"Not because I love you. But because I'm tired of guilt."
In that moment, John didn't just put on a uniform.
He accepted his legacy. He embraced the truth.
He became... an assassin.
John had awakened.