John stood in silence, the weight of the room pressing down on him like the dust that clung to every surface. His eyes remained fixed on the crumbling remains of his father's skeleton—now still, now silent—forever frozen in the last decision he had made.
John clenched his fists and muttered, "Next objective: get out of here."
He paced, frustration bubbling to the surface. Placing both hands on his hips, he sighed. "Since the plan's changed… I can't ask Jack for help anymore."
His eyes narrowed as he scanned the room, searching for alternatives. "There has to be another way out. My father wouldn't lock himself in a place like this without a way to get back out."
His gaze landed on the bookshelf. At first glance, it was nothing more than a cluttered shelf filled with dusty, crooked books. But there—behind the gaps—he noticed something. The texture and color of the wall behind the shelf didn't match the rest of the room. It was subtle… but enough.
John stepped closer and placed both hands on the bookshelf. With a grunt, he shoved it aside, inch by inch. The wooden shelf scraped against the stone floor, revealing just enough space for him to slip through.
Behind it stood a small, narrow panel embedded in the wall. A tiny handle stuck out like a forgotten key in an ancient lock.
John didn't hesitate. He grabbed it and gave it a firm pull.
Click.
The wall groaned. The hidden door creaked open on ancient hinges, revealing a dim shaft—and a metal ladder reaching upward into darkness.
He paused. He knew what this meant.
He turned back to the room one last time. His eyes found the shattered skull resting in the corner, half-lit by the flickering torchlight.
"Father," he whispered, voice steady now. "I've just signed up for a long mission. The one you left behind for me. I won't disappoint you."
A final breath, a nod of respect, and John grabbed the ladder.
As he began climbing, torchlight fading behind him, something peculiar happened.
In the silence of the room, where dust never stirred and time never moved, the fractured skull—just for a second—shifted ever so slightly.
A faint curve, as if a smile had crept across what was once a father's face.
And for a moment, though no one would ever see it… it looked like peace.
John kept climbing.
The ladder was narrow, surrounded by thick darkness pressing in on all sides. He could barely see, but high above, a small shaft of light peeked through a gap in the stone. With effort, he reached it, crouched, and peeked through.
To his surprise, beyond the tiny slit was a familiar sight—the same hallway he'd first entered. The temple's main hall.
John gritted his teeth and pressed his shoulder against the wall. Slowly, the disguised stone gave way, crumbling outward in chunks. Debris fell and shattered across the floor below. Dust billowed up around him, making him cough as he pushed himself through the opening.
And just like that—he was back.
Back in the same room where it all began.
"Came back where I started…" he muttered, breathless. "Now what?"
Suddenly—
"O-O-O-PEN!"
A loud, commanding voice thundered through the air, and in the very next second—BOOM!
The blocked entrance exploded open. Boulders and rocks were hurled across the hall like shrapnel. John had no time to react. Chunks of stone smashed into his body—his stomach, his legs, his arms. He staggered and collapsed as a sharp rock ripped through his left cheek, leaving a deep, bleeding gash.
He was thrown against the wall, half-buried under rubble.
Dust now blanketed the hall, but beyond it, sunlight poured through the now-open entrance.
And from that light, a man stepped in.
He was smiling.
Helmeted, armored in grey, with a thick vest and heavy plating across his arms and legs. He glanced around the hall casually, as if admiring the scenery, then shouted over his shoulder:
"Hey! Come right in, it's safe!"
Another voice echoed from outside. "Right, hold on! Lemme just restock all the explosives!"
Still lying beneath scattered debris, John squinted through the dust, trying to focus.
"Who... is that?" he muttered, breath ragged.
As he pushed himself up and began clearing off the rubble, something clicked under his elbow. Fastened to his forearm, hidden beneath the cloth of the assassin uniform—was a metallic shell. Instinctively, he flexed his arm.
SHHNK!
A long, sharp blade shot out with a metallic whisper.
John gasped.
"A hidden blade...?"
His heart pounded. He looked at the blade, then back to the man.
Then, gripping the handle tightly, he stood.
Step by step, he approached, trying not to draw attention. He just needed to understand—who this man was. Why he had blown open the temple. Why he was so at ease here.
But the man noticed.
He turned.
And locked eyes with John.
The tension was immediate. Despite John holding a weapon that could kill with a single jab, the man didn't flinch. He didn't reach for a gun, didn't raise his hands. No fear. Just confidence.
He reached instead for his belt, unclipped a compact piece of metal, and—click.
With a flash, the object extended and transformed into a baton.
It surged with electricity.
John's breath caught.
"An electric baton…"
And before he could react—CRACK!
The baton came swinging down at his head.
John instinctively raised his hidden blade, clanging the strike aside just in time. Sparks danced from the impact. The man grinned.
"Hey! There's a frickin' assassin in here! Come here, fast!"
But no one answered.
John backed away slightly, the pain in his limbs catching up to him. He steadied himself, hidden blade raised.
"Who are you?" he asked, voice strained.
The man tilted his head, confused. "You don't know? Aren't you an assassin?"
"I am!" John shouted.
The man chuckled. Then his smile sharpened into something darker.
"Well then, I'm someone you've been trained to hate. Someone who serves the Order, who fights for complete control over the world. Someone hated... by the Earth itself."
He leaned forward.
"I... am a Templar."
And with a wild grin, he pressed forward, baton crackling as he tried to shove John to the ground.
John stared at the man in front of him — the confident smirk, the armored uniform, the unshakable stance. His grip on the hidden blade tightened. He'd fought before, countless times in the orphanage. But this was different. Back then, he fought for pride. For dignity.
Now… he was fighting for his life.
The man looked him over like a prize at auction.
"Hm... we came here just to dig up old crap — papers, bones, who knows what. I wasn't expecting to find a real assassin," the man sneered. "But hey, if I bag you, I might just get a raise."
He laughed as if this were some casual encounter, not a deadly clash of fate. "You know, finding your kind these days is rare. I don't even know where the hell the rest of you are now."
He lunged again, baton sparking with electricity. John staggered back, just barely keeping up.
Did I get followed? his mind screamed. Did I make a mistake that led them here?
Out loud, breathless, he asked, "Did you… know I was here?"
The man paused mid-swing, a little surprised. "Not really. We're just here for the history lesson. You? You're a bonus."
He chuckled, pulled something from his belt — a metal cylinder capped with a sharp needle. A syringe.
"Enough talk. Let's put you to sleep."
John's heart pounded. His thoughts raced. Run outside? No—more of them out there. Underground hallway? A dead end…
Panic nearly overtook him — until he noticed something.
His left arm. Under the elbow: another metal shell, slightly different from the first. This one… had a hooked end.
A second hidden blade. A hook blade.
John narrowed his eyes.
He waited. The man, overconfident, raised the baton lazily, syringe still clutched in the other hand. His grip's weak, John thought. He's not ready.
With a burst of movement, John lunged. The hook blade shot forward — and struck.
The man let out a choking sound as the blade pierced his side, sliding through the vest at his abdomen. Blood sprayed onto the floor.
He stumbled, gasping. His eyes glazed over with disbelief. "H-how... You looked... so weak..." A pained smile twisted his face. "I remember that outfit. I've fought you before... Haven't I?"
Then he collapsed. The baton hit the floor. His body followed.
John fell to his knees, panting beside him.
"I… killed him," he whispered. His hands trembled. His arms were still locked in that last motion. "I really… killed someone…"
But it wasn't guilt he felt.
No — something else. Something cold and strange twisting in his gut. An odd hollowness.
So this is what killing feels like.
He knelt in silence, the man's blood soaking into the stone beneath them. Then, something around the man's neck caught his eye — a medallion.
John took it. One side bore a cross — the ancient symbol of the Templars.
But the other?
Syntera Corp.
John's stomach turned.
"What…? Syntera? The ad company?" His brow furrowed. "Are Templars and Syntera… connected?"
His thoughts spiraled — but were cut short by the sound of boots thundering down the hall.
Two more men burst in. Both wore the same armor. One stopped in his tracks when he saw the body.
"Marcus!" he shouted.
The other didn't hesitate. "You'll pay for this!" he screamed, drawing a pistol.
Gunfire erupted.
John dove, grabbing the medallion and sprinting toward the only exit he had left — the narrow passage behind the bookshelf.
Bullets whizzed past as he clambered onto the ladder. He didn't look back.
"Find him!" one of the Templars barked. "He went up!"
John climbed, breath sharp, the walls around him growing narrower with every step. The dark stone scraped his shoulders. Higher. Higher.
Until finally, there it was — a trapdoor above his head.
With all the strength he had left, John pushed. The hatch creaked open — and light poured in.
He crawled out onto the rooftop of the temple's east tower.
Wind howled. His cheek still bled from the shrapnel earlier, and now the wind caught the blood, pulling thin trails into the air.
He looked around — the vast forest beyond, the dirt road he arrived on, and far in the distance, the cold gray walls of the city of Son of York. Down below, near the blown-open entrance of the temple, he spotted two sleek, black Syntera Corp vehicles.
Templars. Here. Under corporate disguise.
He turned slowly toward the edge of the tower — the back side of the temple. There, nestled far below, sat a giant pile of hay.
His breath caught.
"No," he muttered. "No, I can't… It's too high! If I jump, I'll die—"
His fingers clutched an old antenna, hugging it like a lifeline.
"I… I can't."
And then — a memory.
Not from this temple. Not from the orphanage. Not from his father.
A rooftop. A city block. He was younger. A boy stood beside him, smiling brightly.
"Let's jump!" the boy said.
John shook his head. "No! I'm… I'm scared!"
The boy grinned wider. "Scared of what?"
John swallowed. "Of dying…"
"Hmph. Everyone is. But sometimes, you've gotta have faith in the world. Commit to it." The boy winked. "Commit... the leap of faith."
Then the memory faded.
John looked at his hands. He let go of the antenna.
"Faith in the world…"
He stepped back. Took a breath.
"If I keep clinging to fear like this... I'll never fulfill my promise. I'll never escape this cage."
He ran.
And then he leapt.
For a split second, he flew. Weightless. Free. Like a bird finally freed from its cage.
He crashed into the hay below. Darkness enveloped him. Dirt and dust. His ears rang.
Then light returned.
He opened his eyes, coughing — but alive.
He had survived the fall.
John crawled out of the hay, rose to his feet, and without looking back, sprinted into the forest.
Behind him, the temple burned with secrets.
The Templars would search. But John was gone.
And now, he had more than a past.
He had a mission.
John didn't stop running.
Branches whipped against his arms, leaves crunched underfoot, and the wind rushed past his ears like a warning. He didn't dare look back. The weight of the medallion he'd taken pulsed in his pocket like it was alive — a symbol of the man he had killed.
And then — he heard it.
The gentle, calming sound of water. A river.
He slowed to a jog, then a walk, and finally staggered to a stop at the riverbank. His legs gave out beneath him, and he dropped to his knees, staring into the rushing water. His reflection was a blur — bloodied, broken, unrecognizable.
With shaking hands, John scooped up water and splashed it onto his face. Crimson droplets from his gashed cheek mixed with the river, creating thin swirls of red. He drank next — sloppily, desperately — like a wild animal after days in the desert. Each gulp was messy, his breath ragged and uneven. His heart pounded as if it was still running, even though his body had stopped.
Eventually, his pulse slowed. He lay down on the grass beside the river, the earth cool beneath him. Above, the trees swayed gently, letting streaks of sunlight fall between the leaves. He stared up at them — silent, wide-eyed, lost.
"That man… Marcus… a Templar. I killed him."
He blinked. The world felt surreal, weightless — as if the air itself didn't know what to do with him now.
"What did he say before dying? That he recognized my father's outfit… that he'd fought me before? No — not me. My father. That means Marcus and Dad… they fought in Son of York. But if Marcus lived and Dad didn't…"
A chill ran through him.
"I killed someone my father couldn't."
The thought lingered, heavy and sharp.
"If I'm really going to walk into that city and kill every last Templar… I need to be ready for what that means. Not just the fighting… but the killing. Again and again."
He sat up and took one final look at the river. The red had faded. The flow had moved on, uncaring. So would he.
John stood. His eyes were clearer now.
"There's too much happening… the Syntera Corp medallion… the Templar connection… Marcus showing up in the same place at the same time as me. This isn't coincidence. Dad… you must've known something."
He broke into a run once more — this time toward the village. Toward home.
Nightfall.
Jack's name lit up his phone screen again.
John, where the heck are you?! You're not answering. Are you okay? We're worried!
But John never replied.
He knew the silence would hurt Jack. But dragging Jack into this — even by telling him what happened — could put his only father figure in danger. The guilt sank in immediately. Yet he held onto it. He had to.
The sun had set by the time he reached his childhood home. The air was cool. Familiar.
He stood at the doorstep for a long moment, then pushed open the door and slipped inside.
His goal was simple: first aid.
He stumbled to the bathroom, peeled off his tattered assassin uniform, and tossed it into the washing machine. Then he turned on the water and stepped into the shower. Cold streams hit his skin, but it didn't matter. His mind was louder than the water.
"Two Templars saw me. If they report to their superiors, they'll know someone's alive — someone still wearing this uniform. But… I had my hood on. They couldn't have seen my face clearly."
He bit his lip, focused. As soon as the water stopped, he grabbed a needle and a roll of thread. No doctor. No Ben. He wasn't ready to see anyone from his past — not yet.
He stared at the mirror. The wound on his cheek was jagged and fresh.
With shaking hands, he began to sew.
One pierce.
Then another.
And another.
It took over an hour — each stitch a stab of pain and memory. But eventually, the wound stopped bleeding. It wasn't clean. But it was closed.
He wrapped it in gauze and dressed in his usual clothes. The uniform could wait.
Finally, he stood before the forbidden room.
Paul's workspace.
Back then, Paul would lock the door and spend hours inside — writing letters, drawing diagrams, studying papers John never understood. After his disappearance, John's mother had sealed the room completely — by dragging a bookshelf in front of it.
Out of sadness? Anger? Protection?
John didn't know. But now… the answers might be inside.
He braced himself and pushed. Dusty cobwebs scattered. The shelf groaned, then shifted.
Behind it — the old wooden door, its knob rusted.
John turned the handle. Locked.
He sighed — and kicked.
The door burst open with a creak and a puff of old air. A terrible smell hit him like a slap — mildew, mold… and something else. Like a long-dead mouse.
He stepped inside.
The light switch didn't work.
Of course.
He opened the curtain instead. Sunlight spilled in, weak and golden. It revealed everything.
A lonely table stood in the center. A large document rack towered to one side, like a miniature archive. And behind the desk… an old armor stand.
It used to hold Paul's assassin uniform.
John stood silently, the dust dancing in the light like ghosts.
"Well… let's search for the answers."
He moved to the rack and began opening drawers, pulling out documents one by one — reports, letters, scraps, scribbles. Pages of a life lived in shadows.
A father's past.
A legacy waiting to be uncovered.