The lobby was crowded, a steady stream of suits and uniforms filling the hall. Mark and Luke pushed through, exchanging quick greetings with Clara and the templar still fuming over his stolen tablet, before slipping toward the elevators at the far wall.
Inside, Mark pressed the button for the highest floor—the Master Templar's office. The ascent began in silence, the hum of machinery filling the void between them. Mark leaned casually against the railing, but Luke's face betrayed his unease, his brow creased, his eyes restless.
"Luke," Mark said softly, placing a reassuring hand on his brother's shoulder. "Don't be like this. We talked about it last night, didn't we? Marcus's death hit me too, but come on—we promised each other. We'll take revenge."
Luke's shoulders slumped. He let out a weary sigh. "I know… I said I'd be stronger, colder. But… we should've arrived in the city yesterday. We're late because of me. If he punishes us—it'll be my fault."
Mark tilted his head, forcing his brother to meet his eyes. His voice grew steady, firm. "Look at me. I've got you. We're brothers. Whatever happens, we've got each other's backs."
Luke's lips curled into a faint, apologetic smile. "Yeah… sorry."
Before Mark could reply, the elevator slowed and stopped midway. The doors slid open to reveal a man in a black suit stepping inside. His presence alone carried authority; his posture was rigid, his expression sharp. He took position between the brothers and asked curtly, "Which floor?"
"To the Master Templar's office," Mark replied.
The man nodded, his gaze fixed forward. "Hmph. Seems everyone wants a piece of him lately. Templars, bureaucrats, politicians—anyone who can get their foot through his door. And me? I'm left to rearrange his schedule, shift meetings, balance his damned ambitions." His voice carried equal parts irritation and admiration. "The man's plans… they're vast. Too vast."
He didn't elaborate. When the elevator stopped at the floor below the highest, he stepped out without another word.
Mark and Luke continued their ascent until the doors finally opened.
The highest floor had no hallways, no cluster of offices. Only one enormous room stretched before them—an office carved to reflect its master's stature. Its walls gleamed white, its ceiling arched wide, and a single massive window dominated the far side, bathing the space in sunlight and offering a panoramic view of the city sprawling beneath.
At the center of it all was a simple table and a lone chair. And seated there, the Master Templar himself.
Mark straightened instantly. "Permission to enter, sir!"
"Permission granted!" the man barked back, mimicking Mark's tone with playful exaggeration. He rose from his chair, a grin splitting his face. His brown jacket hung loosely over black jeans, and a cross-shaped medallion swung gently from his neck. His dark hair framed a face that looked too young, too relaxed, for the weight of his position.
"Whadd'up, boys? Took your sweet time, didn't you?" he asked, voice laced with almost childlike humor.
Mark cleared his throat. "Sir, the truth is… my little brother here had a breakdown." He went on to explain: Marcus's death, Luke's visible anguish, the panic attack on the road back, the car pulled over, the water offered, the words of comfort. "I couldn't just ignore him and report in. He's my brother, sir. His health came first."
The Master Templar listened with an easy smile, his gaze shifting to Luke. The boy stiffened, nervous under the weight of those eyes.
"I see… only two months since you joined, isn't it? And you're just twenty?"
Luke nodded hesitantly. "Next month, sir."
The man laughed, light and carefree. "Not even an adult yet, huh? And still you chose to stand beside your brother in this order. Admirable." His tone dropped, briefly shaded with sorrow. "Marcus was the longest-serving among you. Losing him… yes, that is a pity."
Silence lingered for a breath. Then his voice sharpened, serious. "His death struck you deeply, didn't it? Watching a comrade fall?"
Luke's throat tightened, but before he could reply, the Master's expression shifted again, smile returning like a mask sliding back into place. "You'll get used to it." He extended his fist. "Fist bump?"
Luke hesitated, then touched knuckles with him. The moment was brief, but the boy couldn't help noticing the sheer weight and size of the man's hand.
The Master's gaze flicked to Mark. "Now, business. The chip?"
Mark was ready. He produced the device instantly, handing it over with practiced ease. The Master Templar turned it over once in his palm, eyes narrowing, then pocketed it.
"Good. You boys can go. I'll handle the rest." His smile returned, warm and almost fatherly.
"Yes, sir," the brothers said in unison, bowing before retreating to the elevator.
As the doors closed, the Master Templar's grin faded. His shoulders slumped, his eyes hardening with the weight of command. Alone, he inserted the chip into his computer. With a single keystroke, the recorded footage of John was transmitted to every Templar's tablet across the city. Moments later, his voice followed:
"Attention. This is a recording of a deadly Assassin. He must be captured alive. He is the one who slew Templar Marcus—your brother. Study his face, his clothes, his voice. Use them as your trail. But beware his strength."
His voice cut off. Silence filled the room again.
Turning back toward the vast window, the Master Templar stared down at the city, his expression shifting to one of weary calculation.
"That Assassin means nothing to me," he muttered. "First one in decades or not, I care only for the artifact… the Heavenly Fruit hidden by Hawk himself. If I can use this Assassin to find it—then so be it."
His lips twisted into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Roger better have something for me…"
Meanwhile, the elevator hummed as it carried Mark and Luke back down.
Luke finally broke the silence. "That was my first time seeing him. He's… strange. Friendly, almost. Who is he really?"
Mark chuckled softly. "That's the Master Templar of the Son of York. Odd, yeah—but that's who he is. He flips between a laughing child and a ruthless commander. Loyal to the Order, through and through. But take my advice—don't get too close. He only acted like that today because he understood your situation… and because you're still young."
"I'm not a child!" Luke protested. "I'm over eighteen!"
Mark smirked. "Eighteen's still a kid. Twenty makes you an adult."
"C'mon, dude!" Luke groaned.
Mark laughed, shaking his head. He's better. Happier. Maybe… that fist bump gave him a little confidence after all.