The western-northern district of Son of York — a place where the air itself smelled of rust and poverty. Buildings stood shoulder to shoulder like prisoners crammed in a cell, their concrete walls scarred and gray. The streets were narrow, the alleys darker than night.
John moved quietly through the maze. His tablet glowed faint blue in his hand, a pulsing dot marking the tower's position. He was close. Every step he took echoed his father's promise in his mind — Finish the mission. Destroy them all.
He stopped beneath a half-broken lamp post. The tower wasn't visible from the street. He'd need a vantage point.
Using his hook blade, he climbed fast — his breath shallow, his boots scraping concrete — until he reached the roof.
From there, he saw it.
The Colossus.
It loomed against the gray horizon — forty meters tall, a steel monolith just short of the city walls. It wasn't just tall; it was alive with weaponry. Turrets sat like insects along its perimeter. The walls bristled with barrels, their black mouths jutting from windows like staring eyes.
John crouched near the ledge. His gaze swept the base.
Six… no, seven guards. Fully armed. Not a single civilian in sight.
The street was dead quiet.
"Strange," he whispered. "No citizens. Not even workers. It's like the place scared them off."
He looked closer. The guards weren't normal templars. Their armor shimmered under the dim sun — flexible but metallic, plated to move like muscle. Their faces were hidden behind silver masks, each eye covered by dark glass. Strange gear lined their arms — four sharp, arrow-like hooks connected to wire coils running up to their shoulders. Small metal canisters hissed faintly on their backs.
Unlike normal Templars, No any batons. Only twin daggers strapped to their waists and a pair of pistols right next to them.
John narrowed his eyes and activated his Hawk Vision.
The world bled into shades of gold and red — and the guards lit up crimson.
"Templars," he muttered. "But different… silent. No chatter. No pattern." His expression hardened. "I need to tread carefully."
He watched a little longer — but down below, they were watching back.
One of the masked guards turned his head slightly. Through the glowing lenses of his mask, the world flickered with digital precision. The silhouette of John on the rooftop was magnified, scanned, dissected. Data streamed across his vision — body temperature, heart rate, facial recognition — and then an old image appeared beside it: a blurred photo from the ancient temple.
The system flashed red.
TARGET IDENTIFIED: ASSASSIN. CAPTURE ALIVE.
The templar turned to his comrade and made a silent gesture — two fingers toward the sky. The man nodded.
Then, with practiced calm, the templar shifted his weight, setting his right foot back. The gas canister on his back hissed. He pointed both arms upward — not at John, but at the concrete beneath him — and pressed a trigger on his glove.
Click.
Four metal hooks shot out like lightning, embedding deep into the wall. The wires went taut — and in the next instant, the templar launched himself upward like a human missile. Gas jets screamed from his back, propelling him straight toward the roof.
John flinched at the sudden sound — a metallic shriek cutting through the air. Before he could process it, the templar crashed onto the ledge where he stood, landing with an explosion of dust and broken stone.
Chunks of concrete flew. The impact left a crater under the templar's boots.
John stumbled back, eyes wide.
"What the— how did he— from the ground!?"
The figure rose from the smoke. Steam hissed from the vents on his shoulders. His mask glowed faint blue in the firelight.
That moment, John knew.
This wasn't an ordinary soldier.
Then John understood what stood before him.
A soldier sculpted in discipline.
A phantom of discipline and slaughter.
The ultimate protector of the Templar order —
an Elite Templar.
John's heart lurched. His hand darted for his sword, fingers wrapping around the hilt—
but before the blade even left the sheath, the Templar lunged.
A blur.
A crushing blow slammed into John's stomach.
He flew backward—spinning, choking, blood spraying from his mouth as pain ignited through his body. His knees hit the concrete hard, his breath lost, but his will—unyielding—forced him to stand again.
He rose, trembling, sword finally unsheathed, the steel trembling under his own grip.
The Templar stood at the other end of the rooftop, silent as a machine. He tilted his head—slowly—to one side, as if studying John like prey. Then, with a faint sigh muffled by his mask, he drew two blades from his waist. One in each hand.
He charged.
The first strike crashed into John's sword—
the impact shattered the air, the rooftop cracking beneath their feet. The second slash came immediately after—so fast John barely saw it. He couldn't parry, couldn't counter. He leapt back, his instincts screaming that this wasn't a fight he could win.
His eyes locked on the man's mask. The Templar wasn't looking at his own weapons, not even glancing at John's defense—his focus was absolute. Unbroken. The gaze of a soldier trained to perfection.
Then the man reached for his pistols.
Two quick clicks—and twin flashes.
John barely dodged as the bullets zipped past, embedding into the ground. The air hissed—the rounds were tranquilizers. He's not trying to kill me... they want me alive.
But by the time the Templar's mask refocused, John was gone.
The soldier dashed to the edge, scanning the maze of rooftops—
and spotted him. The assassin was running, leaping across the narrow beams and pipes jutting out from the walls, his breath ragged, every jump a gamble.
The Templar exhaled sharply, annoyed.
Then he jumped.
Mid-fall, his gauntlets fired—four hooks bursting from the metal shells on his arms. The wires coiled around nearby walls, the gas canister on his back hissed—and he swung forward, slicing through the smoke like a living projectile.
He chased John like a shadow—darting between buildings, recoiling his wires, firing them again in perfect rhythm. The city became his web.
John looked back mid-run, eyes wide, catching a glimpse of the metallic predator soaring through the air. The Templar twisted mid-swing, aligning both cables—spun a full 360—and catapulted himself faster.
This man... what is he!? John thought, before the next set of hooks fired—straight toward him. The metal spears sliced through the air, barely missing his chest by inches. He dodged, but lost footing.
He slipped.
John screamed as gravity claimed him—
but his hook blade snapped out, clinging desperately to the crumbling wall. His arm wrenched, pain ripping through his shoulder as he dangled over the edge.
Above him, the Templar landed on the ledge with a heavy thud.
The impact shattered concrete, carving a crater in the rooftop. Dust and smoke poured out, engulfing the two in a choking haze.
Through it all, the soldier stood motionless—his visor glowing faintly in the gray fog—staring down at John, who clung to the wall, trembling, sweat dripping from his face.
Predator above. Prey below.
The air between them thick with silence… and inevitability.
"This… this is not a man," John thought, staring deep into that faceless mask. "Normal men don't fight like this. This… is a monster. Bound to hunt me down. Precise. Strong. Powerful."
Below him, the streets stretched like a graveyard waiting for him to fall in. His legs dangled, his mind screamed for escape. There's no way I can win this fight…
But his determination refused to die.
He grit his teeth and roared into the open air, voice echoing through the alleys:
"I don't care if I die in this! When I meet my father in hell, I'll tell him that I tried my absolute best! I don't care how strong you are! I don't care what you stand for! I don't care if I die!"
With a fierce yank, he drew his dagger and flipped it in reverse grip, pressing it to his chest like a shield.
"So you don't care either, huh?! COME AT ME, BASTARD!!!"
The templar stared at him for a long, motionless moment. Then, as if silently accepting the challenge, he leapt.
He dove down headfirst, blades drawn mid-fall. The twin swords clashed with John's dagger in a violent explosion of sparks that painted the walls orange. The impact screamed like thunder.
John's arms shook. His throat tore with the force of his scream. Gravity took hold—and the templar, still locked in the clash, fell even lower than him.
Then John laughed. A wild, broken laugh.
"You dumb piece of junk! You never fell to the ground because of gravity, right?! You were too focused on ME—not on the world around you! Well, that's your demise now!"
It wasn't a victory cry. It was the scream of desperation itself.
The templar released his swords mid-fall and, with terrifying precision, fired his hooks at the wall far above John. The steel cables caught, the gas can hissed—and he rocketed upward legs facing John.
He knew running was his only option. If he stayed, he'd die.
He broke through an apartment window, shards of glass slicing his arms, and dove inside. The templar crashed into the wall seconds later, leaving a crater where John had been. If John hadn't moved, he'd be nothing but dust.
The templar rose through the steam, stepped through the shattered window, and followed—relentless.
John sprinted through the narrow apartment halls, lungs burning, heart hammering. He broke through a door, stumbled down a stairwell, the templar's metal steps echoing right behind him.
The walls closed in around him like a trap.
The templar fired his hooks forward; the wires tore through the plaster and reeled him in. In a single motion, he lunged and struck the back of John's head with a brutal, gloved fist.
The blow was monstrous. John's skull rang. Blood burst from his nose and mouth. His vision faded into fog.
But it wasn't over.
The templar seized him by the hair and slammed him into the ground with a thundering crack. The floor split beneath them.
John's dagger fell from his hand. His body went limp. The mask's reflection shimmered in John's half-open eyes before they rolled back and shut.
The templar leaned over, took off John's mask, and looked at the unconscious assassin beneath him.
"Pathetic…" he muttered. "So this is the man suspected of destroying the western-southern tower? Unbelievable."
He exhaled through gritted teeth, the faintest hint of frustration breaking through his stoic voice. "Though… he did give me some annoying run time."
He hoisted John's limp body over his shoulder.
"But the assassin is a goner now. A threat… neutralized."
A metallic smile tugged under his mask. Cold. Mocking. Almost proud.
The templar strode down the hallway, boots echoing against cracked concrete, John's limp body slung over his shoulder.
But inside John's fading mind, a voice was shouting — clear, desperate, familiar.
"Get up! Get up, John! You need to get up right now! If you don't, you'll die! Please… fight! Fight for your life, for everything! FIGHT!"
That voice… he knew it.
It filled him with equal parts anger and longing — like a ghost that never left.
A chill shot through his spine. His eyes snapped open.
He saw the templar's back, the movement of heavy steps, the gas can swaying with each stride. Acting on pure instinct, John twisted his arm. His hidden blade flicked out and stabbed deep into the templar's leg.
The man shouted, stumbling. "What—?! How!? How did you wake up again!?"
John fell to the ground, rolled, and before the templar could aim his gear, he lunged for the gas can on the man's back and slashed it open. Gas hissed violently, spraying into the hall like a white storm.
The templar tried to recover, but John was already on him. He tore open the man's mask and slammed his fist into his face — once, twice, again, again. The sound of each punch echoed off the walls, dull and heavy, as if he were pounding every buried grief out of himself.
By the end, his hand was slick with blood.
He stopped.
Breathing ragged, chest heaving.
The templar's mask lay shattered. Beneath it, a man — maybe thirty — bloodied, battered, eyes rolled back. He mumbled something… and John hit him once more, harder than before. Then silence.
The man collapsed. John staggered beside him and fell, barely able to breathe.
The voice echoed again, faint but burning: "Fight… John…"
He whispered, trembling, "What was that…? That voice… I knew it… I remember…" His throat tightened. "But I can't say it. It hurts…"
He curled into himself, exhausted, shivering.
And so ended the fight.
John had lost — crushed in a pure one-on-one battle.
He only survived because of chance… or because of that voice that reached for him through the dark — a voice he feared to name.