Few minutes after the assassination, the figure lay flat on the rooftop overlooking the train station, the metal warm beneath him even though the night air bit cold. The moment the adrenaline burned out of his veins, the exhaustion hit like a truck. His muscles felt heavy, his breath slow—almost too calm for someone who had just killed.
He let his eyes drift up to the sky.
The chaos ability… that cracked-mirror vision…
What happens if he keeps using it?
What happens when it breaks him?
Then the real problem clicked.
The Informant Faction.
He replayed every second with them—the screaming-ears guy, the Manila folder, the "pay or leave" nonsense. A faction built on lies, favors, and double-crosses. They wouldn't just trade secrets for money… they would trade him.
He knew it.
He could already picture the scenario:
Gray's corpse found.
Ash detected.
Whispers spreading.
Someone selling the description: blue cracks in the eyes, white hair strands, chaos distortion.
Someone connecting it to Lian Ye.
He clenched his jaw.
This was his first kill.
Rin Shen took lives before, but those were his choices—Lian Ye had never crossed that line.
Not until tonight.
He shut his eyes.
And then he heard it.
A faint voice, almost like an echo bleeding through his skull: "I don't want war… but I do things if it matters to me…"
His breath hitched.
For a split second, he wasn't on a rooftop.
He was somewhere open. Bright sky. Clean wind.
A place that felt real—too real.
The moment snapped like a thread.
He jolted upright, heart pounding now.
Whatever that was… memory?
Hallucination?
Someone else's voice bleeding into him?
He didn't know.
But one thing punched through the fog with perfect clarity:
He needed to move.
Now.
Before the misfit Faction realized Gray was dead.
Before anyone started tracking chaos residue.
Before his cracked eyes or white strands became rumors.
He pushed himself to his feet, hood falling over his face, and whispered:
"Time to go."
---
Five figures in black slipped silently into the alley only minutes after he vanished. Their footsteps made no sound as they stopped before the scattered pile of ash.
But one of them didn't match the others.
White hair.
Gold-rimmed glasses catching the streetlight.
Eyes that always looked drained—except tonight.
Tonight, he looked… awake.
Tel Suyin.
Vice Captain of the misfit faction of the freedom order.
He stared down at the ashes with that calm, cold tone he was known for.
"Who was this?"
An informant stepped forward—short, sharp expression, notebook already out. She held up the half burnt knife Gray had used earlier.
"Name: Bai Qiren. Codename: Gray. Misfit Faction. Thirty years old. Ability: Illusions."
She flipped the page and continued writing, voice flat.
"We'll take the ashes for analysis. Cause of death unknown."
Tel didn't even look at her.
He just exhaled, turned, and walked away, three officers falling in line behind him like shadows.
Before he rounded the corner, he said one thing:
"Do it."
Then they disappeared.
The girl remained alone.
She knelt, her gloves hovering over the ashes carefully. She noticed something resting on top—
a small cross.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Ashes… prayer… priest…?"
Her pen froze mid-word.
"...saint?"
Then the realization hit so hard she whispered it out loud, breath trembling:
"The Saint of Ashes."
---
Lian Ye slipped back into the Misfit dorms like a ghost. No one questioned him — no one ever did. He dropped onto his bed and pulled the half-filled folder out.
Inside were documents that should've grounded him: birth certificates, old addresses, school awards, even his diploma. But every page felt… wrong. Too polished. Too complete. Like someone didn't gather them — someone built them.
And the more he looked, the more obvious it became:
These weren't memories. They were a story.
A story written for him.
He shut the file and slid it under his bed. He'd need the remaining pages before any of this clicked. Right now, it was all just noise.
Lian Ye laid back and stared at the ceiling, letting the dark swallow the room. He blinked once—
—then he saw him.
A figure. Early twenties. Face blurred like a corrupted photograph. A long, rough black coat. Hood down low.
Only one detail was crystal clear:
The eyes.
Blue. Bright. Deep like an endless Ocean which held secrets.The figure smiling. At him.
Lian Ye's eyes snapped open.
His heart didn't race — but the corner of his mouth curled upward for half a second, without his permission. A soft, lost smile.
Then he noticed it.
Instantly erased it.
He rolled to the side, killed the lights, and pulled the blanket over his head.
For now his plan, low profile. No noise. No patterns.
For now, the Saint of Ashes would sleep like a shadow.