Gunshots erupted like thunder inside the cabin, deafening and unyielding. Muzzle flashes danced in the choking haze, illuminating blood-soaked seats and shattered glass.
Kores Kruger moved like a storm made flesh ducking low, weaving through rows of bodies, his twin pistols barking in perfect sync. Each shot found its mark; every movement was a deadly dance between life and death.
The left wing of the airliner blazed fiercely, flames licking at the metal as the engines screamed. Smoke clawed at the ceiling, and the cabin was thick with the stench of gunpowder and iron. Passengers lay slumped or sprawled some riddled with bullets, others frozen in terror, hearts halted mid-panic.
"Give it up, Kruger!" someone shouted over the chaos a deep, raspy voice dripping with arrogance. "You can't win this! The boss said you die today! If you'd just stayed loyal, none of this would've happened!"
Kores reloaded in silence, his movements steady and mechanical the practiced grace of a man who had danced with death for too long.
"You fools…" he muttered, leaning out just enough to fire two rounds. Both bullets tore through armor and bone. The voice fell silent forever.
A hail of bullets ripped through the seats in retaliation. Foam and leather exploded around him. Kores dove behind another row, pressing his back against the aisle, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps.
His mind replayed the last conversation he'd had before this nightmare began:
"I'm done. I've given my life to the Organization. I want peace."
"Peace?" The man laughed a cold, heavy sound. "There's no peace for men like us, Kruger."
And now, here he was hunted in the sky, betrayed by his own.
The gunfire paused for a heartbeat, and in that brief silence, he heard something far worse — a deep metallic creak and the whine of an engine choking on its last breath. Then—
BOOM!
The world lurched. The left wing exploded, flames shooting into the sky as metal fragments tore through the cabin. The shockwave slammed Kores to the floor, sending him sprawling. His ears were ringing, and his vision swirled with shades of red and orange.
Through the thick smoke, he caught sight of one of the hitmen panicking and accidentally firing toward the cockpit. A quick burst of gunfire and the pilot's head jerked back. Blood splattered across the controls.
The jet began to nosedive.
"Shit—shit! Pull it up!" someone yelled, desperately reaching for the controls. But it was too late.
The plane plummeted into freefall. Gravity slammed Kores against the floor. Loose shells, bodies, and debris whirled around him as the world blurred into a chaotic mix of fire and motion.
The wind howled through the shattered fuselage, and flames roared, consuming the oxygen. Kores pressed a hand to his bleeding side, fighting to stay conscious.
Amidst the chaos, his keen eyes caught a glimpse of himself in a cracked window — bloodied and smoky, yet still wearing a smirk.
"Guess this is what peace looks like, huh?"
And then, the mountain loomed ahead.
The impact hit like divine retribution — a blinding explosion, metal crumpling in on itself, fire engulfing everything. In that fleeting moment, Kores Kruger, the world's most precise killer, was swallowed by the very inferno he had unleashed.
There was no sound. No pain. Just silence, followed by a blinding light.
Light.
Endless, blinding light.
It consumed everything the sound of the explosion, the searing metal, even the pain itself. For a brief moment, Kores thought he had slipped into hell not flames or torment, but the heavy, dull silence of nothingness.
Then, a voice broke through.
"HEY! HEY, YOU USELESS PIECE OF SHIT!"
Those words hit harder than the crash itself. Kores' eyes flew open, his lungs gasping as if he'd just been yanked from the depths of water. His vision was a blur, shapes slowly coming into focus: a stone courtyard, the clash of steel, and a man looming over him, muscles coiled tight, eyes burning with rage.
"Still not listening, huh?" the man spat. "You can't even hold a sword properly! How fucking beautiful! Not only are you worthless, but now you're deaf too!"
Kores blinked, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His hands shook not from fear, but from the weight of the sword he clutched. His fingers felt smaller. His body, lighter.
"What… the hell…" he murmured, his voice strange, softer, younger.
The man tall, scarred, his training uniform half undone sneered down at him. "Don't mumble! Speak up when I'm talking to you!"
Then it struck him. A flash.
A name. A memory that wasn't his own.
Lyonel Aristeo.
The seventh son of the Aristeo family.
Kores' heartbeat steadied. His assassin's mind kicked into gear, piecing together the fragments. New body. New voice. Memories intertwining.
"Max Brooks…" he whispered. "My… trainer?"
Max paused for a heartbeat, then scoffed. "Oh, so the young master remembers who I am now? Congratulations."
He stepped closer, veins bulging with fury. "Maybe this'll help you focus."
The punch came fast too fast for a normal boy. But Kores wasn't normal. His instincts, sharpened through years of survival, flared to life. He tracked the punch's path, the tension in Max's shoulder, the timing.
He could have dodged.
He didn't.
The blow landed hard against his jaw, sharp and heavy, sending him crashing to the ground. Pain surged through his body, every nerve screaming in protest. This body felt weak, fragile, with untrained muscles and no proper stance.
But it was alive.
As blood trickled from his lip, Kores managed a faint smile, the first genuine one since the crash.
Then he sprang into action.
His hand shot up, quicker than Max anticipated, and he slapped him across the face not hard by Kores' old standards, but perfectly angled and timed. The sound echoed through the courtyard.
Max staggered back, his nose instantly bleeding.
The soldiers watching from the sidelines gasped, murmuring among themselves. No one, absolutely no one, laid a hand on Max Brooks.
Lyonel, or rather Kores, stood up slowly, his breath ragged. His face was bruised, his limbs trembling, but his eyes… those eyes blazed with a fierce intensity, alive with something terrifying.
"Weak body," he muttered to himself, flexing his aching fingers.
Max's fingers brushed against his nose, and when he pulled them away, they were stained red. His face contorted in disbelief and rage. "You…" he growled, his voice wavering between anger and humiliation. "You dare slap my face, you worthless trash!?"
Lyonel froze. His heart raced, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. The eyes of the onlookers bore into his back, expecting him to grovel, to plead—
Instead, he lowered his gaze and forced himself to speak calmly.
"I— I apologize," he said quickly. "It was… instinct."
"Instinct, my foot!" Max shot back, blood still dripping from his lip. "You call that instinct, boy? You can't even swing a sword without tripping over yourself! Don't feed me excuses."
Lyonel remained silent. Inside, Kores was taking stock of everything the courtyard, the layout, the people watching, the strength in Max's stance, even the tone of authority in his voice. His assassin mind was running calculations on autopilot.
I don't know where I am, but I need to adapt quickly, he thought. If this body belongs to the Aristeo family, then I need to figure out who they are before I make my move.
Max turned away, clutching his bleeding nose. He spat on the ground.
"Training ends early today," he snarled. "I've got to treat my nose before it swells shut."
Lyonel closed the door behind him, the sound of Max's footsteps fading away down the corridor. The room was eerily quiet almost too pristine, too flawless. A slight chill hung in the air, the kind that only grand, old estates seemed to possess.
He made his way to the small wooden table by the window and sank into a chair, rubbing his sore jaw. His reflection in the glass stared back at him light brown skin, short white hair, mismatched eyes, and a face that still seemed too youthful to have witnessed real violence.
"Looks like I've landed in some noble house," he muttered to himself.
Leaning back, he let out a deep breath. "Considering this body, I'd guess I'm about twelve give or take. That's one thing figured out."
His eyes wandered to the faint crest etched into the wall a black panther coiled around a sword. The image sparked memories that weren't his own, faces and voices flickering in his mind.
"Aristeo…" he whispered. "Right. The Aristeo family."
Bits of information began to surface fragments from Lyonel's memories intertwined with Kores' own reasoning. A family of nobles fixated on martial arts. Children trained from birth to kill, to hunt, to master the art of assassination.
He frowned. "Damn," he murmured. "This house is sinister. Even worse than the Organization from my past life."
Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on the table. "Assassins breeding assassins. And here I am, stuck in the weakest body among them."
A dry chuckle slipped from his lips. "Seventh son… the useless one, huh?"
He tapped his fingers lightly against the table. "Well, I've read enough stories to recognize this trope. The weak kid everyone looks down on ends up flipping the script. So… I guess I know how to play my part."
His expression hardened, his red and blue eyes shining with quiet determination. "Alright then. If this is my second chance at life, I'll live it on my terms. No master. No orders. Just… perfection."