Yo! My name is Tensei Kurosaki. I'm twenty-eight years old… or at least was twenty-eight.And—why the hell am I introducing myself like a fourth grader doing an English presentation?
People have told me I've lived a relatively interesting life so far.Well, if you count getting kidnapped at eleven, killing your kidnappers at twelve, mastering five martial arts by fourteen, soloing all my masters at fifteen, becoming an assassin-for-hire at twenty, surviving a hundred and fifteen assassination attempts by twenty-two, and finally becoming the world's best assassin at twenty-eight… then yeah. I'd say it's been interesting.
Tonight, I'm chilling in a bar — a rare luxury for someone in my line of work — with the only friend who hasn't tried to kill me yet: Ken.We meet up once a month, drink too much, and laugh about how short people's attention spans are when they think they can take you out. Fifteen bottles down, I'm feeling that warm buzz that makes you forget how violent life usually is.
Being the best mercenary in the world comes with perks. I get to fight strong people almost every day, and the pay isn't half bad either.Still, there are a lot of downsides — like people spawning out of absolutely nowhere and trying to kill you at the worst possible times.You know, like right now.
The door blew open.
A hulking figure filled the frame — eight feet of muscle, scars like topography, and a stare so full of bloodlust you could bottle it and sell it vintage. He pointed at me like some washed-up wrestler announcing his comeback. Dramatic. Unnecessary.
"He's a mercenary… and he's here for me." I sighed.
He started rambling about how he'd finally end Phoenix — my mercenary alias.Ken's idea. I hated it. Nobody cared.
Honestly, I was more bored than afraid. He wasn't the first to try, hell, he was the fifth guy this week, and it's not even Tuesday.
I glanced to my side to check Ken's expression and realized… he was gone.Gone like a bad habit — out the window, yelling something about "this isn't my fight."
Can't blame him. Mercs put survival first. Friends are nice, but breathing ranks higher. I'd have done the same. Hell, I have done the same.
I sighed."Next time I see him, I'm kicking his ass. Just for the principle of it."
Turning my attention back to the tower of muscle threatening my existence, I noticed something that really pissed me off — he was taller than me.That alone was enough to make me smile… the kind of smile that hides a deep, simmering anger.
I walked up to him. We exchanged a few words — mostly him gloating about how he'd be the one to end me.Hilarious.I've memorized the names and faces of the top fifty mercenaries in the world.This guy? Doesn't ring a bell.Add that to the fact that the closest anyone's come to killing me was a bullet near my heart — from the second best mercenary in the world — and this clown's chances were less than zero.
The brute lunged. Not subtle. Not clever. Just loud, angry, and handsy.He moved like someone who thought "training" was a personality trait.
I blocked his first swing. Easy.He kept coming.I kept deflecting — mostly because I found it mildly entertaining how dramatic his anger was.
The bar shattered into chaos — splintered stools, spilled drinks, screaming patrons — a perfect mess.
He swung again. I twisted, countered with a kick.He slammed down, cracking the floor where I used to be.Staying still in a mercenary fight is an instant death sentence, and I consider myself fast enough to dodge even with two broken legs.
We went for a hit at the same time and met in the middle.He was fighting for dominance.I was wondering what I'd have for breakfast tomorrow.
Then — mid-clash — I felt it.A sting along my ribs. Cold fire spreading through my veins.
Not a cut. Not a bruise.Something worse.
My mouth tasted like pennies and regret.The world blurred at the edges as I forced him off me.The smell of iron hit first, then the realization.
"Poison," I muttered. "Of course he brought poison."