Rain softened the city.
It blurred torchlight into streaks of gold and turned rooftops into sheets of black glass. Footsteps were swallowed. Conversations became murmurs. Even the guards grew lazy beneath heavy cloaks.
He preferred rain.
It made killing quieter.
He crouched at the edge of a tiled roof, watching the estate below. Lanterns burned along the perimeter wall. Two guards rotated at the gate. A third lingered near the rear garden.
Sloppy formation.
He exhaled slowly.
*Three minutes between rotations. Eastern blind spot lasts eight seconds.*
His body moved before the thought finished forming.
A silent drop. A roll. A shadow against stone.
No hesitation. No wasted motion.
That was why they used him.
Inside the dark guild, his name carried weight. Contracts that required certainty were handed to him. When nobles wanted something erased discreetly, they whispered his alias.
The Red Blade.
He had stopped caring what they called him years ago.
Names implied permanence.
He had none.
He scaled the outer wall and slipped through a second-floor balcony door he had unlocked earlier that evening. The interior air smelled faintly of incense and alchemical residue.
Magic.
He adjusted the dagger hidden beneath his cloak.
*Target: court-affiliated magician. Unauthorized research. Possible instability.*
High pay.
Quick exit.
Then—
He frowned slightly.
Then nothing.
He had already decided this would be his last contract.
No dramatic exit. No farewell speech to the guild.
Just gone.
Disappear with what he had saved.
Live somewhere quiet.
He moved down the corridor toward a spiral staircase. His reflection briefly caught in a tall mirror—dark hair damp from rain, eyes flat and unreadable.
There had been a time when those eyes held anger.
Or fear.
Or something resembling hope.
Now they reflected nothing.
He descended into the lower chamber.
The air changed.
Charged. Metallic.
The study doors stood closed.
Locked.
He slid a thin blade into the mechanism. A soft click.
He stepped inside.
Candles flickered along the walls, illuminating shelves filled with scrolls and crystalline instruments. In the center of the room stood a circular platform etched with intricate runes. Suspended above it was a crystal apparatus humming with restrained power.
And beside it—
The magician.
Old. Thin. Eyes far too sharp.
"You took your time," the magician said without turning.
He closed the door behind him quietly.
"Your guards were inefficient," he replied.
The magician smiled faintly. "Ah. So they sent the famous one."
He said nothing.
The magician turned slowly, studying him with unsettling calm. "You hide yourself well. But the guild has a habit of bragging."
"I'm not here for conversation."
"Pity," the magician murmured. "I prefer to know the man sent to kill me."
He stepped forward, dagger appearing in his hand as naturally as breathing.
"Then you should have chosen a quieter profession."
The magician chuckled.
"Tell me," the old man said, lifting a hand as faint mana gathered around him, "do you enjoy it?"
"Enjoy what?"
"The killing."
The barrier flared to life just as he lunged. Steel scraped against invisible force.
He stepped back, assessing.
"It's work," he answered flatly.
The magician tilted his head. "No. It was work. Once."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"I've seen men like you," the magician continued. "Efficient. Feared. Hollow."
Hollow.
The word irritated him more than it should have.
"Save your analysis," he said coldly. "You won't live long enough to finish it."
Another strike. The barrier flickered.
The magician winced but held his ground. "You were planning to leave."
His blade paused mid-motion.
"…What?"
"You have the posture of a man who has already stepped away," the magician said softly. "Your heart is not in this room."
His jaw tightened.
"You know nothing about me."
"Oh, but I do," the magician replied. "The guild's prized weapon. Sold as a child. Raised on battlefields. Forged into something useful."
His grip tightened.
"How much did they pay you for this job?" the magician asked. "Enough to buy peace?"
Peace.
The word felt distant. Unreal.
He attacked again—faster. Precise. The barrier shattered under the third strike.
Steel pierced flesh.
The magician gasped as blood soaked into his robes.
"You're done," he said quietly.
The old man coughed but smiled through the pain.
"No," the magician whispered. "You are."
A sudden impact exploded through his back.
He staggered.
Steel tore through his chest.
He looked down at the blade protruding from beneath his ribs.
Warmth spread quickly.
Slowly, he turned.
A swordsman stood behind him. Young. Confident. Eyes burning with ambition.
"…You," he muttered.
The rival withdrew the blade.
"You really thought you could walk away?" the man asked.
He struggled to remain standing.
"I was finished," he said hoarsely. "The guild doesn't own me."
The rival scoffed. "You think this is about the guild?"
He stepped closer.
"You had everything. Reputation. Influence. Priority contracts."
Blood pooled at his feet.
"And you were going to throw it away," the rival continued. "Do you know how many of us would kill for what you had?"
A faint, humorless smile touched his lips.
"You just did."
The rival's expression hardened.
"Your name will be mine."
Another strike.
He collapsed to the floor.
The magician, barely conscious, crawled toward the glowing device on the platform. Runes flared brighter, fed by spilled blood.
The rival turned sharply. "What are you—"
Light erupted.
Blinding. Absolute.
Sound vanished.
He felt himself falling.
*So this is it.*
Strangely, there was no fear.
Only exhaustion.
*I was going to leave.*
Darkness swallowed him.
—
Silence.
Not the quiet of rain.
Not the stillness of death.
Something softer.
His eyes opened slowly.
A wooden ceiling.
Cracked.
Familiar.
He blinked.
The air smelled stale. Dusty.
Children breathed nearby.
He sat up abruptly.
The movement felt wrong.
Too light.
He lifted his hands.
Small.
Unscarred.
Clean.
His pulse quickened.
"No…" he whispered.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. They barely reached the floor.
The orphanage.
He stood, nearly stumbling as unfamiliar proportions threw off his balance.
Ten years old.
He moved toward the cracked mirror by the wash basin.
A child stared back.
Dark hair. Thin frame.
Eyes far older than the face they belonged to.
He pressed his palm against the glass.
"This is before…" he murmured.
Before the sale.
Before the mercenaries.
Before the battlefield.
Memories crashed into him.
Mud and blood.
The first body he ever stepped over.
The first time someone praised him for killing cleanly.
"Talented."
"Born for war."
He clenched his small fists.
They were soft.
Unmarked.
He looked down at them.
Clean.
The word echoed in his mind.
Clean.
In his previous life, these hands had never been clean.
He stepped quietly toward the window and peered outside. The courtyard was dim, the sky only beginning to lighten.
He knew this timeline.
Two weeks.
In two weeks, men would arrive.
They would test the children.
Grip strength. Endurance. Obedience.
He would be chosen.
Sold.
He exhaled slowly.
"I was going to leave," he whispered to himself.
After that final mission.
After one more job.
He had finally grown tired.
Tired of blood.
Tired of being feared.
Tired of waking without purpose.
And he had died before he could change.
A faint laugh escaped him.
"So this is your joke," he muttered—to fate, to the magician, to whatever had twisted time.
He turned and scanned the room.
There.
The boy who used to split stolen bread with him.
Still asleep.
And across the room—
The older girl who had scolded him when he fought other children.
In his previous life, he had learned what became of her.
Learned too late.
His chest tightened.
If he did nothing—
The same thing would happen again.
He could run alone.
He had the knowledge to survive.
He knew how to steal. Hide. Endure.
But if he ran—
They would still be sold.
Still broken.
Still disappear into the machine that had created him.
He looked down at his hands again.
Clean.
For the first time in his existence—
He had a choice.
He walked back to the mirror.
The child in the reflection stared back at him.
"I won't become their blade again," he said quietly.
The words felt fragile.
Uncertain.
But real.
His gaze sharpened.
"This time…"
He clenched his fist.
"I choose who I become."
Outside, dawn finally broke over the orphanage.
And for the first time—
The future was unwritten.