Zeph lay there—barely breathing, barely alive.
His blood—dark, thick, unwilling—trickled across the fractured tiles like a slow-moving river of defeat. The air around him felt heavy, pressed down by an invisible, oppressive force that knew no mercy. His eyes, rimmed in crimson, welled with tears that slipped down his dirt-caked cheeks—not tears of fear, nor grief, but the tears of a man who had reached the edge of his humanity and touched something far colder.
The pain he had once demanded… the agony he had once taunted fate to bring him... it had arrived. And it didn't knock. It shattered the door and flooded his body with a torment that no blade could replicate.
His body refused to move. Each breath felt like swallowing broken glass. Yet deep inside his chest, something still pulsed—not his heart, no. That had nearly given up. It was his will.
Somewhere within the haze of blood and near-death delirium, his mind grasped onto a single thought.
The emergency beacon...
Hidden in the stitching of his collar, an almost-forgotten piece of tech—placed by the Assassin Federation for missions that spiraled into nightmares. It required no words. No reach. Just a shift... a roll.
And so he rolled. Slowly. Painfully. Each movement sparked fire down his spine, each twitch of his limb felt like being dragged across burning coals. But he didn't stop.
Click.
The signal was sent.
Somewhere far from that blood-soaked hall, a red light blinked. Help was coming—or perhaps vengeance. It didn't matter. He had done his part. His eyes fluttered. He whispered something only he could hear.
Across the chamber, the man of shadow and sorrow moved. His footsteps echoed softly, each step a drumbeat of fate. Noct—the Prince of Agony—watched with calm fascination. His presence alone silenced the entire room, like grief made flesh.
He tilted his head slightly, the way a cruel god might observe a crumbling temple.
And then he spoke.
"How foolish were you… to think you could ever defeat me?"
The words were not loud, nor cruel. They were soft. Almost gentle. Which made them worse.
Zeph didn't flinch. He didn't speak.
Instead—he laughed.
A low, gurgling sound, soaked in blood and irony. A final spit in the face of the unbeatable.
Noct's expression twisted, just slightly. Not rage. Not confusion. Just... annoyance.
With no warning, his boot crashed into Zeph's side, sending him tumbling like a broken doll. His body collided with the far wall, then slumped to the floor, unmoving.
But Zeph didn't cry out.
He just closed his eyes, blood dripping from his mouth, and smiled.
"Soon they'll come," he thought.
"Or maybe I'll die here... either way, I won."
A few seconds passed in eerie silence.
Then a shadow loomed.
Noct approached—slow and graceful, like a predator with no fear of time. He stood over Zeph, then did something strange. He removed one hand from the comfort of his coat and stretched it out.
Not to kill.
To offer.
"Join me," Noct said, voice smooth like oil on stone.
"And I'll spare your life."
Zeph blinked.
"Help us reshape this world. Abandon the dying. Side with power."
For a moment, Zeph didn't answer. He could barely keep his head upright. But he forced himself to look up—to meet the eyes of the one who had shattered him.
What he saw was not rage. Not madness.
What he saw… was peace.
Peace in ruin.
Serenity in chaos.
And worst of all… logic.
Noct wasn't a monster clawing at the world—
He was the storm that understood it.
Zeph's lips parted. He wanted to spit. To curse. But all that came out was a shaky breath and a tremble of his fingers.
This man isn't fighting the world.
He believes he's saving it.
For the first time, Zeph truly grasped the depth of what they faced.
The Prince of Agony wasn't insane. He was convinced.
A man like that doesn't break. He convinces others to break instead.
The blood-soaked assassin tilted his head, smiled again, and whispered one final thought to himself
"Even if I die here… at least I saw the face of our greatest enemy."