Arka's vision blurred—his eyes stung, drenched in his own blood. His head pulsed with pain, ears ringing as he reached a trembling hand toward the revolver tucked inside his coat pocket.
Fifteen seconds... the cooldown should've ended.
Then why didn't Playtime activate when he hit me?
Panic twisted inside him.
Did that bastard's ability seal mine? Can someone even do that?
His thoughts raced. Nothing made sense.
If he can shut down other assassin abilities... then my first move isn't to fight—it's to run.
He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to stand despite the burning pain.
If he catches me now... I'm dead.
Arka slowly pushed himself up, swaying on his feet. Every step was a battle against pain, but he moved forward, limping down the cobbled street. Running was out of the question—his leg screamed in protest with every movement.
He slipped into a narrow alleyway, then found an abandoned house tucked into the side. Its wooden frame and cracked mud walls showed decades of neglect. The place felt forgotten by time itself. A question crept into his mind—why is this still standing if no one's lived here for so long?
But this wasn't the moment for curiosity.
Inside, he leaned back against the wall, panting. Blood ran down his temple, mixing with sweat. He raised his hand and slammed it against the wall.
Time froze.
In the stillness, he closed his eyes and let Playtime do its work—his body began to heal. Bruised muscle reknit, pain dulled, and strength returned. He took slow, steady breaths.
Arka pulled out his revolver. The steel felt colder than usual. He loaded the bullets with calm precision, one click at a time.
The world resumed.
Then he opened his eyes.
Time to fight back.
"Come on, assassins," he muttered under his breath, a cold fire in his gaze.
"You destroyed my Petrogard... now I'll destroy you all."
---
In an unknown chamber deep within the Church of Mother Goddess Arlshuwiya, silence reigned. The room was vast and dimly lit, its stone walls lined with old scripture and flickering oil lamps. At the center stood a long, curved table—crafted from ancient oak, polished smooth over generations of worship and whispers.
Seated at this table were five figures. Each sat upon a high, throne-like chair, draped in ceremonial white. Their faces were concealed behind sacred cloths—white veils adorned with the Church's holy symbol: two hands gently cradling a blooming lotus.
Then, the heavy wooden doors at the far end of the chamber creaked open. Slow. Purposeful.
A man entered.
He, too, was clad in white robes. His face hidden behind the same cloth, seamlessly attached and hiding all signs of identity. His steps echoed across the room, calm and reverent, as if he had walked this path countless times before.
He knelt before them, lowering his head with solemn grace. His voice, deep and heavy, echoed through the stone chamber.
"Lords... Forgive the interruption, but our nation's holy land—Petrogard—is under terrorist attack."
The five veiled figures remained still. No gasp. No visible shift. As though they had expected the words long before they arrived.
One of them finally spoke, the voice muffled but calm. "Specify."
The kneeling man raised his gaze briefly before lowering it again.
"Forty-eight injured. One hundred seventy-eight confirmed dead."
One of the five figures spoke again, his voice colder this time. "Specify."
A shiver ran down the man's spine. "One hundred and nine devotees of the Goddess... have died."
The figures exchanged subtle nods beneath their veils.
"That's a significant number of devotees lost in this attack," one of them said, his voice firm and resonant. "What is the Civil Service doing? They were meant to protect the Goddess's people."
"They... they were busy assisting the injured," the man answered, faltering. "Both devotees and non-devotees alike."
Another figure leaned forward, placing a gloved hand on his chin. "Who is in charge?"
"Senior Officer Anastasia Morozova."
The figure nodded slowly, processing the information. "That woman has the nerve to put others above the church."
His tone hardened. "Order her to prioritize the safety of all devotees. Let none of the Goddess's children fall. And if she refuses... suspend her."
The man gave a silent nod, stood up, and left without a word—closing the massive door behind him.
---
In the silent street, Arka stepped out from the abandoned house. He looked left, then right—checking carefully if that person was still around.
No one was there. Not even the street dogs.
Streets are safe... for now. But I can't say when he'll come back. This time, I'm prepared—Playtime is cooled down.
He moved slowly, deeper into the narrow streets. Every muscle in his body was tense, his senses sharper than usual. At that moment, even the soft whisper of the wind felt loud in his ears.
TIP—
He spun toward the sound, revolver aimed—then froze.
A leaking tap.
Just a dripping tap, its water ticking rhythmically against stone.
He let out a shaky breath and lowered his weapon. If I keep overreacting, I'll end up shooting a damn animal.
I need to calm down. Focus—only on what threatens me.
He started moving further—left, right—his senses fully present, sharp as ever.
But then, the wind stopped.
Time froze.
Playtime? That only meant one thing—his peace was threatened.
He looked up, down, left, right—but saw nothing.
Where the fuck is the enemy?!
Time resumed.
Suddenly, his body began pulling backward—no warning, no explanation. Like a magnet being dragged to its opposite.
"What the—?!"
He reached out, grabbing a pole to resist the force, but his grip slipped.
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I'm going back to the enemy!"
He was yanked back violently—slamming into walls, skidding across the ground—then hurled into the mangled wreckage of a crumbled building.
Arka groaned, body aching, breath ragged—then felt a grip close around his neck.
"You can't run away," that robotic voice echoed in his ear again.
He forced his eyes open—and saw the masked assassin standing over him. "What the hell is this power?" he asked, coughing blood.
"It's my ability—"
Pause...
"—Magnet. It just needs a single touch," the figure said. "With my left hand, I can repel or attract anything. And on the second touch… I can force a cooldown on any ability."
"What?" Arka muttered, struggling to process it. So the first time… he repelled me while Playtime was already on cooldown. But the second time—he touched me again. That's when my ability got sealed. Damn it…
But now… he can't seal it again.
"My ability only needs one touch," the figure continued, "then I can attract or repel my target whenever I want."
"That's why you can't escape me, Salesman," the figure said coldly.
Arka glanced around. All he could see was destruction—burnt buildings, small stores crushed beneath fallen stone and steel.
I haven't learned how to fight... I need to do something. Something to distract him...
His mind raced for a plan—but nothing came. Then he looked down... and suddenly, his expression shifted. That composed mask turned into an unmatchable, cocky smile.
The figure tilted its head, confused. "What are you smiling for?"
"It's the job of us Salesmen—to smile and sell products," Arka said calmly. "Do you need something?"
"Your life."
"Sorry. That one's not for sale."
The figure raised its left hand. "Then I'll take it myself."
But just as the hand reached toward Arka—
Time froze.
That's what I expected... it worked.
The first time, Playtime was on cooldown, so I got hit.
The second time, his touch sealed it before it could activate.
But now… there's nothing in the way.
Arka pulled a rope from his coat, and in a flash, tied the figure's body tightly—arms pinned, left hand secured, no chance to reach.
Time resumed.
---
On the other side of Petrogard—what once bustled with life was now drowning in chaos.
The bombing wasn't just in Arka's area—it hit across the entire state.
Anastasia, the senior civil service officer, was in the middle of it—commanding teams, helping the injured. Because the dead... they couldn't be helped anymore.
She noticed a child trapped beneath rubble. Without hesitation, she rushed over and heaved the rock off.
"Go, kid—find your mom," she said firmly.
The child sobbed through hiccups, "Bu-but... sh-she got... crushed in that... build-ing..."
He pointed to the collapsed ruins behind him.
Anastasia paused, eyes dropping for a moment. Then she looked around—fires, destruction, the stench of smoke and death.
"Go," she said softly. "You can't end your life here. There must be something you want to do. Chase it. For her."
Still crying, the child nodded and turned. He dropped a paper as he left—perhaps on purpose.
She picked it up. It was a letter—too mature for a child to understand, but Anastasia understood every word.
> "Sorry, son. I couldn't give you a normal life. You don't know, and even I don't, who your father was. I had nothing left... nothing to do as a woman other than this. Selling myself. But I hope... one day... you'll understand.
How weak we women are."
Anastasia froze.
Then—her hand slammed down on the stone beside her, teeth gritted, eyes burning.
"I-It's not true... we women...
We aren't WEAK!"
And I'll prove it.
---
Somewhere in Germany...
A man knelt on one knee, pressing a green military cap to his chest.
On his arm—a red insignia: a black lion wielding a sword.
Across from him sat another man, one leg crossed over the other, fingertips resting under his chin. The same red badge was on his arm.
Two small flags stood on his desk—each bearing that same lion emblem.
"Sir," the kneeling man said, "we've received word. Russia's prized state—Petrogard—is under attack."
The man at the desk didn't reply.
He simply smirked.
As planned.