Part 1 : 5 years ago
Five years ago.
The sound of footsteps echoed in the dark.
He stood in center of the warehouse, blood dripping down his side, breath shaking. Surrounded—five figures closing in, guns raised.
He was already bleeding, staggering, barely holding himself up.
Then—
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Five shots.
Five bullets.
Five different shooters.
Each one found its mark.
He collapsed to his knees, blood pooling beneath him, warm against the cold concrete.
No words were spoken.
No one looked back.
They left him there—broken, bleeding, forgotten.
The rain started to fall through the broken skylight above, mixing with the blood, washing away everything but the pain.
He wasn't thinking of revenge.
He wasn't thinking of escape.
He was just thinking:
"So this is how it ends?"
But it didn't.
His body refused to die.
Hours passed. Maybe a day. Maybe more.
Then—
Footsteps. Soft. Careful.
A pair of hands rolled him over. He saw nothing but a silhouette against the stormlight—then darkness swallowed him whole.
When he opened his eyes, the ceiling was made of wood.
The light was soft, filtered through paper windows. Wind chimes danced in the breeze, and somewhere nearby, the faint smell of green tea drifted like memory.
Null blinked slowly, body stiff, ribs screaming. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain snapped through his side.
"You're lucky you didn't die," a voice said. Calm. Low. Almost amused.
"But you should have."
The voice belonged to an old man sitting in the shadows, a tea cup in hand, eyes unreadable.
Null said nothing.
His throat burned. His limbs shook. He looked down—his body was wrapped in rough bandages, stitched up by a hand that wasn't trying to be gentle.
Then it all came crashing back.
—The look on her face when she told him, "I'm sorry."
—The encrypted files in her bag that he helped steal.
—The silent meeting in the warehouse.
—The raised guns.
—The disbelief in their eyes.
"You brought her into our house…"
"You chose her over us…"
"Traitor."
Null covered his face with both hands. The dam broke.
Silent tears ran down his cheeks. Not loud sobs—just broken breathing and wet shame.
He didn't cry when the bullets hit.
He didn't cry when they left him to die.
But now, in a stranger's house, smelling of tea and wind, he cried.
Not because of the pain.
But because they never believed him.
Because he still loved her.
Because part of him still hoped she did, too.
Null wiped his face and forced himself to look at the man in the shadows.
"Why?" he croaked. His voice was rough, barely human. "Why did you help me?"
The old man sipped his tea. Then placed the cup down, slow and deliberate.
"I saw a dying dog," he said flatly. "So I dragged it off the road."
Null blinked.
"That's it?"
"Would you prefer I say I saw potential? A warrior with fire in his eyes? A tragic soul with a destiny?"
He leaned forward, and for the first time, Null saw the face clearly—aged, sharp,carved by discipline not kindness. His long silver hair was tied back in a topknot, missing one hand and the robe he wore was simple, stained with old ash and tea.
Japanese, maybe Chinese—it didn't matter. What mattered was the stillness around him. The way the wind and silence obeyed him.
"I saw trash that wasn't quite dead yet. That's all."
The words didn't sting. Not anymore. He'd been called worse.
Null lowered his head. "Then… what do you want from me?"
"Everything," the old man said. "You owe me your life. So now you work. You bleed. You carry wood, scrub floors, clean shit, and shut your mouth."
"Until?"
"Until I say you're not useless anymore."
Null nodded. No resistance. No fire.
"Good," the old man grunted, rising to his feet. "Then let's begin. Stand up."
Null tried. Pain tore through his torso. He grunted, fell back.
The old man watched him for a moment.
"Then crawl," he said. "You can start by cleaning your own blood off my floor."
Days passed. Then weeks. Then months.
Time lost meaning—only the pain remained.
The old man's home sat buried in the mountains, far from roads, maps, or voices. As far as the eye could see—only forest and jagged stone. No power lines. No trails. No signs of life.
Even for a top-tier assassin like Null, it had taken death and pure chance to find this place.
And now he was trapped in it—somewhere between purgatory and survival.
His wounds began to heal. Slowly.
The skin closed. The fever left. The body repaired.
But the soul? That stayed broken.
He still woke up in cold sweat, her voice echoing in his dreams.
"I'm sorry..."
One morning, the old man appeared in the doorway, arms folded behind his back.
Old Man: "You will climb the highest peak, Bring me a flower that grows only at the top."
Null blinked. "What kind of flower?"
Old man: "You'll know when you see it."
Null: "Why that peak? There's dozens closer—"
"Because it's the highest," the old man interrupted sharply, then turned away.
Old man: "If you want to ask 'why' about everything, go back to the world and die like the rest of them."
And just like that, Null was alone again—facing a silent trail, an impossible mountain, and a task he didn't understand.
But something in him—something stubborn, something wounded—stood up and started walking.
The rain found him first.
Cold needles, stinging his half-healed wounds as he limped into the treeline.
The mountain rose ahead—black granite ribs punching through clouds.
The air turned thinner. The cold more cruel.
His fingers had gone numb.
His coat was shredded by branches and wind. The taste of blood never left his mouth.
Null Climbed
Halfway up, exhaustion dragged him to his knees.
He pressed a palm to the ground—and the memory struck.
Flashback
Gun barrels. Five of them—glinting in warehouse light.
Her voice in his ear: "I'm sorry."
A USB drive warm in her trembling hand.
Then the thunder of betrayal.
Null shuddered, palms slipping on wet stone.
He forced himself up.
Higher.
His thigh cramped; he bit back a cry.
Lightning cracked, illuminating a sheer wall.
He climbed it anyway—fingers splitting, blood streaking the rock.
Another memory bled through:
"You bring her in our home.."
"Traitor"
He answered the voices with a roar and hauled himself onto a ledge.
There—just below the summit—he collapsed, chest heaving, vision tunneling.
Rain beat against his skull. He tried to stand. His leg folded.
He screamed—not in pain, but rage.
At them, At her, At himself.
And then… finally…
The summit.
A narrow slab of stone stretching into the gray sky. Clouds spilled below him like oceans.
Null collapsed on his knees, gasping. His body screamed for rest. He forced himself to crawl across the icy stone—searching.
Nothing.
He looked again.
Nothing.
No flower. No petal. No sign of life.
Only wind. Stone. And a silence so loud it rattled the mind.
He stared. Then laughed.
Not joy. Not relief.
Just madness.
A dry, hollow sound ripped from his throat—half laugh, half cry.
"You bastard…" he whispered. "You fucking bastard…"
He looked around, blinking through the wind. "You sent me up here… for nothing."
His voice vanished in the wind.
He dropped to his knees. And for the first time since the betrayal—
He let go.
Of purpose.
Of revenge.
Of trying to prove he was worth something.
He just… sat.
Alone. On top of the world....
With nothing....