The morning fog clung to the city like a living curtain, softening the neon glow and masking every movement. He moved within it, silent, each step calculated, each breath measured.
A small parchment floated onto the rooftop, carried by a magical carrier crow. The gauntlet pulsed at his wrist, reacting instantly.
"Contract received," it said. "Target: rogue mage. Location: warehouse district. Danger: moderate to high. Keep a low profile."
He scanned the streets below. The mage had been trafficking illegal mana relics—highly sought after. Dangerous, but perfect for early progression.
"You sure you're ready for this?" the gauntlet teased.
"Always," he replied, adjusting his stance on the wet tiles. Muscle memory guided him—silent leaps, careful rolls, a rhythm his mind no longer remembered but his body never forgot.
The alley was quiet, but movement betrayed another presence. A shadow flickered—another assassin. A rival.
"Intruder detected," the gauntlet whispered. "Skill level: uncertain. Proceed cautiously."
He moved like water, undetectable. The rival had spotted the mage and was moving to strike first. He didn't hesitate. The gauntlet pulsed, forming a thin barrier along his forearm, deflecting a stray firebolt.
He leapt into action. The gauntlet rippled, forming a sharp, elongated blade along his arm. He struck in a blur—precise, fast, efficient. The rival dodged, but the glove shifted into a gun mid-air, firing a pulse that forced them back.
The duel became a deadly dance.
The rival lunged with blinding speed; he parried, pivoted, and countered with a swipe that cut across the rival's shoulder—not lethal, just enough to stagger.
The rival cast a burst of dark mana; he raised the gauntlet into a shimmering barrier that absorbed the energy, the force reverberating through his arm but leaving him unharmed.
They circled each other, movement mirrored, shadows blending into fog.
"You hesitate," the gauntlet whispered.
"Collateral matters," he muttered, eyes on the mage. Saving the target alive meant fewer questions raised.
In a final sequence of precise strikes, he disarmed the rival, forcing them to retreat into the mist. Then, with a subtle push of mana, he created a temporary shockwave to knock open the warehouse door. The mage froze—caught between fear and awe.
"Target secured," the gauntlet said, pulsing faintly in satisfaction.
He moved silently inside, subduing the mage without killing. The gauntlet reshaped into handcuff-like restraints that neutralized the mage's mana. A quick nod, and the mage was bound for collection by the contracting guild.
The contract completed. Coins—or more precisely, mana tokens—would follow. He pocketed the magical ledger that confirmed the reward, melting back into the fog.
Above the rooftops, the city hummed. Somewhere, a rival assassin was recovering, somewhere else, a mage guild might suspect something, but for now, he was a shadow.
"Not bad," the gauntlet said, voice soft. "We work well together."
He flexed his fingers. "We survive together."
And somewhere deep inside, a spark of memory flickered: the rhythm of hammer on steel, the feel of metal yielding to his hands—echoes of a past life waiting to be reclaimed.