He awoke from the ecstasy of his choice, believing that his new creed had granted him hidden strength—that the words he had whispered, "Nothing is true… Everything is permitted," would reshape his very being. But reality struck harder than any blade: when his senses returned, he was still the same—an exhausted young man, frail in body, ignorant of combat, armed with nothing but memories of a game he had loved more than life itself.
How could someone like him ever belong to a brotherhood forged by war and tempered through years of ruthless training? How could he stand among killers when he couldn't even run without gasping for breath?
The days dragged by like stones chained to his ankles. Petty theft kept him alive—stolen bread, a coin pouch snatched from a distracted drunk, scraps taken from inattentive stalls. Two weeks passed in the gutters and alleys, his eyes trailing the guards, his ears learning the rhythm of their boots. Isolation became his prison, yet a single thought repeated endlessly in his heart: If you want the Assassins to see you… create a shadow worth noticing.
And then, fate revealed itself.
In the ancient market, amid the stench of spice and sweat, he noticed a weathered scrap of parchment nailed to a timber wall. It was not an advertisement, nor a guard's decree, but a secret sign: a black feather sketched above the faint symbol of the Creed. The words were few:
"A merchant named Marco Veroni, collaborator of the Templars. His letter must be delivered to the hideout behind the southern gate bakery before the third dawn. Reward: training for the one who proves his courage."
His heart froze. Was this truly a call from the Assassins? Or a Templar trap to lure the desperate? Yet hesitation was a luxury he could no longer afford. For the first time, the shadows offered him a choice—and he would seize it.
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The Mission: A Letter in the Dark
That night, cloaked among beggars and drunks, he stalked the southern street. Marco's shop stood guarded by a thickset watchman, the wooden door locked, small windows overlooking a dim storage room.
He waited until silence smothered the alley, then tossed a pebble into a distant corner. The guard turned, distracted. In that breath, he slipped into the courtyard, hugging the darkness like an old companion. There, he found the merchant's chest—an aging box bound with a rusted lock. His hand shook as he drew out a bent wire, working clumsily until the lock clicked open.
Inside, a bundle of sealed letters. One bore a red wax sigil—the Templar mark. He reached for it just as the floor betrayed him: a wooden plank groaned, stirring a figure from the corner.
A man had been sleeping there—an errand boy or perhaps another thief. Panic clawed at his chest. With no weapon and no strength, he relied on instinct. He hurled a small stone against the northern wall. The man, startled, rushed toward the sound, leaving the intruder a narrow window of escape.
He darted back through the window, sprinting through alleys, lungs burning as if they would tear apart. By dawn, he reached the derelict bakery and placed the letter in a weathered box carved with the Assassin's sign. Then he waited, hidden in silence, as fear gnawed at him.
Hours crawled by. Then—a figure emerged. Cloaked, hood drawn low, steps softer than a whisper. The man retrieved the letter, glanced at the mark, and vanished like mist before sunlight.
It was over. Or so he thought.
Back in his refuge, he found a slip of parchment beneath his foot—he didn't know how it had been placed there. The words were sharp, deliberate:
"A strange courage. But not unseen. If you seek knowledge… follow the mark at the next crescent moon."
He read it again and again, hands trembling between fear and exhilaration. He was not yet an Assassin, not even a novice. But for the first time, the gate had opened. The shadows had answered him.
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