War is cruel. It had always been this way.
It drains youth, twists innocence, and leaves behind scars that never fade.
The war between Assassins and Crusaders may not have scorched the earth like the great world wars, but its toll was no less devastating. It consumed lives all the same—men like Hawk, the Third Crusade's phantom blade, who drowned in duty until he forgot how to live; Mentor, who abandoned his homeland to preserve his people; Paul Anderson, who gave up his life to shield the greater good.
And now, John.
His war was quieter, less global, but its cost was deeply personal. Half of his life had already been lost to grief and abandonment. The other half… was only beginning.
The shrill beep of an alarm clock snapped him awake.
10:00 a.m. blinked on the screen.
John raised his head slowly, frustration etched into his face, and pressed the button with a weary hand. He sat upright, yawning and stretching out of habit, but there was no softness in the motion. His soul had hardened. His face carried the seriousness of a man who no longer allowed himself the luxury of slacking.
This city wasn't a place for idleness. It demanded vigilance. Purpose. And for the first time, John carried one.
He rose to his feet and walked toward the window of his new apartment. The glass pane framed Son of York in all its chaotic beauty. His hand pressed against the window, his forehead resting lightly against his palm as he studied the world below.
The streets pulsed with life. Crowds surged like rivers, some rushing, some lingering, some simply existing. Cars blared their horns, weaving recklessly between one another. Vendors shouted, voices clashing with arguments erupting on street corners. A parade balloon drifted lazily above the skyline, tethered by thick ropes strung between rooftops.
To anyone else, it might have seemed vibrant. Peaceful, even.
But John's gaze was sharp, his expression carved with sadness. Because he knew the truth.
This peace was a fabrication. A carefully spun lie designed to lull the people of Son of York into complacency. The Templars thrived in such illusions, chaining society with invisible shackles, enslaving them without their knowledge.
And John had sworn to break those chains.
He turned from the window, his eyes settling on the battered case in the corner of the room. Crossing the floor, he lifted it onto the bed and snapped open the latches. Inside lay his inheritance: the Assassin uniform he had carried from the village, Marcus's medallion, and a modest bundle of money.
John reached for the uniform first. He lifted it slowly, the fabric heavy with memory and promise, and sighed. With deliberate movements, he began to dress—the bottom first, then the top—layered over his plain black hoodie. The familiar weight settled onto his shoulders, equal parts burden and purpose.
Next came the weapons: the sword strapped to his side, the dagger slid into its sheath. Tools of survival. Symbols of war.
Finally, he returned to the window. He pushed it open, feeling the rush of city air. With a steady breath, he stepped onto the metal plank jutting out from the wall, high above the restless streets.
The city sprawled beneath him, unsuspecting.
The Assassin's hunt had begun.
John stood on the plank, staring at the sprawling city beneath him. A hard gust of wind whipped across his face, tugging at his hood and forcing his cloak to billow violently behind him. He narrowed his eyes against the rush of air, forcing himself to focus.
Walking through the streets like a normal man wasn't an option. Not for him. Not now. It was too slow, too exposed. He needed something faster.
His gaze swept the sidewalls of the buildings. They were littered with metal planks, balcony railings, and thin pipes that jutted out at odd angles. Flags hung from some, banners fluttering weakly. At first glance, it looked chaotic. But to John, the placement was perfect—an improvised web, a network of footholds waiting to be claimed.
His eyes traced the line of pipes on the side of his own apartment building. He could see the path forming already. His mind drifted back to the temple—the yawning chasm bridged by rotting planks. He had leapt across then, trusting himself, and lived. If he'd fallen, it would have meant certain death. The stakes now weren't so different. The pit wasn't endless stone—it was a living, breathing city, busy men and women rushing about, cars honking, voices clashing in the air.
Same danger. Same risk. Same faith.
He bent his knees, braced, and launched himself.
The first plank caught his weight. Then another. Then another. His leaps were sharp, precise. The wind howled louder as his speed increased, hammering against his chest and tearing at his clothes. His momentum carried him forward like a predator in pursuit—until it didn't.
His boot slipped against the slick surface of a pipe.
The world dropped beneath him.
His hand shot out instinctively, fingers clawing for purchase. Metal bit into his skin as he latched onto the very pipe that had betrayed him. His other arm dangled uselessly as his body swung over the abyss.
"Ahhh!" His cry tore from his throat, swallowed by the city noise. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes, as his free hand scrambled for grip. At last, he hauled it up, locking both arms around the pipe.
Below, life went on unbothered. Cars darted, people shouted, horns blared. None of them noticed the assassin clinging desperately above their heads.
Gritting his teeth, John forced his body upward, each pull burning through his shoulders. Finally, he swung a leg onto a ledge and collapsed against the wall, chest heaving. One hand pressed to his forehead as he wiped away sweat, his jaw clenched with frustration.
"What even was that?! You idiot… it was going so well!" His voice cracked with self-loathing. He looked down again at the street below, tiny figures moving in blissful ignorance. "Fear. It was fear, wasn't it? But why?!"
Memories surged back unbidden—the leap of faith from the temple roof, the rush of the air, the sense of release. "I proved I wasn't afraid. I jumped! I trusted. So why now?!" His fists tightened. His whisper was sharp, almost a vow. "If I let fear take me again, I'll have betrayed my faith…"
He stood. His hands steadied. His legs bent. And again, he leapt.
Plank to pipe. Pipe to ledge. The rhythm returned, smooth, relentless. Until the path ended.
Not against a wall. But into nothingness.
John stopped at the edge, staring at the vast gap between his block and the next cluster of apartments. It wasn't impossible. With enough speed, he could clear it. But his body hesitated. He wasn't ready—not yet.
Instead, he turned upward. Tiny holes in the wall, edges of windows, cracks between bricks—they formed a ladder only an assassin's eye could see. Climbing was second nature. His fingers found the holds, his feet pressed into stone, and he ascended. Muscles strained, but he moved with practiced certainty, until at last he hauled himself onto the rooftop.
The view spread wide before him. The rooftops of countless buildings stretched like a patchwork, hemmed in by the colossal city walls. And above all else, towering over the city like sentinels, rose the four spires of Cyntera Corporation.
Most would see them as nothing more than corporate high-rises—sleek glass towers, proud emblems of industry. But John's eyes burned with the truth. These weren't just buildings. They were the heartbeats of the Templar machine.
Four towers. Four anchors.
One in the western-south corner. Another in the western-north. The third to the east. And the last, the largest, standing like a crown in the very center of Son of York.
John's breath was steady, but his thoughts were heavy. I could go the long way—hunt them one by one, bleed them dry. Or I could do it fast… destroy the towers outright. Explosives. Collapse them into the streets.
The idea tempted him. The faster path. The easier one. The chance to end this and leave before the city swallowed him whole.
But reality weighed him down. He wasn't ready. Not yet. His knowledge of Son of York was threadbare. Yes, he'd grown up here—but that had been the life of a boy, not an assassin. School, orphanage, repeat. He had never walked the veins of this city deeply enough to know its secrets.
If he was to fight this war here, he needed more than courage. He needed navigation. He needed understanding.
He needed a map.