Takobo's capital hotel stood like a glass monument above the city—too clean, too quiet, too expensive to feel real.
Inside the highest suite, Jhonathan slept.
A bed the size of a battlefield cradled him, its enchanted frame gently humming with dream-inducing mana.
Outside the window—
a scope clicked into place.
A sniper lined up a shot.
Not an ordinary round.
A mana-nullification bullet designed to erase ability activation on contact.
He fired.
The bullet cut through glass, air, and protective wards—
aimed directly at Jhonathan's head.
The bed shifted.
Just slightly.
THUD.
The bullet hit the mattress instead.
Jhonathan rolled over in his sleep.
"…burggeeeeeer…"
A pause.
"…me hungy…"
The bed turned again.
Like it was dodging on instinct.
The bullet slid off its trajectory and embedded into the wall behind him.
Silence.
Jhonathan scratched his face mid-sleep.
Then suddenly—
his hand snapped up.
Two fingers caught the bullet mid-air.
Without him even opening his eyes.
"…annoying," he mumbled.
And went back to sleep.
Next Morning
The hotel hallway was calm.
Too calm.
Jhonathan walked out like nothing had happened.
No sleep.
No explanation.
Just existence.
He stretched.
"Hi, how are ya."
Mark Angelo waved awkwardly.
"Oh—hey Jhonathan—can you hold Brunhilde for a sec—"
Jhonathan's head turned slowly.
"…Mark."
A pause.
"I heard you talk bad about me in my dream while I was asleep."
Mark froze.
"…WHAT—"
Before he could finish—
Jhonathan flicked him lightly.
Mark got launched into the wall.
Jessabelle sighed and slapped Mark immediately after.
"Idiot…"
At the far end of the corridor—
three figures stood still.
Ralph.
Menchie.
And a hooded man with a scar across his face.
Rey.
They held target photos.
All of them pointing to the same person.
Jhonathan.
Ralph exhaled slowly.
"…So this is him."
Menchie frowned.
"…Immortal target confirmed. God slayer designation active."
Rey lowered his hood slightly.
"…Sybau."
A pause.
"We're supposed to assassinate someone who slayed gods."
Silence.
Then all three of them looked at each other.
"…We're cooked," Ralph muttered.
And in that moment—
Jhonathan turned the corner.
Still half-asleep.
Still holding Brunhilde.
Still the worst possible target in existence to ambush.
The assassins didn't move.
Not because they were waiting.
But because for the first time in their careers—
they weren't sure they were allowed to.