Arin slipped through the open skylight in one smooth motion, landing silently on the rooftop as cool night air replaced the stale warmth of the warehouse below. For a brief moment, he stayed crouched, letting his eyes adjust as moonlight spread across the surface. The rooftop was cluttered—vents, antennae, cables, maintenance rigs—all scattered in uneven patterns. To most, it would have been a mess. To Arin, it was perfect.
"Right… address," he muttered, pulling the folded letter from his pocket. He glanced at it briefly. Euro Zone, Street 59, House 1008. Simple. Direct. "Let's go."
He moved immediately, slipping into a low run across the rooftop, his path weaving naturally from shadow to shadow. His steps were light, controlled, barely making a sound as he crossed the uneven terrain. His eyes occasionally flicked toward expected surveillance points, but, as predicted, most cameras were angled toward the streets. Rooftops were secondary. Not ignored—but not watched closely enough.
Unseen by him, several AI-driven cameras registered something as he passed—a faint irregularity, a distortion against expected visual patterns—but without proper training data, the system dismissed it as noise. Infrared didn't help either; mana interference rendered it unreliable. To the system, Arin was just another anomaly without context.
He passed unnoticed.
Leaping between buildings, using lampposts to cross wider gaps, Arin moved quickly through the city. His enhanced physique made it effortless, turning urban terrain into something almost fluid beneath his feet. Within minutes, he reached the target building—a ten-story apartment block, newly constructed and unnervingly smooth.
"3D printed… figures," he muttered as he began climbing. The lack of grip was irritating, but the material had already begun to degrade under mana exposure. Subtle imperfections gave him just enough to work with. Reaching the fifth floor, he positioned himself beside a window and knocked in a precise rhythm.
A moment later, the window cracked open.
"The sky is blue," a voice said quietly.
"And so is the moon," Arin replied.
A brief pause. Then a document was passed through.
"The targets are two EU Treasury officials," the voice continued. "Director and Vice Director. Salary and reward oversight. Details inside."
"Got it—" Arin started.
The window shut.
"…Rude," he muttered.
He climbed to the roof, sat near the edge, and read. The information was thorough—identities, schedules, even a suggested firing position. Arin frowned slightly. Too convenient. Either they were overconfident, or someone wanted him to be predictable. Either way, he wouldn't use their setup.
"Pawns," he concluded quietly as he finished reading. Important enough to matter locally. Not important enough to be irreplaceable.
He stood and left.
Half an hour later, the document self-ignited, reducing itself to ash. By the time a police officer responded to a reported rooftop fire, there was nothing left to find—only proof that someone had been there.
Arin now hung upside down from a balcony roughly a hundred meters from the target location, his body completely still despite the strain. His grip was steady, his breathing controlled. Below, the city continued, unaware.
He glanced briefly at his quiver and allowed himself a faint smirk. Back-mounted designs looked impressive—but they were impractical. Too loose. Too noisy. Read that enough younger clan members learn that lesson the hard way.
His focus shifted forward.
Through a large glass window, his targets sat at a long table. Good food. Expensive wine. Casual conversation. The contrast to his own recent meals wasn't lost on him.
"…Must be nice," he thought dryly.
He studied them carefully. Both bald. Similar height. One is overweight, the other is thick with a beer belly. The resemblance was almost comical.
"Unfortunate faces," he muttered.
No hesitation. No guilt.
Just targets.
He exhaled slowly, then inhaled.
The world narrowed.
Noise faded. Distractions vanished. His breathing steadied as that familiar state returned—not as overwhelming as before, but present. Controlled. Efficient.
The bow felt natural in his hands.
The distance insignificant.
The outcome certain.
Four arrows.
Draw.
Release.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The sequence flowed without interruption.
He didn't wait.
The moment the last arrow left the string, he was already moving, pulling himself back and vanishing into shadow before the arrows even reached their target.
Behind him, they struck.
The reinforced glass—designed to withstand modern weaponry—offered no resistance. Without mana, it had no authority. The arrows passed through effortlessly.
The targets died instantly.
The flames came after.
Arin didn't look back.
He moved quickly, retracing his path through the city with precision. By the time the first alarms began to sound, he was already gone.
Within ten minutes, the entire European zone was on high alert.
Within an hour, Arin had exited the heartland.
Another thirty minutes brought him to a small hill, quiet and isolated. At its center stood a simple stone slab. On it rested a handmade typewriter, with gloves placed neatly beside it.
Arin sat, slipped the gloves on, and began typing.
The rhythmic sound of keys broke the silence as he documented everything—entry, movement, observations, execution. No embellishment. No wasted words.
Clean.
Precise.
An hour passed.
He finished, set the pages aside, and stood.
"Done," he muttered.
Homework completed.
Without another glance, he turned and began walking back toward the frontlines. There were still points to earn, and this mission was already behind him.
The hill remained silent.
But by morning, identical copies of his report would appear on the desks of the most powerful individuals left in the world.