The city never slept. Neon lights flickered against the storm clouds, painting the night in shifting shades of crimson and violet. Azreal Raven crouched on the edge of a rooftop, the rain dripping from his hood and sliding down the sharp lines of his jaw. His breath misted faintly in the chill, though his heartbeat remained steady—measured, controlled.
Another mission. Another name on the list.
Far below, through the sheets of rain, the syndicate boss made his way across the courtyard, flanked by two bodyguards holding umbrellas over him. The man looked smug, untouchable, his belly round with wealth stolen from the blood of others. Azreal's lips curved into the faintest smirk. He'd seen this type a thousand times before. Men who believed power made them immortal.
Tonight, he would remind this one how fragile life truly was.
"Azreal."
The voice in his earpiece crackled softly, nearly lost to the storm. Kade. His partner. His shadow. The one man he trusted to have his back when blades clashed and bullets flew.
"Target is confirmed. On my mark, we strike. Clean and precise—like always," Kade said, his tone cool, professional.
Azreal's gloved fingers tightened around the hilt of his blade. His other hand steadied the grappling line. "Copy that," he replied, his voice low.
The memory of all the jobs they had done together flashed in his mind. Years of silence and steel, side by side. If Azreal had ever allowed himself the weakness of calling someone a brother, Kade would have been the only one.
The signal came—a faint click in his ear.
Azreal leapt.
The wind tore at his coat as he dropped from the rooftop, silent as a shadow. His boots hit the wet ground without a sound, his blade already slicing through the rain. In one smooth motion, he slit the throat of the first guard, spun, and buried steel in the chest of the second. Both crumpled wordlessly to the pavement.
The syndicate boss barely had time to gasp before Azreal's blade drew a crimson smile across his throat. The man collapsed, choking on his own lifeblood, eyes wide with disbelief.
Azreal wiped the blade on the man's tailored coat, his expression unreadable.
"Target down," he said into the comm. "Extraction in—"
The sharp crack of a gunshot cut him off.
Pain exploded across his chest. The force sent him staggering back into the rain, his breath tearing out of him in a ragged gasp. His vision blurred as crimson spread across his shirt, hot and unstoppable.
His knees hit the pavement. His dagger clattered from his grip.
"K… Kade…" His voice was a rasp.
Static answered him. Then Kade's voice came, not steady this time, but cold.
"You were always too good, Azreal. Too dangerous. The organization can't control you anymore."
The words cut deeper than the bullet.
Azreal's breath hitched, disbelief clawing at his chest. "You… bastard…"
Through the curtain of rain, he saw him. Kade, standing on the far rooftop, gun still smoking in his hand. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment. Azreal searched for something—hesitation, regret, anything—but found only the cold mask of betrayal.
Kade turned, disappearing into the storm.
Azreal collapsed onto the slick pavement. The rain mingled with the blood spreading beneath him. He could taste iron, thick and bitter, on his tongue. His fingers twitched uselessly toward the dagger lying just out of reach.
So this is it, he thought. Not in battle. Not in glory. But shot in the back by the one I trusted most.
His vision darkened, the neon lights flickering out one by one. His heartbeat slowed, each thump echoing like a drumbeat in a funeral march.
And then—
The world broke.
The ground beneath him shattered like glass, fragments of reality spinning into a void of endless black. He felt himself pulled, dragged violently through a tunnel of light and darkness, his scream swallowed by the chaos. His body twisted, torn apart and remade in the current of time.
He thought he was dying.
But death never came.
Instead, Azreal gasped and opened his eyes.
He lay on cool grass, his body drenched in dew, the scent of pine thick in the air. The roar of the city, the flashing lights, the storm—they were gone. Replaced by silence. By starlight. By the faint hum of crickets in the distance.
Azreal sat up with a groan, clutching his chest. His fingers found no wound, no blood, not even a scar. Only the faint echo of pain where the bullet had torn him open.
"What the hell…" he whispered.
He staggered to his feet, scanning his surroundings. A vast wilderness stretched around him, the forest dark and ancient, the night sky clear and endless. But what caught his attention was the horizon.
There, rising like the spine of some sleeping beast, stood a massive wall. Stone towers climbed into the sky, banners fluttering in the wind. Torches flickered along the battlements, and armored figures patrolled in measured rhythm.
An empire.
Azreal narrowed his eyes. "This… isn't possible."
He had seen kingdoms fall, cities burn, but this was no place he recognized. The architecture was ancient, untouched by the world he knew.
He staggered closer, his assassin instincts flaring alive. He should hide. He should scout. But the shock of betrayal still burned in his chest, and the confusion of this new reality gnawed at him.
"Damn you, Kade," he muttered, clenching his fists. "If I'm not dead, then where the hell am I?"
The drums of the empire echoed faintly from beyond the walls, carrying with them the promise of war. The air was heavy with something he could not name—destiny, perhaps, or doom.
Whatever it was, Azreal Raven had been thrown into a world that had no idea who he was.
But they would.
And above it all, in the heart of that empire, sat a man whose cold eyes would one day burn for him.
The tyrant emperor, Lee Yang.