It was with a contemplative mind I found myself sunk deep into the seat of the passenger plane, the hum of the engines a monotonous lullaby to the conclusion of my final overseas assignment. My course was set for Japan, and with it, the end of an extraordinary career.
The multitudes hold fast to the comforting fiction by which assassins exist —— only within the pages of a novel or upon the stage.
This, I assure you, is a fallacy most convenient.
Consider the matter with cold logic. Is there any method more efficient, more final, for the removal of an enemy than his outright elimination?
And as a man's power and wealth accumulate, so too does the number of those whose silence, or absence, he fervently desires. Where such a demand exists, supply shall inevitably follow... and thus, professionals of my ilk are called into being.
My final task was concluded, executed with the same quiet precision which marked all its predecessors. With the close of this, my last piece of business, I was to retire.
For even I, whom the chancelleries of the world had dubbed the greatest assassin of our age —— the man who had arranged for a certain head of state to conveniently 'succumb to illness' —— could not defy the creeping advance of years.
A new occupation awaited me: a tutelary role at a facility where the arcane arts of our trade were imparted to promising novices. To instruct in such matters requires a skill set of singular depth and specialization, a resource far rarer than one might suppose. My plan was to nurture raw talent, to shape fledgling killers into masters of the craft.
Alas, it appears this congenial retirement was but a ruse, a fiction designed to lower my guard.
A thunderous detonation rent the air, a brutal percussion which set the entire aircraft shuddering violently. The steady, reassuring hum of the engines gave way to a sickening, descending whine as the plane began its inexorable fall from the sky.
It is a predictable, if crude, stratagem: a used tool, once its utility is spent, is best discarded to ensure its silence.
To commit such resources to the elimination of a single man... I must confess, a flicker of grim pride stirred within me. My work, it seems, had been well-appreciated.
Old age, I reflected once more, had dulled my instincts. I should have foreseen such a culmination.
Rising from my seat, I pressed my way through the throng of panicked and wailing passengers, my course set for the source of the disturbance. Forcing the lock of the cockpit door, I gained entry. Any potential interference had been... neutralised, by parties unknown, and now slumbered peacefully in the aisle.
Within the cockpit itself, the scene was one of finality. The captain and his first officer had been relieved of the upper portions of their skulls. A messy, but effective, solution.
I was not dismayed. An assassin's education is a broad church; piloting a passenger aircraft is but one of its many obscure texts. The situation remained salvageable... if, and only if, the console hadn't been grievously wounded in the same blast which had silenced the pilots. It had.
I've dispatched many souls from this world. I've always understood, with the detached clarity of a professional, how my own turn would inevitably arrive. I hadn't, however, anticipated so grand a sepulchre as this.
Forever has it been my policy to exhaust every avenue of survival, to claw for a chance even when the odds dwindle to a mere 0.01%. All my experience, all my knowledge, is but fuel for this relentless engine of calculation.
And in this extreme, a single, audacious possibility presented itself. To save the aircraft was beyond my power. To save myself, alone, was not.
The matter was rendered more pressing by the approach of fighter jets, their silhouettes heavy with missiles, closing on our crippled form. We were, at this moment, passing over a sprawling city.
The trajectory of our descent promised an impact of catastrophic proportions, a fiery comet strewing destruction across the urban landscape below. Before this could occur, our pursuers resolved to expedite the matter.
A missile, an AIM-92 by my estimation, was fired. A passenger plane of this type would not even leave substantial debris. A frustrating end. I still had cards to play, had a simple crash been the only concern.
In this final instant, a profound sense of irony, of bitter waste, washed over me.
I'd lived as a perfect instrument, suppressing emotion, obeying with flawless fidelity the directives of my organisation. And for this unwavering loyalty, I was rewarded with treachery.
Had they commanded me to die, I would've done so with the same unquestioning obedience.
For the first time, this devotion, so absolute, was trampled into the dust. And in its place, a question bloomed.
If there is to be a next life, I thought, let it be lived for myself, and not as another's chattel. Possessing these skills, this knowledge, this experience wielded in my own cause, what might I not achieve? Clinging to this nascent hope, I continued to take the necessary, desperate measures for survival until the very last shred of existence was consumed.
◇ ◇ ◇
Upon opening my eyes, my vision was greeted by a sight of classical grandeur. A temple, wrought of white stone, its form echoing the grace of the Parthenon, stood against a sky of impossible serenity. The notion of rescue from my recent predicament was, of course, absurd. A dream, then?
"No," a voice corrected me, its tone a peculiar blend of the ethereal and the flippant. "It was no dream. The events preceding your demise were quite real. You, the world's greatest assassin, were yourself assassinated in a rather foolish manner. Pfft—!"
A woman stood before me. Her hair was white, as was the cape draped about her form. Yet it wasn't merely her attire, but her very substance which possessed this quality: her skin, her eyes, everything was of an immaculate, pristine whiteness. And her beauty... it was a thing of such perfect proportion, each element arranged with a mathematical precision which transcended the merely human, creating a being of such harmonious aspect which defied the very concept of a person. A perfection utterly undone by the casual, almost vulgar, familiarity of her tone.
"...I should be grateful for an explanation," I managed, my assassin's mind already cataloguing details, searching for inconsistencies, for tells.
"I have summoned the soul of the deceased," she announced. "By the way, I am a goddess."
I raised an eyebrow. "Does a goddess typically make a habit of summoning the dead for casual conversation? Given the sheer volume of mortal departures, one would imagine divinity to be as occupied as the stars are numerous. Unless my case holds some particular interest?"
"The last guess was a direct hit!" she declared, as if I had solved a charming riddle. "Ordinarily, one simply bleaches the soul of its accumulated stains and sends it off for recycling. We are not, after all, entirely devoid of recreation."
My every instinct, honed over decades of reading the micro-expressions of liars and targets, was engaged. The set of her facial muscles, the intonation of her voice, the minute changes in her skin... I sought a flaw, a crack in the facade of divinity.
I found none.
It was a performance so natural, so utterly without artifice, which felt as though she were aware of every point I sought to analyse and was merely indulging my scrutiny. I could replicate such a thing, but to this pitch of perfection? Never.
This was a realm impossible for humanity. This single fact was more convincing than any miracle; the being before me was assuredly no person.
"Then," I said, "Enlighten me as to the reason for my summons."
"Quick-witted, are you not? You are presented with a choice. The first: your soul is cleansed, and you are reborn as a stranger to yourself. The second? You accept my request, and in lieu of this cleansing, you are reincarnated in another world, your knowledge and experience intact."
The former option was, to my mind, no different from annihilation. A stranger wearing my recycled soul. The latter, however, promised a continuation of self, a tangible echo of the life just ended. It was a seductive proposition.
I'd lived as a tool for the dispatch of others, and my final, bitter regret had been this very existence — a life surrendered for a master who then cast me aside. The offer was to do it all again.
Yet, the very fact of her selection prompted a necessary inquiry. Such generosity is rarely without purpose.
"This request of which you speak," I said, my voice level. "Whom do you wish me to kill?"
"Ah, a mind which cuts directly to the heart of the matter! This is the soul I have anticipated!" Her delight was palpable. "In a world of swords and sorcery, a fantasy realm, you are to assassinate the hero. The deadline is eighteen years from your birth in this world."
"A world of swords and magic? A hero? This is the stuff of idle fiction," I observed.
As I posed the question, a torrent of information concerning this new world flooded my consciousness: its governing laws, the definition and practice of magic, the prevailing culture and technological level, and, most importantly, the nature of the hero. I perceived at once the fundamental truth of it. This was a reality wholly alien to my own.
"A hero is a hero," the goddess replied, as if this were self-evident. "Why must he be killed? Sixteen years hence, this hero shall vanquish the Demon King and save the world. He shall then, drunk on his own power, turn his gifts to selfish ends, wreaking havoc upon the world with a mercilessness and precision which eclipses even the Demon King. Within eighteen years, the world lies in ruins. Therefore, you must dispatch him before this can occur."
"A neat summation. The hero, having served his purpose, becomes a liability best eliminated." A familiar, if callous, logic. "So my task is simply to dispose of the hero after he has slain the Demon King?"
"Precisely! Though, if I hadn't mentioned it separately, the outcome would be dire. But had I made provision for it, it would've have removed all element of chance!"
The world I was to enter was one wherein the physical capabilities of certain individuals far exceeded anything possible in my own. A society poised between the medieval and the early modern, yet with an incongruously advanced magical technology. My sole purpose for reincarnation was to kill this hero.
"The hero who kills the Demon King is no longer required, so we dispose of him. A simple equation. Am I to understand no other force in this world is capable of this task?"
"You understand correctly. If leaving him be were an option, I should do so. But you do not possess this power, and if I could grant you this power, I should not have chosen you from the outset."
The goddess placed a hand beneath my chin, her smile one of bewitching cunning. "I chose an assassin, not a warrior, nor a knight, nor a magician. For only an assassin, operating within the strict confines of humanity, can hope to kill a hero."
The implication was stark. The hero was a being whose capabilities vastly exceeded the established limits of this world's denizens. He was, from birth, overwhelmingly superior...
The goddess and her kind could grant no exceptions for anyone save the hero himself; only one such hero could exist at any time. Once the hero turned rogue, there was nothing within the world's natural order which could stop him in open combat. Hence, the necessity of 'assassination'.
"I comprehend the nature of this 'hero', this monster in man's clothing. My acceptance hinges on one condition. The vessel you provide must be of the highest calibre permitted by the human frame."
"Naturally! I shall cooperate in this regard. I shall grant you the theoretical peak of physical human potential... and a selection of skills. Skills which, in the normal course of events, are bestowed entirely at random."
A dizzying array of concepts, of abilities, flooded my mind. In this world, each person was granted up to five skills at birth, selected from a multitude as vast as the stars. To be permitted to choose freely from this cosmic catalogue was an advantage of incalculable value.
"You will not choose my skills for me?" I asked.
"Such minutiae are beneath my notice," she declared with a dismissive wave. "The very thought of wielding such precision gives me goosebumps! I shall grant you three days. Study, deliberate, and choose. But remember, this is contingent upon your acceptance of my request."
"I accept," I said without hesitation. "But first, I have further questions. The common knowledge you have imparted suggests a goddess cannot interfere excessively in mortal affairs. Reincarnating an agent from another world would seem to constitute a rather significant exception."
"Ah, a clever deduction! And correct. It was a happy accident. A confluence of events: a shortage of souls in this world, a soul from your world available for replenishment, a fortuitous imperfection in the bleaching process which allowed memories to persist, and by sheer chance, the potential for a high-performance body to draw strong skills. All within the established framework of coincidence. Within this framework, no one can accuse me of 'ordinary' interference."
"Understood. Next: the eighteen-year deadline. Am I at liberty to eliminate the hero the moment I am able?"
"Oh, no, this simply will not do!" she exclaimed, shaking a finger. "You must wait until the hero has slain the Demon King. The Demon King can only be killed by the hero, and should the hero perish first, the world would be destroyed."
"One final question," I said, my gaze steady upon her. "How many other souls have you lured with this same bait, reincarnated with memories to assassinate the hero?"
A flicker of genuine admiration crossed her perfect features. "Ah, as expected of a legendary assassin! You see so clearly. The answer is none. At least, at this present moment, you are the sole agent. To orchestrate a multitude of such coincidences would be beyond even my power."
'At this present moment'... a careful qualifier. I filed it away for future reference.
"Lastly," I pressed. "Do you wish me to save the world, or to kill the hero? If the former is achievable without the latter, would this not be the preferable outcome?"
"Of course I desire the world's salvation!" she affirmed. "If you can save the hero, and thereby the world, without killing him, then by all means do so. If you can."
Her final words were accompanied by a smile of profound, knowing ambiguity.
"Very well. I accept your commission. I shall be reincarnated into this world of swords and magic. One request of my own: I would prefer to be placed within a family of reasonable wealth and standing, an environment conducive to training both mind and body."
"Have no fear on this account!" she assured me. "You shall be reincarnated into the house of the greatest assassin in this world, and become the heir to Tuatha Dé, a family of assassins. Now, apply yourself to your studies. Select your skills wisely, and I shall set the mechanism of your rebirth in motion."
The goddess faded from view, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the vast catalogue of potential abilities.
A bitter laugh escaped me.
Even in rebirth, my purpose was to take a life. I had vowed, in my final moments, to live by my own design. The irony by which my new existence was to be, once more, a tool in another's hand was not lost upon me. Yet, I would not repine.
I had been granted a reprieve, a second act. Eighteen years to prepare, to execute my final contract, and at its conclusion, to claim the reward of a life lived on my own terms.
This time, I resolved, I would find and secure this elusive quarry I had never known in my previous existence: what men call happiness.