The first mission took place inside the grand municipal building.
Tiflos parked the car and stared at the structure for a moment.
A guard stepped out, attempting to secure the doors—
The strike came instantly.
Tiflos hit the man's neck with precise force, cutting off consciousness before a sound could escape.
At the top of the building, the target continued reviewing documents, unaware.
Tiflos infiltrated the mayor's office.
Inside, the senior official Marcus sat behind a wide desk, surrounded by awards and certificates—proof of years of public service.
He had refused a bribe from the organization, believing his principles would protect him.
Cain no longer sent Tiflos on missions under the disguise of justice or necessity.
There were no fabricated charges.
No moral justifications.
Only honesty.
Kill—
not for a reason,
but as a method of slowly erasing conscience.
Tiflos opened the door and entered like a shadow.
Marcus was still focused on the papers, not noticing the open door. He rose slowly, confused—
never seeing Tiflos move through the dark corners of the room until the presence was directly behind him.
The red sword shimmered faintly in the low light.
"Who are you?" Marcus trembled as he sensed the blade and saw the shadow rise behind him.
"A message from the organization," Tiflos replied, his voice flat—mechanical, like a programmed response.
The sword rose.
The strike fell—fast and clean.
The red blade pierced the back of the man's neck, severing the spinal cord with surgical precision.
No torture.
No hesitation.
No indulgence.
Just execution.
When Tiflos left, the body lay collapsed on the floor, blood soaking into the expensive Persian carpet.
That night, Tiflos sat alone in his room, trying to vomit.
Nothing came.
His stomach was empty of emotion—just as empty as it was of food.
The only thing that remained with him was the sound.
The dull thud of a body hitting the ground.
A sound that would soon become familiar.
---
Several days later, inside the Resistance's secret hideout on the city's outskirts—
Nour sat with Elias and Lina, reviewing reports of recent assassinations.
Liam leaned silently against the doorway, lost in thought.
The room was simple but organized—filled with maps and files detailing the organization's movements.
"Eight officials in one week," Lina said, her voice shaking as she placed the reports on the table.
"All killed the same way. One precise strike. Fatal. From behind."
Elias looked at Nour with sorrowful eyes.
They both knew the truth would hurt her more than she could endure.
"It's Tiflos," Elias said quietly.
"This matches his wave-based combat style—the one you told us about. No one else could do this.
The precision. The speed. The wound pattern.
It's his signature."
Nour gripped the edge of the table until her fingers turned white.
"No…" she whispered.
"There's still hope. There has to be something left inside him. Something that can come back."
But the images and reports were merciless.
Each killing bore Tiflos's mark—
deadly accuracy, lethal calm, and a terrifying efficiency that had become his defining trait.
---
As the days passed, the missions grew more frequent—and more brutal.
Tiflos was changing.
Slowly.
Inevitably.
In the second week, his assignment was to eliminate a group of merchants secretly funding the Resistance.
He entered their warehouse in the harbor district at night, moving like a shadow between barrels and stacked crates.
One guard tried to fight back, firing an old pistol.
Tiflos sidestepped the bullet with minimal movement, then released a focused sonic wave to close the distance.
Before the man could scream, the red sword pierced his heart.
"Why?" whispered the lead merchant, trembling behind a barrel.
"Orders," Tiflos replied.
Then came the killing blow.
---
The Resistance tried to grow—but every new member vanished or died.
Tiflos became their ghost.
He hunted them with terrifying foresight, anticipating their movements before they even made them.
One rainy night, he intercepted a group of idealistic youths attempting to smuggle medicine to impoverished districts.
The youngest was a girl—no older than sixteen.
Wide blue eyes filled with hope… and fear.
After Tiflos finished killing the others, only the girl remained.
She sat on the ground, trembling amid the bodies of everyone she had come with.
"Go home," Tiflos said quietly, a fragment of mercy still lingering in his voice.
But driven by terror—and the foolish courage of youth—she fired her pistol at him.
The bullet missed, passing mere centimeters from his head.
Tiflos did not move.
It was as if he had wanted it to hit him.
Instead, it shattered the final barrier in his heart.
The bloodstained sword rose—
—and fell.
It pierced the girl's chest without hesitation.
"She had a choice," Tiflos whispered to himself as he cleaned the blade of her blood.
"And she chose wrong."
---
Weeks passed.
Killing became routine.
Wake up.
Receive the mission.
Execute.
Return.
Sleep.
Tiflos no longer dreamed.
No longer felt.
No longer remembered why any of this had mattered in the first place.
Even Cain began to notice the profound transformation in his newest creation.
"You've become… impressively efficient," Cain said during one morning meeting.
"Isn't that what you wanted?" Tiflos replied hoarsely, his eyes never meeting Cain's.
"More than I expected," Cain admitted.
"You've exceeded every projection."
And Tiflos stood there—
a perfect weapon—
already far beyond the point of return.