—Awake already? —Axio asked maliciously, wearing the expression of someone who clearly knows something I don't. I wanted to ask, but his cold little eyes made it clear he was enjoying the moment.
Without saying another word, and bracing for the worst, I stepped out of the bathtub. At first, I picked up my clothes from the floor, but I couldn't help glancing toward a mirror that had appeared beside the bathroom set. I had only gone up one level, but I hadn't realized my body had changed as well. The extra weight was gone; I hadn't looked this slim and healthy since high school. Even my arms were starting to tone up, and to my surprise, my hair—which barely reached my shoulders before—now fell halfway down my back.
"Tying my hair into a ponytail is now a necessity."
After putting on the robe, I was about to gather the rest of my scattered clothes when the system had a surprise gift waiting for me. On the bed lay a new outfit, very different from what I had brought: formal, almost gala-like. A nearly black suit with a hint of violet, accompanied by a comb and a hair tie, all in the same tone. At first glance it looked uncomfortable to move in, but once I tried it on, it completely shut me up.
It was incredibly light, comfortable, and fit me as if it had been tailor-made just for me.
—It doesn't look half bad —I smiled at my reflection—. I might even look like a heartthrob.
—More like a waiter at an expensive restaurant —Axio scoffed.
With a sigh, I didn't waste any more time. Gerónimo had taught me that just by thinking about going to the Connector, the system would transport me there. With that goal clear in my mind, I headed straight for it. I needed to find out what had happened to Manuela and Sucre.
The answer came immediately. The chaos inside the Connector threw me off at once.
—He has to come back! Someone stop him! —Paul was running back and forth, frantic, his face red and his hands clutching his head.
I ran toward him, but he didn't even notice me.
—What's going on?
—It's Gerónimo! —he replied in a broken voice—. He's gone crazy… He's in the Cancer trial.
—Cancer? Already? But that's for ranking up to Bronze!
—Exactly. —Paul clenched his teeth—. He climbed to level five, spent everything he had on his star and… damn it, that idiot bet everything on a single run.
I felt my chest grow heavier with every word.
—He'll be fine, Paul. Gerónimo is strong.
—But not that strong… —Bolívar said behind us. His haggard face looked like that of someone who hadn't slept in days—. This is all my fault.
—What did you say, idiot? —Paul grabbed him by the collar, lifting the Liberator, who didn't even try to resist.
—I told him to get revenge on those bastards, but I never thought they'd be so… damn it… what have I done?
Simón couldn't hold it in any longer. Heavy tears streamed down his face, crying openly like a scolded child.
—Where are Sucre and Manuela? —I asked, dreading the answer.
—They were eliminated… and it was that bastard! —Bolívar spat.
Bolívar pointed at the Cancer screen. Unlike Aries or Taurus, there was now only one active room.
On the interface, the names could be read:
[White Team: Louis Riel : Eliminated / Katliam : Eliminated / Gerónimo : Active]
—His team fell a few minutes ago. He's the only one left… —Paul swallowed hard—. And he got matched against the worst possible pair.
Even though I couldn't feel the air, I could sense it growing heavier the moment he said their names:
—Charlotte Corday and Hassan-i Sabbah.
"The living reaper and the innocent assassin."
Corday had gone down in history for her cynicism; convinced she had done good for her homeland, she murdered a man in cold blood at the young age of twenty-four. An act that cost her her life, securing her place in history as one of France's youngest and most influential assassins—especially for her coldness and, to a certain extent, her innocence.
But when it comes to assassins, Hassan-i Sabbah is the father of the very concept. Known as the Old Man of the Mountain, he was the leader of the greatest assassin sect of his time. Creator of a cult centered around death and dozens of assassination methods, his influence was so vast that he is credited with the very creation of the concept of the "assassin."
Death made flesh.
I hadn't even finished organizing my thoughts when a new sign appeared:
[Great Victory: Black Team]
Paul collapsed to the floor, slamming his fist down in rage. The blows were only drowned out by his sharp, gut-wrenching screams.
Bolívar, eyes wide as plates, couldn't make a sound when the message we didn't want to read appeared:
[Eliminated from the system: Gerónimo]
At that moment, a hooded figure wearing tattered black and gray robes appeared beside a young woman dressed in pink, elegant and smiling. Her black hair fell down her back, framing a youthful smile that only made her presence beside the reaper even more macabre.
They were Gerónimo's killers. And all we could do was watch them pass by.
"That's the Nexus," I recalled his own words.
That Apache who, after killing me, had become my friend. That man whose noble wish was to be remembered by his people…
He had reached his end.
As I read the cold words on the monitor, all I could imagine was him lying in the middle of a nocturnal desert, staring at the star-filled sky, waiting for his death.
Gerónimo was gone.