The city of Acre slept beneath a blanket of silver moonlight, unaware of the storm that lurked in its shadows. The old clock tower in the city's heart stood as an unshaken guardian of time, its hands ticking toward midnight.
Tick…
Tick…
Tick…
As the final chime echoed the empty streets, a lone figure stood at the tower's peak. A man cloaked in abyssal black, his silhouette blending into the night itself. His overcoat swayed with the wind, and beneath his hood, his gaze was locked onto a distant banquet hall—a place of laughter, of light… Of filth.
Without a sound, he disappeared from the tower's peak.
The hunt had begun.
27 January, Year 1287—Acre
Inside the grand banquet hall, the Templars reveled in wealth and power. Chandeliers bathed the marble floors in golden light. Silk curtains draped the high windows, and music danced through the air like whispers of false joy.
At the center of it all stood Aliya, the daughter of the Grandmaster, Lucien Devereux.
Silver-haired, silver-eyed–like moonlight in human form. Her beauty was undeniable, but more than that, her purity set her apart from the world around her. She smiled softly, dressed in a gown as white as an untouched snow, unaware that she was surrounded by monsters.
Beside her stood Reinhardt von Kaiser, a man carved from war itself. Tall, broad-shouldered, with piercing blue eyes that reflected nothing but ambition. The strongest Templar commander of his era, a man destined for greatness. And now, he was destined to marry Aliya.
As the crowd raised their goblets in celebration, Aliya turned to Reinhardt, her voice gentle.
"Are you truly happy about this?"
Reinhardt smirked, "Of course. After all, I am receiving the most precious jewel in the entire World."
Aliya lowered her gaze. Something about his words felt… hollow.
Aliya knew nothing of his cruelty. Nothing of the darkness festering within her own father's soul.
And tonight, she would not have the chance to learn.
Because tonight, fate had other plans.
A single candle flickered. Then another. And another.
Then—darkness.
The grand hall was swallowed whole.
Panic erupted. Steel scraped against scabbard. Shouts tore through the void. Shadows danced slithered. For thirty unbearable seconds, the Templars were blind.
When the light returned—
The floor was painted red.
The scent of iron hung thick. Bodies of Templar knights lay motionless, their throats sliced open, their eyes frozen in terror. The noble guests screamed, stumbled backward.
Aliya was gone.
From the balcony above, an assassin in brown robes gazed down at the massacre. Her crimson scarf swayed like flowing blood.
Hina, the Blood Princess, had returned from Italy.
Lucien's chalice fell from his hand, the wine spilling onto the marble floor like blood. His face twisted in rage as his gaze snapped toward Reinhardt.
"Find her"
Reinhardt's jaw clenched. He had already drawn his blade, stepping over the corpses of fallen knights as he addressed his men.
"We all know who did this." His voice was cold, controlled.
" The Hidden Ones, I swear Blood Princess, I'll be sure to make you pay the price."
Deep within the stronghold of Masyaf, a grand hall stretched before the leaders of the Hidden Ones. Designed like the audience chambers of the ancient kings, the room carried an air of solemnity.
At the far end, upon a grand seat, sat the Mentor of the Assassins, Vittorio Salvatore— a man whose very name commanded reverence. His once jet-black hair was now streaked with silver, his battle-worn face lined with wisdom of age. Draped in a flowing assassin's robe adorned with golden embroidery, he radiated authority.
On either side of him, six leaders of the highest order sat, their presence forming an unshakable pillar of the Brotherhood.
The heavy doors creaked open. A young woman clad in a brown Assassin's robe, strode in. Hina—the Blood Princess, the first and strongest of all leaders. Her crimson eyes, a mark of her enigmatic past, shimmered with an intensity as she took her seat very next to the immediate right of Mentor.
The Mentor's voice echoed through the hall. " Leader Hina, what is the report?'
"Mentor, we have captured the girl."
A murmur ran through the hall.
The Mentor's expression remained unreadable. "Bring her to me"
Hina gestured, and within moments, the doors swung open again. Two rookies dragged Aliya inside.
The princess' silver gown was now tarnished with dirt, her once–flowing hair disheveled.
Yet, despite her condition, she held her head high. Her silver eyes burning with defiance.
Vittorio leaned forward, observing her with the gaze of a man who had seen centuries of war.
"Aliya Devereux." His voice was deep like thunder before a storm. "Daughter of the
Grandmaster of Templars, Lucien von Devereux."
She lifted her chin defiantly.
"Speak your purpose, Assassin," she said, surprising even herself with the strength in her voice.
Vittorio studied her. Then spoke.
"Your father's sins are many, girl. Ten years ago, he stole something that did not belong to him. Something that could tip the balance of this war."
Aliya's brows furrowed.
"I don't know what you're talking about"
A flicker of disappointment passed through Vittorio's eyes.
He turned to the rookies.
"Take her to the lower chambers. Do what is necessary."
The cell was cold. The damp stone walls seemed to absorb the sound of her quiet breaths. Her wrists ached from the chains, and dried blood clung to her skin like a second skin.
The door cracked open.
Hina entered first, pausing as she saw the state ALiya was in.
Hina's eyes softened.
She knelt, uncuffing her wrists, gently pressing a waterskin to her lips. "Drink"
Aliya hesitated but obeyed. The water was the first kindness she had received in hours.
"I'm sorry," Hina whispered. "I did not know they would treat you like this."
Aliya's eyes brimmed with tears, but before she could speak–
A presence loomed.
A shadow darker than the cell itself. The air grew heavy, thick with something unspoken.
Hina's breath hitched as she turned to the doorway.
There, standing in the threshold, was a man clad in pitch-black.
Aliya's lips parted as she stared at him.
His presence was suffocating, his voice—when he finally spoke—felt like it could tear through souls.
"You don't need to do that," he said, his voice carrying something ancient.
Hina's eyes welled with emotion.
"It's… It's been a long time."
'Do they know each other?' Aliya wondered.
He ignored her, stepping toward Aliya. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if the very ground feared his touch.
For the first time, Aliya felt something unfamiliar.
Not fear.
Not terror.
But… curiosity.
His voice softened, though it still carried the weight of the abyss.
"Pardon my rude behavior, Princess."
She swallowed. Then, in the gentlest whisper—
"It's fine… I'm not scared of you."
A moment of silence.
Then, he leaned closer, just enough for the candlelight to flicker in his abyssal gaze.
"They call me Black Reaper."
Aliya's breath hitched.
She had heard the name before.
And she had prayed she would never meet him.
Yet here he was.
'So I'm being thrown into hell, huh?' Aliya thought the moment she heard that name.
'Maybe I was meant to die. It doesn't matter now… I don't know the location of the vault anyway.'
Aliya's thoughts spiraled. 'Perhaps this was fate. Perhaps this was how it was always meant to end.'