This took place a little earlier, before Marcus’s purification unit set out.
Having recognized someone he knew well, Altair did not hesitate. He knew it was him.
He quickly descended the mountain and approached the group of zombies dressed in tattered assassin uniforms.
Among them was a man wearing the same uniform of the Captain of the Pope’s Deathsworn as Altair. He dragged his rotting corpse along, emitting strange, low growls.
It was Tyron, the boy who had grown up with him in the orphanage within the slums of Calonpolis.
“What a joke…” Altair let out a soft, self-deprecating snort. “So that’s how it was. No wonder that bastard Pope kept us apart. It turns out… we were all just pawns he could throw away after use.”
The sound of the wind blowing through the gaps in the trees and the rustling of leaves could be heard in the forest, but Altair could no longer hear any greetings from Tyron.
Sunlight filtered through the forest, casting mottled shadows on Altair’s face, which was completely hidden by his white hood, and on Tyron’s gaunt, undead face, which had only a few patches of muscle and skin left.
Altair lowered his head. No one could see his expression.
He could only rush forward to say his final farewell.
In the end, was this the only destination for them?
‘If he looks like this today, will I share the same fate tomorrow?’
Altair moved into action, but memories of their past gradually surfaced in his mind.
Ultimately, the essence of Altair and Tyron’s misdeeds was a desire for money. They came from the same orphanage in the slums.
Although they were able to live without worrying about food or clothing under the Pope, they still used most of the money they earned to rebuild the orphanage and help the children at the bottom of the slums.
The upper-class nobles of Calonpolis did not care at all about the lives or deaths of the “slum rats.” Only those who grew up in such a place knew exactly how dark their environment truly was.
Altair was older than Tyron. Both were orphans, and days of struggling and going hungry were all too familiar. It could even be said that they were closer than biological brothers since childhood.
He remembered one time after they had robbed a carriage belonging to a playboy noble. Tyron had been seriously injured, and Altair had no choice but to take him to hide temporarily in a cellar in a remote village.
In the cellar, the only light came from the dim glow of a wall-mounted oil lamp. Tyron curled up in a corner, blood seeping from his abdomen, suffering from a fever.
Altair mashed herbs and pressed the prepared ointment onto the wound. Although young Tyron’s nose was red, he held back his tears and refused to let them fall.
Afterward, Altair pulled out half a piece of slightly moldy black bread and handed it to Tyron, scolding him with a frown, “You’re so stupid. You had already escaped, but you ran back to grab the ham and sausages and got slashed. Do you even have a brain? If you ignore my orders again, I won’t help you.”
After saying that, he took a small bite of his own piece of black bread, which was as hard as a stone.
With bread in his mouth, Tyron asked indistinctly, “Brother, let’s practice short blades and hidden blades together from now on. I feel like your talent in this area is much better than mine. You can even modify them and add a bunch of little gadgets.”
Altair picked up the hidden blade on the wooden rack and wiped the iron-grey dust off by the dim candlelight.
His fingertip brushed the rough edge of the blade. When he looked at Tyron, his eyes were as bright as if they held sparks. “Of course. When we’ve both mastered them, we’ll be able to use small things to defeat big ones, and no one will bully us. We’ll go on every mission together and never be apart.”
“Mm-hmm! When we have money in the future, we’ll help the other children in the slums get out of their predicament!” Tyron wiped his dirty nose, a bright, childish smile on his face.
The evening wind drifted through the cracks in the cellar, carrying the scent of herbs. The sound of chewing bread mixed with the laughter of the two brothers. Those were the happiest times in that temporary assassin base.
***
No one was born bloodthirsty, but after wearing the assassin’s mask for too long, they perhaps truly forgot their original faces.
Regarding the souls that died beneath their hidden blades, they had transitioned from the hesitation and lack of decisiveness during their first missions to the ruthless, cold-blooded efficiency of later years. It was all a result of becoming accustomed to their roles as assassins.
They did not ask for forgiveness from those who died by their blades.
They also knew that their final resting place might be a cold, smelly gutter, an unnoticed mass grave, or perhaps a gallows or guillotine in some marketplace.
Perhaps leaving their final bit of earthly warmth to the orphanage and the children at the bottom of the slums was the best possible ending.
***
Altair’s knuckles gripped the handle of his hidden blade so tightly they turned white. The blue criminal tattoo on his wrist pulled taut. It was a mark branded on both of them when they were children for the crime of robbery; at this moment, it felt as painful as if his skin were burning.
He ducked to the side, avoiding Tyron’s aimless zombie lunge. No matter how powerful an assassin might have been in life, the intelligence of a zombie was like that of a two- or three-year-old child, and their actions were purposeless.
Altair’s eyes turned red, and his breathing beneath the white hood became exceptionally heavy. His blade, usually bold and decisive, was trembling violently now.
Seeing Tyron’s bloody maw about to bite him, he had to use one hand to grip his other trembling hand to keep it steady. He transformed the last trace of hesitation in his heart into resolve and lunged fiercely at Tyron.
He roared as he pushed the zombified Tyron, using his hidden blade to shove him against a tree. Then, he pulled out four or five more hidden blades and pinned him there completely.
Altair froze in place. The blades were already embedded in Tyron’s decaying torso, pinning him firmly to the trunk. Even his breathing was filled with hesitation and struggle. Tyron likely no longer possessed human consciousness, but Altair’s eyes still held an unspoken reluctance to let go.
Altair’s subordinates also worked together to deal with Tyron’s zombified squad. In fact, these subordinates had been personally selected by them, and most of them knew each other…
No matter how hard it was to let go, they had to do so now.
“Either follow the creed or betray the old master; either join or die.”
Tyron had told Altair those words later on as his own assassin’s creed.
‘Heh, so our choice was wrong from the very beginning?’
‘You were right, Tyron.’
This kind of physical attack was ineffective against zombified people.
Hearing Tyron’s assassin creed in his mind once more, Altair finally reached a state of resignation.
He gave the order to his subordinates. Then, together with them, he raised his flintlock pistol and blew the heads of his former zombie comrades to pieces.
Altair now had a new goal. He wanted to protect the last harbor in their hearts—the children living in the orphanage they had rebuilt in the slums of Calonpolis.
He did not plan to seek revenge against the Rebel Army, because he had already deeply realized who his true target for revenge was.
He had to find a way to escape the Pope’s restrictions before he could proceed with his subsequent plans.
This path might lead to an even darker end, to a point of no return. However, he felt that he had to do this now.
Goodbye, my brother.
Goodbye, my past, fake, and cowardly self.