Alastor’s heart beat steadily as he stared out over the neon-drenched city, but his mind was a storm of calculations. Every instinct told him to remain vigilant. He knew how this played out: each time the loop reset, his enemies adapted. If they sent another assassin, it wouldn't be the same as before. They were testing him, raising the stakes.

This time, he would be ready.

He leaned against the edge of the bar, one hand resting on the pistol he now kept with him at all times. His neural link buzzed with the faint echo of the symbols he had decoded earlier, the pathway still vivid in his mind. They were a key to something larger, but before he could unlock it, he would have to survive the next attempt on his life.

A soft chime from Echo, his AI assistant, broke the silence.

"Alastor, there is an unauthorized breach in your security grid," Echo reported calmly. "Intruder detected."

A smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. So they were coming after him again.

"Location?" Alastor asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"South corridor," Echo replied. "They have bypassed the main defense systems."

He should’ve been surprised, but after his previous deaths, nothing shocked him anymore. His enemies were elite, their technology unparalleled. But he was learning. With each loop, he gained more knowledge. And tonight, he would use it to his advantage.

He didn’t wait for the assassin to make the first move. He slipped into the shadows, maneuvering through his penthouse with precision, his eyes scanning for any sign of movement. His neural link flickered as the hieroglyphs reappeared, overlaying his vision with subtle warnings. The ankh. The scarab. The udjat. They were reminders of what was coming—life, death, and the balance between them.

Suddenly, the lights flickered—just a brief pulse of darkness, but enough to send his pulse racing. They were here.

He saw the ripple in the air first, just as before. The assassin wasn’t hiding behind conventional stealth technology. This was something far more advanced, something that seemed to blend reality itself with illusion. The figure materialized out of thin air, emerging from the shadows like a specter.

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But this time, Alastor didn’t hesitate.

He raised his pistol and fired.

The gunshots cracked through the penthouse, but the assassin was fast—inhumanly fast. They dodged the first two shots, their body moving with liquid precision, but Alastor had anticipated their speed. The third bullet caught them in the shoulder, staggering them for just a moment.

That moment was all he needed.

Alastor lunged forward, closing the distance before the assassin could recover. He caught a glimpse of their eyes—cold, unfeeling, and devoid of mercy—before they lashed out with a curved blade. Alastor ducked, feeling the wind of the blade slicing just above his head. The assassin moved with deadly grace, but this time, Alastor was prepared.

He parried the next strike with the barrel of his gun, knocking the assassin off balance. A sharp kick to the knee sent the assassin crashing to the floor, their blade skittering across the room. Before they could recover, Alastor pressed the pistol to their chest and fired twice more.

The assassin gasped, blood pouring from the wounds, their body twitching as life slipped away. Alastor stood over them, breathing heavily, the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

As the assassin lay dying, their hand twitched, reaching for something strapped to their wrist. Alastor’s eyes narrowed, catching the faint glint of metal—a bracelet, adorned with strange markings.

Hieroglyphs.

Alastor knelt down, carefully prying the assassin’s wrist free from the bracelet. It was heavy, made of some ancient-looking metal, and as his fingers brushed against it, he felt a strange pulse of energy run through him. The hieroglyphs etched into the surface were more intricate than any he’d seen before, their symbols forming a pattern he didn’t yet understand.

Blood dripped from the assassin’s chest, pooling beneath their body as Alastor studied the bracelet more closely. Each symbol was a part of the larger story, a continuation of the message that had been haunting him since his first death. He ran his fingers over the markings—ankh, scarab, udjat—each symbol tied to the myth of resurrection, protection, and the endless cycle of life and death.

This was no ordinary assassin. They were part of the Assassination Pyramid.

As the last breath left the assassin’s body, their eyes locked with Alastor’s, and for just a moment, something like recognition passed between them. This was more than a job for them. This was part of a ritual, a cycle they had likely lived through again and again, just like him.

But he had won this time.

Alastor stood, the weight of the bracelet heavy in his hand, the symbols burning into his mind. This was the key, another piece of the puzzle the Pyramid was laying before him. Each assassin, each death, each symbol—it all led somewhere. A path was unfolding, one that only he could see.

The game was still in play, but now, Alastor held the next move.