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His earliest memories as a child were of Soviet tanks rolling over the rubble-strewn streets of Hamburg. Cannons and machine guns went off all-day and all-night, and jets screamed overhead, dropping bombs that he learned to ignore after a while. He spent the war alone, moving from shelter to shelter, sustained by the passing pity of famished adults and foreign NATO soldiers.

Millions perished in nuclear fire, but those were cities far away. To a child like he was, it was something unimaginable. For now, he just needed to survive.

Peace came barely a year later, by 1963. Both NATO and the Soviet Union dissolved as their generals overthrew what remained of their governments out of the sheer terror of using up all their nuclear arsenals. For him, it just meant different uniforms guarding the bread lines.

‘Nunquam iterum.’ Born out of scars and fear, a new world order rose from the ashes: the Intercontinental. Their only goal was to keep ambitious men from ever gaining too much power, and above all, to safeguard the world’s nuclear arsenals.

The children of the last war were a convenient stock from which to draw soldiers for the new war: the shadow war. These children had no histories, no futures, no attachments, and above all, they held memories of the war as scars in their hearts.

So, they took him from the streets and gave him a new name: Jon Fuze.

For a child like he was, being given a goal in an aimless life was like a dream. He easily believed in what every one of his peers believed: that there was no more noble place to be, than to be a soldier on the frontline stopping the end of the world.

He treasured his new name. He treasured his new mission. He spent ten years in training, and then ten years in the shadow war. Soldier, spy, killer, assassin — most of his peers died over the course of operations all across the world, but he didn’t mind that. They all knew what they were in for, so this was just a matter of course. They held no attachments, and they weren’t supposed to. Attachments were just a weakness to be exploited, and they had no room to fail.

After ten years in the shadow war, he graduated from the frontlines to become a trainer for the next generation of the Intercontinental’s agents. It was then that he met someone and felt love for the first time.

He didn’t have words for it that time, but she taught him about it, and she was patient. She taught him new words like gratitude, sincerity, and soul. She demonstrated to him what it meant to live, and not just survive.

With new eyes, he continued with his work, even becoming content with just pencil-pushing the whole day — but that was how he came to notice discrepancies in what the Intercontinental said, versus what the Intercontinental actually did.

Some missions his trainees were sent to undertake were one-way tickets — human bullets to assassinate key political figures who opposed the Intercontinental. Most of them were just missions to assassinate small figures who would barely impact the world.

Large sums were attached to these missions. Instead of protecting the world, it was merely profiting off contract killing in the underworld.

Jon had brushed too close to the flame.

He returned to a bullet-ridden home and broken windows. The woman who had taught him so much was dead on the floor.

He destroyed the walls. He destroyed the floor. From the walls and the floor, he recovered boxes of weapons, hidden codes, and old identities.

His enemy spanned the whole world and commanded an army. He was just one man with nothing left...but the rest of his life.

All his remaining years would be spent killing, he decided, and so he hunted them down: from the barrios, the favelas, to the City of Lights and the heritage towns of the fatherland. Surrounded first by sea, then by sand, then forest, dust, and snow, he shed his former skin and forgot everything that was ever taught to him.

He didn’t need happiness to accomplish his last mission. The only things he needed to remember were target details, key names ... and the reason why he trudged through blood and mud. He kept a small picture in a pocket, looking at the face on it for only a few seconds. If he looked any longer, he would start to feel pain. He called himself her avenging demon, and demons didn’t need to feel pain.

However, if all was said and done, if he managed to win and somehow come out alive, he didn’t know what to do with the rest of his life...but he didn’t need to know. He just had to make sure everything was over. He just had to finish it.

His path led him to the root of all evil: the CIA headquarters in Los Angeles. He bypassed their outermost security and cut a path straight to the directors of the Intercontinental, fighting his way up dozens of floors, even evading a helicopter’s cannon fire and taking it down with a firehose, anchoring it to the building and causing it to crash into the facade.

He blew open the doors to the board room, tossed in a stun grenade, gunned down the guards in the corners, then took the corners and gunned down the directors, too.

But the man he really wanted to kill wasn’t there.

On a television screen, hanging above the room’s broad window, appeared the man’s face. “Wilson,” Jon spat. The man he wanted to kill had a full head of white hair. He was the one who’d ordered the hit on his wife, then pretended to be Jon’s inside ally and fed him with intel about the rest of the directors.

Jon’s fury over this had led him here. He didn’t care about all the other directors. Even if he put aside his anger, by all accounts, Wilson Scott was the most dangerous of them all. He absolutely needed to die.

“Thanks for doing me a favor, Jon,” he said. “The Intercontinental had been needing a hard reset for a while.”

Jon scratched his finger against his carbine’s trigger. “Come out.”

Wilson smiled. “Sure.”

It was like a cannon went off indoors. The bulletproof window before Jon cracked into a giant web of refracting lines, and he was blown forwards by some invisible force knocking him onto his chest.

Jon rolled over and strained to lift his head. It was getting harder to do so. He looked down his body, past the gaping hole in his chest, then past his feet, at the figure of Wilson who cradled a smoking 50-caliber rifle in his arms.

Losing strength, Jon laid his head back down. His vision blurred with each passing second. “Well, I’m here now,” Wilson said, leaning the heavy rifle against the table in the middle of the room.

Jon drew on the last of his strength to fight against death, yet he couldn’t even lift a finger. His vision was dimming, and his mind was already beginning to replay younger years of pain, those scarce days of hope, and all the years of killing thereafter.

But he refused to remember the killing. He refused to let go of the little bit of happiness he could still remember. Some memories began to swirl and turn into water; the amusement parks, the green grass, all turned into water and mud, but that was fine. The only thing that mattered — the only thing worth remembering — was the one person who managed to make him feel like his life wasn’t all shit.

Beneath all this, he could still hear Wilson’s voice. “Aren’t you happy? The world’s going to be a better place because of you.”

To which Jon replied, summoning the last drop of his will just to say so, “Fuck you.”

Wilson chuckled. “Shouldn’t you be thanking me? We both know you came here to die, after all.”

Jon didn’t reply. Wilson sighed and shook his head. “Shame. Thanks for cleaning up the trash, though.” He stepped over the bodies of the dead directors, reaching for a radio to call in the cleanup crew.

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— Plucked from the Archive of the Broken World —

Ravena the Keeper

A fixer of things

Soon she discovered

A killer of kings

A man on his knees

Defeated and doomed

She loved what she saw

“I can fix him,” she mused.

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Theater. Opera. The singer under the limelight belted out an aria, beautiful enough to distract from the ache of Jon’s back pressing against a hard oak backrest.

When he opened his eyes, the first person he saw was the singer on the stage. Behind her was an ensemble, waiting for her to sing her final note. The seat in front of him was lower than he was used to, with no upholstery to speak of. He looked around, and all the other seats were empty. It smelled of varnish and oak, but also of tobacco smoke. It was warm, a little humid, but none of that made sense.

He...he should’ve been dead.

He felt for the hole that should’ve been around his chest, then reached to his back to find the other. They weren’t there. His suit-and-tie was intact — whole, and very much without a 50-caliber entry nor 1,000-caliber exit.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

“You’re dead,” a woman’s voice spoke up. He looked right, and there was a woman who hadn’t been there before, holding up a bone-white opera mask to her eyes. Black feathers adorned her raven dress, which ballooned to a fluffy volume around her waist.

He eyed the woman, assessing her, and then the immediate area. She seemed to be alone, but that didn’t preclude an ambush, like a knife from her sleeve, or a cocked gun under her dress. She looked at him and smiled.

She didn’t seem to have any intention of killing him in the next 5 minutes, at least, so he entertained her, speaking in a gruff voice, “Where am I?” He coughed. He’d expected to speak like something was lodged in his throat, like blood and spit always was, but no, there was none of that.

She laughed with such a suave voice. “You’re such a treat, Mr. Fuze. Most would ask, ‘Am I really dead?’” — she licked her lips — “but you aren’t ‘most,’ and I like that.”

She brought a pipe to her lips, and she blew a smoke ring towards Jon. The ring stopped in front of him, but it kept expanding — then it stopped, like it was frozen in time. Jon’s mind couldn’t register it. The woman behind the smoke ring was still moving, and so was the singer and the ensemble. It was just the smoke that had stopped so eerily still.

Before he could interrogate the woman, the smoke started to play in the air, forming words and letters that he couldn’t understand. It was all he could do to ask the obvious. “Who are you?”

She smiled. The smoke molded into the figure of a young child. “Once upon a time” — she said, gesturing in the air with her pipe — “there was a little sister who thought she could make a better world. ‘That’s not how the world works,’ I told her.” Her eyes flitted towards Jon. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Fuze?”

His only reply was fleeting eye contact, because as the woman played with her pipe, the smoke moved to create figures of people: two siblings, like she’d said, and the other was throwing a tantrum.

“I knew you’d understand,” the woman continued, and the smoke moved according to her story. “Still, the older sister — and here’s a clue, I’m the eldest in my family — she couldn’t just say no-no-no to the little sister. Because it had to be” — she smiled — “no, no, yes.”

She leaned in closer to Jon. “You only deserve the things you work for. Don’t you agree?”

The opera’s aria had finished, and the ensemble returned, and with it, the smoke in the air moved, molding into a sphere, its features so well-defined that the weather patterns on it swirled over trenches and mountain ranges.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said. “She doesn’t know how difficult it is to keep everyone in line, though. Oh, certainly, freedom to all thy creation, may it be necessary to grant equal freedom to love as to hate” — she eyed Jon with a lick of the lip — “but there must be boundaries. Right, Mr. Fuze?”

She dispelled the smoke ring with a flick of the hand. “You’ve lived an awfully short life, I must say.” She chuckled.

Jon turned to her, taking a long second to ask. “How would you know?”

“I’ve been watching you.” She smirked. “ ‘We both know you came here to die, after all.’ Wasn’t that what that fellow said?”

That was... That was right. But that was impossible. How did she know? “What are you?”

She ignored his question. Her offer, after all, was juicier. “Want to live longer?” she asked. It was just an opening offer, and really, she already knew what he wanted. It wouldn’t make for good conversation to just give it to him, though — wouldn’t you agree?

Jon and the woman stared at each other for a long time. He’d hoped that she would break the silence first, and it looked like the lady wasn’t going to hear anything other than a yes or no. He didn’t have any information, anyway, so he begrudgingly danced on her palm. “Can’t say I do,” he said, keeping his eyes trained on her face, judging her face’s every twitch. All he could do now to uncover her nature was to watch her reactions.

Still, so far he hadn’t been shot, stabbed, or otherwise targeted by a sniper from any of the balconies overlooking them. Really, there was no one else here, but him, the woman, and the on-stage performance. The chances of her having any intention of killing him were vanishing, but then what did she want?

He didn’t completely trust her — not by a long shot — and so he’d prefer to play his cards close to his chest.

Unfortunately, the lady was still deathly quiet, content with smoking right in front of him. The quiet nagged at him. Seemed like he was the weaker one in this kind of game. Fine.

He was the first to break the silence. “What do you want?”

The woman smiled. “Oh? It’s not what I want.” She pointed at Jon with her pipe. “You are the kind of man with no want of power,” the woman said, drawing out her words. Jon’s silence confirmed her assertion. “Money means nothing to you. Immortality means nothing to you.”

Again, the silence said yes. Her words wrapped around him and bound him until he couldn’t move. Laying out his heart’s cards so nakedly, the woman beside him was just so assuredly dangerous...and right.

“Neither is happiness something you feel you deserve” — silence — “but oh, Mr. Fuze, I have been through a thousand mortals just like you. You, a blood-stained, murdering bastard, would you believe that there’s some kind of absolution in the end for you?”

She leaned closer, whispering into his ear, “If only…you work for it…my dear. It should be a…no-no-yes affair…don’t you agree?”

She pulled away, leaving a shadowy afterimage — leaving Jon breathless and uncertain.

He’d been denying his suspicions, but it really was true, wasn’t it? He was sitting right beside someone — something — that possessed a great amount of power. He was sure he’d died, so why was he still alive? Why did smoke dance like magic? How did this lady read his goddamn mind?

And what was she implying? That there was a chance he could just...make it seem like he'd never committed a sin in his life?

“Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Fuze,” she continued. “You’ve paved a road to hell with the bodies you’ve left behind, and I’ll be asking you to make it even longer. After all, you seek what you think is impossible to you. Is it not commensurate to reward you with it, but only after an impossible task?

“So, here’s my offer.” She chuckled — then stared Jon in the eyes, her smile disappearing just like smoke. “10,000 Kills in my employ. If you can survive the whole way, if you do not stray from the path, then you will earn a great boon from me, personally.”

The number astounded Jon, but at the same time, he knew by sheer calculation that it was possible for him. It might take him a lifetime, and there were 10,000 chances for him to be killed before he ever saw that number, but it was possible.

“Is it not insane?” the woman continued, chuckling before stopping herself and muttering, “Why am I saying such a thing, expecting you to imagine it correctly...” Her smile disappeared, and she turned to look at Jon with serious eyes, devoid of all whimsy. “The chance I give you is not guaranteed, anyway. If you die, I will not resurrect you. If you grow insane and stop listening to me, I will render this contract invalid. Will you still take the chance?”

This was his decision now, wasn’t it? To kill, and then to kill again — but hadn’t he already killed too much? Shouldn’t he just stay dead? “What happens if I say no?” he asked.

“Into the soul-blender you go,” she said flatly. “I will strip your soul of all its memories, and then you will be free of your pain. Isn’t it a decent choice?”

Jon shook his head. That was just a cheap escape. He wanted to remember — not just the things he’d done, but also the time he’d spent with his wife. If he ever forgot about her, there would be no one left to remember that she’d even existed.

He looked back at the woman. “If I say yes?”

A corner of the woman’s lips inflected. “You will be my black knight — my reaper.”

Jon grimaced. “Killer-on-call.”

“Not too far.” She leaned a little closer. “But you’ll be working for me, and no one else. Don’t mistake me for the grand syndicates of your world. They are a mortal enterprise, while I” — hmph — “I’m someone far, far beyond that.”

She leaned back, huffing out more smoke from her pipe. “What do you say, Mr. Fuze?”

He didn’t deserve this, but he needed it. His memories were just memories of memories, many of them on the verge of being completely forgotten, but there was still one thing that remained clear.

He felt around for something in one of his breast pockets. Somehow, it was still there. He pinched the matte paper between his fingers, taking it out, and unfolded the colored picture of his wife. It was crumpled and creased in so many places, so much that her face had nearly disappeared.

“I can fix that for you,” the woman said. She hovered a finger over the picture, and a tendril of smoke crawled up her arm, to her fingertip, then across the photo. The smoke spread across it — clung to it, each particle fitting into its rightful place.

Between the original colors of the photo, carbon black filled the faded places with grayscale. It wasn’t the same, but this…was the face of his wife. “So you fix things, too.”

“That’s what I said,” the woman said. “What say you?”

Jon stared at the picture between his fingers. For years, he had done nothing but focus on survival. With the bodies he’d stacked, it felt as if his nightmares would follow him to hell and stop him from feeling any pain from the punishment he deserved.

The woman offered him a chance to right all his wrongs, but the cost was 10,000 kills. It was a terrible paradox: to find an end to the killing he had done, he had to kill even more. He didn’t even have a concrete idea as to how his sins could be instantly forgiven just like that. It was like a joke. It seemed far too magical, and more than likely, even if he succeeded, he wouldn’t be content with the outcome.

The beautiful, smiling picture between his fingers was his curse...and, when he thought about it, his goal. There had only ever been one person who truly understood him, and only one person he had ever lived for. Her life had been unfairly robbed by corrupt men, all because he’d dipped his hands in the wrong places, so wasn’t it just right that he would be the one to bring her back, too?

There was no atoning for killing so many people...but he could make it up to the love of his life, at least. He could bring her back, tell her he’s sorry. Her forgiveness would mean everything. It would be enough.

He pocketed her picture. “10,000 kills, and I get my wife back,” he said.

The woman frowned. “Why so hasty? The things you want can change, you know?”

Jon narrowed his eyes. That was his wife. “Can you do it?”

“There’s no doubt there.”

“Where do I sign?”

The mortal was being too insistent for the woman’s liking, but, oh well, they do learn, eventually. “Upon your 10,000th Kill, the right to a boon shall be yours.” She raised her hand. Around a finger was a silver ring, embossed with a quill. “Kiss,” she said.

Although she’d sounded like she disliked Jon’s wish, the terms were fair, and she wouldn’t renege on them. He softly held up her hand, leaving a peck upon the ring, and when he next looked at her, she was already bringing her pipe away from her lips. Smoke bellowed from her mouth, so much so that it was enough to completely enshroud Jon — then the smoke pushed itself into his mouth, into his lungs, and into his stomach. He drowned in it, and no matter the protest of his will, there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t move a muscle.

“Look at me,” the woman said. His eyes were allowed to dart her way. “Fear not the world you descend, for I am your guide. Call me Lady Ravena. I’m your patron, now.”

He blacked out.

***

Next he awoke, he was slumped on the wall of an alley. He stood up on unsteady legs, but he was otherwise a perfectly lethal assassin.

The beggar in front of him, on the opposite wall, was eyes-wide and pointed at him. “Y-you’re alive!”

Jon groaned. “Where am I?”

“They just dumped you there!” the beggar continued. “O-oh, don’t worry, lad, if they ask me where the body went, I’ll just tell ’em it stood up and left!” He showed a thumbs up.

“Oi!” a man shouted from the mouth of the alley. He was accompanied by another. “You’re supposed to be dead!”

“Speak of the devil” — the beggar turned to Jon — “You better run, lad! They’ll beat you to a pulp!”

Jon narrowed his eyes at the two ruffians approaching him. They were wearing apparel similar to late Victorian era English commoners. He cracked his knuckles, taking a step forward.

This aggression shocked the two thugs. The first man was frozen on his feet for a second too long, and Jon delivered two knockout punches in quick succession, joggling the man’s brain to the point of a fatal concussion. The second man was a little faster, reacting to the danger. He raised his club — but too slow. Jon blocked the man’s arm before it could come back down, kicking him in the gut, causing him to bend over, then elbowing him in the nape, dislodging a spinal disk and stopping his heart from beating.

“W-what did you do, lad!” the beggar said. “Those are the House of Lastifer’s men! They’ll come lookin’!”

A smoky message briefly flashed from the corner of Jon’s vision.

[That is what we want. Purge the City of Stave of the Three Great Houses.]

It evaporated just as quickly as it came.

It’s been exactly a minute since he’d been alive in this world, and already he’d been handed such a huge job. He didn’t even have any intel — no weapons, no logistical support…and he was just as alone as the day he’d started killing.

Tattoo-like patterns swirled around his right hand, forming letterforms, words, and numbers on the back of his hand:

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Name: Jon Fuze

Level: 1

Kills: 2

Kills to Next Level: 2 / 5

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