By the time he reached Egypt, the Middle East was embroiled in war.
Not religion—resources. Oil. AI reactors. Power grids. Trade routes.
Turkey and Egypt clashed over the Mediterranean. Saudi Arabia and Iran tore at each other over energy corridors. Israel and Jordan collapsed into proxy wars. Cyberterrorism was its own battlefield, AI programs hijacking drones, factories, and power grids. Leaders fell like dominoes, cut down by assassins.
It was called the War of Assassins. Nations used killers to do what armies could not.
In Cairo's chaos, Malik—fifteen years old—met an assassin.
The blade should have ended him. The man was a silent embodiment, a knife sliding from his sleeve. But when their eyes met, the assassin paused.
"You have the gaze of a survivor," he said. "One day, you'll become a predator."
And so Malik was taken in.
For seven years, he trained in secret under his master, code-named Red Tiger. Malik progressed faster than his peers; his talent was undeniable. He survived missions that broke men twice his age. He mastered not just the art of killing, but all seven secret techniques of the school.
When the time came, he killed his master and his peers.
Not for ambition. Not for pride. But because they reveled in cruelty, in suffering. Malik refused to be that kind of predator.
From then on, he sold his blade to governments, corporations, and warlords. He refused jobs that targeted innocents. Sometimes, he turned his knives against those who hired him.
The world named him the White Wolf, for the unusual color of his hair and the wolf tattoo on his left arm. A bounty worth millions hung over his head—for destroying the very school that had once sheltered him.
The Turkish government wanted him dead. Assassins across the world wanted his title as the strongest and most dangerous assassin in the world.
Many tried. All failed.
Malik had become the only one to master all seven secret techniques, the sole heir to their deadly legacy.
Until Beijing.
A faction of the Chinese government hired him to kill Yu Wo, a monk accused of manipulating youth with dangerous ideas.
Malik accepted.
He tracked Yu Wo to a monastery in the Wudang Mountains. But he did not find a conspirator.
He found a monk.
Yu Wo's body flowed like water, every gesture balanced by decades of mastery. Tai Chi, Xingyi, Bagua, Shaolin, and other hidden arts—all whispered through his movement. His eyes were still pools, calm and immeasurable.
Malik struck first, using Rhythm Echo.
It was one of the school's deadliest techniques—an auditory-psychic jolt triggered by a single precise sound — a clap, a stomp, a chime — that overwhelms a victim's attention. It causes a sudden shutdown of external stimuli and leaves the target disoriented and vulnerable.
But Yu Wo broke free. It was the first time anyone had escaped it.
They fought, yet Yu Wo never attacked. His defense was fluid, impenetrable, but free of malice. Malik had spent his life in war; he could read a person's character in a single exchange of blows. And Yu Wo was a man of integrity.
Malik lowered his blades, bowed deeply, and asked forgiveness.
The government had deceived him.
It was a time when assassins killed good men at the whim of corrupt leaders. Malik had nearly made the same mistake.
Yu Wo forgave him. "You carry skill," he said. "You carry stillness. A little discipline will make you unstoppable."
Malik frowned. "You would train me? Even though I tried to kill you?"
Yu Wo's eyes softened. "I only train those with goodness in their heart—not for the work they do. And you have goodness, despite your life."
For two years, Malik trained under him. Not just martial arts, but restraint.
He already knew the breathing disciplines of assassins, and with Yu Wo's teaching, he devoured technique after technique. Tai Chi's softness. Xingyi's directness. Bagua's circles. The hidden layers of Shaolin and others.
Yu Wo tried to teach him the way of a monk. For a time, Malik believed he could change. But the world was too broken. Leaders rose like tyrants. Blood-drenched ideals.
One night, Yu Wo told him:
"You are not meant to stay here. Your path is one of shadow. But remember this: predators who live by blood will one day be hunted by greater predators."
Those words branded themselves into Malik's heart.
He bowed deeply and left.
Years later, the Vexari came.
Malik did not run. He hunted.
They were the greatest prey he had ever faced—fast, strong, armored beyond belief. They were not men. But Malik thought of Yu Wo, who was even stronger.
For the first time, Malik let loose. Completely.
He hunted them without restraint. Soldier after soldier. Commander after commander.
Rumors spread among the Vexari: of humans who moved like them, who fought like them, sometimes better. They whispered of Malik but also of others across the world, preys who turned soldiers into prey.
But eventually, even he was caught. Hunted. Captured.
Not before he had slain more than two dozen Vexari soldiers and command guards alike.
Thirty Minutes Earlier
When the runners woke in the hunting terrain, they scattered immediately. None hesitated. These were not novices—they were experienced runners.
Aria and Thomas found themselves in the ruins of a collapsed mall. Shattered pillars, twisted steel, and broken glass surrounded them. The ceiling had caved in long ago, letting shafts of pale light stream through, illuminating thick clouds of dust.
Through that dust, another figure emerged.
Malik.
For a heartbeat, they all froze. Each thought the shape behind the haze was alien. But then they felt it—the energy.
Not alien.
Human.
It was unmistakable.
Ki.
The ability to sense and channel the flow of energy—the subtle awareness of intent, tension, and vitality. To read the movement of others. To redirect it. To strike with precision.
Although Ki was one of Malik's secret techniques, many martial schools taught its basics.
Aria had learned it directly from Malik. Thomas already knew how to use it.
Their senses confirmed the truth, and relief washed over them.
When the dust finally settled, they smiled.
The three had been close ever since arriving at the ranch. Malik had been drawn to Thomas from the start—sensing not only his strength, but the promise of a worthy sparring partner. Aria, however, had grown close to Thomas in another way. He had saved her life during her first hunt, and soon after, the two had entered a relationship.
Malik and Thomas had both arrived at the ranch four months earlier. Aria had arrived two months later.
From then on, she trained under Malik. Thomas was strong, skilled, but his techniques required raw strength that Aria didn't have. Malik, on the other hand, was a jack of all trades—the perfect teacher for her survival.
Malik broke the silence first.
"So, what are you two doing here?"
"Resting," Thomas replied with a smirk. "We sensed no hunters nearby, and this place seemed like a decent spot. You should try it sometime, instead of chasing them down all the time, to cure your boredom."
Malik's tone was calm but serious. "Things won't always be this easy." His gaze drifted toward the open window, where a faint breeze stirred the dust. "Training against weaker hunters now will prepare me for the real threats. My instincts tell me there are stronger ones out there—ones that haven't even stepped into the hunting grounds yet. The ones I fought during the invasion were weaker than this. And my master's death…"
His words trailed. His expression hardened.
"He was strong. Stronger than these hunters. Stronger than anyone I have ever faced. Killing him wouldn't have been easy. Which means he was probably killed by something even stronger. That makes me uneasy. There's a hierarchy at work here. And I don't plan to find out the hard way."
He gave a faint shrug. "But yes… boredom is definitely part of it."