All three men stood frozen in the middle of the busy street. Cars rolled by, pedestrians hurried past — but to them, the world had stopped.
Mark's eyes widened. His voice tore through the noise of the city.
"It's the assassin!"
In an instant, he unsheathed his electric baton. Authority dripped from his words as he barked at his brother:
"Luke! Arm yourself! We capture him here and now — for Marcus!"
There was no hesitation in his tone, only vengeance.
John, however, was caught off guard. His mind raced to catch up with the moment. He had not expected this, not here, not now.
Mark lunged first, baton arcing upward toward John's jaw.
John barely leapt back, his eyes wide, breath sharp.
Another strike came — a brutal swing aimed for his skull.
John bent low, retreating a second time, gaze locked on Mark: on his movements, his fury, his vengeful face.
And then… something stirred within him.
A piercing sensation shot through his eyes. His vision dimmed, then sharpened. Mark's form warped in his sight — his body glowing a searing crimson.
John froze.
He understood.
A grin spread across his face, twisted, exhilarated. In a single motion he drew his longsword from its sheath and intercepted Mark's third strike.
Steel clashed against electrified metal with a crack that rang through the street.
The impact forced both men back. Around them, terrified pedestrians scattered, clearing the battleground.
John stood smiling, thoughts racing with clarity he had never felt before.
I see it now. I know what I did wrong before. I was distracted — splitting my focus on everything: people, cars, birds… worthless details. But now—
His eyes flared, locked solely on Mark.
Now I've concentrated on the Templar alone. And by doing so… I've unlocked it. Hawk Vision.
John had ascended.
John's grin widened as he slid into a warrior's stance — the very same form his father had once drilled into him in the forgotten temple of the Assassins. His voice cut through the noise of the street like a blade:
"Come at me… you pair of bastards!"
Mark's rage flared instantly. With a snarl, he charged, baton crackling in his grip. The air between them exploded with violence as the two men clashed — strike for strike, parry for parry. Sparks and echoes filled the narrow street while civilians scattered in panic, cars screeching away to leave the battlefield deserted.
Luke, meanwhile, stood rooted to the side, his baton trembling in his hands. His face was pale, his breaths shallow. This… this is insane. We weren't ready for this… damn it, I should have brought my pistol!
But fear soon gave way to desperation. With a clumsy cry, Luke bolted forward, raising his weapon high above his head — not like a fighter, but like a child throwing a tantrum.
John's eyes snapped toward him immediately. He knew the younger one was weaker — easier prey. He lunged, blade flashing.
But Mark was faster. With teeth clenched in fury, he shoved himself between them, deflecting the blow. "You don't touch my brother!" he roared. His fist flew like a hammer, slamming into John's cheek.
The Assassin staggered, hood slipping back to reveal his face. Mark froze, eyes widening in shock.
"It was you!" he shouted. "That filthy vagrant from the base! I knew it!"
John pulled his hood back up, scowling. "Idiots… this is our third encounter, and you still can't beat me."
Mark's fury boiled over. He launched himself at John, his baton whistling through the air with ruthless precision. Each strike carried weight, each swing fueled by grief and vengeance. John blocked and countered, steel grinding against charged metal.
"You!" Mark bellowed between strikes.
"You were at the temple!" Clash.
"You killed Marcus!" Clash.
"You infiltrated our base!" Clash.
"You threatened my brother!"
Their weapons locked, sparks spitting as both men pushed against each other, muscle straining. The street trembled with their fury. Whoever broke first would die.
John gritted his teeth, slowly forcing Mark back. But then, from the side, Luke rushed in recklessly — thinking John's hands were pinned.
Mistake.
With lightning reflexes, John released his sword, drew his dagger, and spun toward Luke.
Mark's overexerted push left him stumbling off balance. He crashed to the ground as John's blade arced toward the younger brother.
Luke froze, terror in his eyes. At the last second, Mark dove between them, bare hands outstretched.
"No!!!"
The dagger bit into his palms, tearing through flesh, splitting them open. Blood spattered across the cobblestones. Mark's jaw tightened, refusing to scream despite the agony. His brother's life meant more.
John's voice was flat, almost curious. "Idiot."
With merciless pressure, he drove the blade deeper. The steel ripped through Mark's hands. At last, pain overwhelmed him.
"Go!" Mark screamed hoarsely, shoving Luke backward. "Run!"
But Luke collapsed instead, stunned, paralyzed with grief as his brother's blood soaked the ground.
John's expression became a mask — blank, merciless. He drove Mark down and stabbed again, and again, and again. Each thrust was mechanical, detached, as though the act was more ritual than rage.
In his head, a thought pulsed with every strike: That feeling again… the same one from Marcus. This strange weight in my chest… my heart feels heavy. But it isn't guilt. No… no, it's something else.
His lips curled into a wild grin. "It's will. A will to kill."
He rose from Mark's lifeless body, face streaked with sweat and madness, and fixed his gaze on Luke.
The younger Templar cowered on the ground, trembling. John crouched beside him, dagger dripping red. He gestured toward Mark's corpse.
"You see that? He died saving you. And what did you do? Nothing."
With a flick, he tapped Luke's forehead — almost mockingly gentle. "Pathetic."
Then John stood tall, raising his blade. His voice thundered with conviction:
"You Templars have plagued this city long enough. I will end it myself!"
But before the dagger could fall, a roar shattered the moment.
"Police! Drop your weapon or we shoot!"
Red-and-blue lights bathed the street. Four cruisers blocked both ends of the road, armed officers flooding out with rifles leveled squarely at John.
Dozens of barrels gleamed under the harsh glow.
"This is your only warning!"
John froze. His grip trembled on the hilt. Under his breath, he whispered:
"…But I'm not the villain here. I'm not bad… They're the monsters…"
Yet who among these strangers would ever believe him?
John stood frozen in the middle of the street, Luke trembling weakly beside him. Blue and red lights bathed the scene in a dizzying blur, the shriek of sirens cutting into his ears. From behind car doors and bulletproof glass, policemen aimed their rifles at him with the kind of anger usually reserved for monsters.
"Get away from that man and drop to your knees!" one voice roared.
It came from an older officer, his hair streaked with white, his voice amplified by a speaker. The command tore through the chaos, echoing against the concrete.
John's chest tightened. His mind raced.
Should I run? Should I fight?
No. He couldn't. Their range was too great, their weapons too fast. Even he wasn't arrogant enough to believe he could dodge bullets forever. And yet, standing still felt like walking into a noose.
His hesitation was answered with a thunderous crack. A bullet struck the pavement near his feet, sparks jumping where it bit into the ground.
"I said drop to your goddamn knees!" the officer barked again.
Instinct overrode pride. John dropped, knees slamming onto the cold asphalt, hands raised above his head.
From the crowd of uniforms, one officer stepped out. A pistol in one hand, a pair of handcuffs in the other. His stride was steady, deliberate, the air between them tightening like a noose around John's throat.
For the first time in years, a tear rolled down John's cheek. Not from fear. From betrayal.
The officer's voice softened as he drew closer. "Easy now. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
John's gaze fell on the handcuffs. In desperation, his hawk vision flickered to life. The outline of the officer burned pale white.
"White…" he whispered. "But that means useless. Not connected to me at all." His voice cracked. "Don't do this…"
Still the tear slid down his face.
Because this moment—this betrayal—cut far deeper than any blade ever could.
A memory rose unbidden.
He was a boy again, scrawny and bruised, cornered in a filthy alley by two older kids. Their fists rained down, their laughter harsher than the pain. Orphan. Country boy. The words stung sharper than the blows.
And then—salvation. A police officer had appeared, dragging the bullies off him with righteous fury.
"Don't worry, kid," the man said, kneeling down to help him up. "You're going to be alright now."
From that day forward, John believed. Believed that the police were heroes. Protectors. Guardians of the weak.
But now, staring down the barrel of their guns, hearing the clink of steel cuffs meant for him, the truth split his chest open. The heroes he adored weren't here. Just executioners who saw him as no different than the monsters he fought.
The tears that fell were not weakness. They were grief. Grief for a faith that had just been shattered.