At the highest tower of Rising Duck City, a secret meeting was underway.
Inside a lavishly decorated hall, the city's mayor, Arab Tuyol, reclined in a luxurious armchair. Before him, a tall man clad entirely in black knelt on one knee, his head lowered.
"I've butchered the entire Wolf Gang, Pop," the man said. "As promised, let me retire."
The mayor's fingers tapped slowly against the armrest as his gaze lingered on the kneeling youth. He did not answer immediately.
"Very well," Arab finally said. "I'll keep my word. But remember this, kid."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Who you are."
"I understand," the man replied.
He crawled forward, kissed the ring on Arab Tuyol's finger, then rose and hurried out of the hall without looking back.
A shadow flickered.
From the corner of the room, a dark silhouette peeled itself from the wall and took form.
"Are you really going to let him go just like that?" a low voice asked.
The mayor sighed, his tone heavy. "What choice do I have? The boy wiped out the Wolf Gang single-handedly. I gave my word—and no one is fool enough to challenge him."
He glanced sideways.
"Not even you, mentor. My hands are tied."
The shadow shifted. "But nobody leaves the underworld."
Arab's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Exactly. Nobody leaves. But this isn't just anyone—we're talking about the Phantom Assassin. William Dunkard."
He gulped down his wine.
The shadow studied him closely. "Sire… what if he turns on you? He's worked for you for three decades. He knows too many secrets."
The mayor slammed the glass onto the floor. It shattered.
"Do you think I don't know that?" Arab roared. "Enough of your testing, Darren. Get out!"
The shadow knelt briefly, kissed the mayor's ring, and vanished without a sound.
Silence returned.
Arab stood and walked toward the wide glass window overlooking the city. The blue sky reflected faintly in the glass as memories flooded his mind—of a baby left in a basket at his mansion gate.
A child raised under his roof.
A child taught the ways of the underworld before he even learned how to walk properly.
By the age of three, the boy had been trained to kill.
Arab chuckled darkly. "That brat came to me with nothing but a dragon pendant around his neck. I fed him. I shaped him. I gave him a name that made the world tremble."
He turned away from the window.
"And now he wants to leave me?"
His eyes hardened. "Don't blame me. You forced my hand."
He collapsed onto the couch, uncorked a large bottle of vodka, and drank deeply. Nostalgia mixed with bitterness as he recalled how the boy's name alone once made grown men cower in fear.
Not far from the tower, inside a rundown tavern, William Dunkard sat alone, drinking wine with his meal. Three long scars ran across his face, carving deep impressions into his hardened features.
The door creaked open.
A lanky, white-haired man walked in and sat beside him.
"You're late, Captain," William said casually, sliding a bottle toward him.
The old man emptied it in one gulp.
"Don't do it," he said.
William chuckled. "Do what? Spit it out, Mister Mystery."
"Leaving the underworld."
The old man's stare was sharp enough to chill the air.
William burst out laughing. "Look at you. You look like you're ready to kill me."
"I am."
The old man slid his hand beneath the table.
William glanced down.
A silenced pistol was pointed straight at him.
"Take your best shot, old man," William said calmly. "If you miss, I'll snap your neck."
"I'm not joking," the man warned. "The mayor will never let you go."
"I know," William replied. "And neither am I."
He leaned back slightly. "If you come after me, I won't hold back—mentor or not. No hard feelings. This is our world. Emotions only get you killed."
The old man exhaled slowly. "Then be ready. I'm coming for you."
He grabbed another bottle and walked out of the tavern.
William watched him leave, shaking his head.
"What a scary old man," he muttered. "Funny thing is—why would a veteran assassin come all this way just to warn me?"
He took another drink.
"Guess age really does make people sentimental. His days of blood-soaked hands ended long ago."
A week later, William was on the run—with his wife—fleeing from Mayor Arab's grasp.
Inside Rising Duck City, nothing happened.
No warnings.
No threats.
The moment they crossed the city's boundary, hell descended.
For two days straight, William slaughtered every platoon of assassins sent after him. Guns and bombs were unnecessary. In his hands, everything became a weapon.
His martial arts were flawless—refined through decades of bloodshed. His killing intent was unmatched. There was no one left who could rival him.
But this time, he wasn't alone.
He had a wife to protect.
Assassins came endlessly, forcing him to fight while shielding her from every blade and bullet. Still, everything remained under control—until the veterans arrived.
A full brigade.
And at its head stood Darren.
The attack began while William was dining with his wife.
Three shots rang out.
One tore through his arm.
William reacted instantly, dragging his wife beneath the table as bullets shredded the room. The gunfire continued relentlessly, forcing him to stay low.
Only when he heard the unmistakable click of magazines being replaced did he move.
"Boy," Darren's voice boomed from outside, "I'll give you one last chance—for old times' sake. Surrender and come back to Pop."
William ushered his wife toward a secured room and laughed.
"Not a chance. I've made my decision."
His eyes hardened.
"I'll only return over my dead body. Old man—if you've got the skill, try not to die by my hands."
He slammed the magnetic door shut.
Safe.
The entire layout of the building unfolded in his mind—angles, blind spots, kill zones. His breathing slowed.
Then he vanished.
Bodies dropped silently as he moved—throats slit, chests pierced, necks crushed. Bullets tore through the air, but none found their mark.
The Phantom Assassin walked through death itself.
Soon, only a handful of men remained—trembling, broken. Today, they truly understood what the Phantom meant.
Darren whistled sharply.
The survivors regrouped around him.
Hand signals flashed—precise, ruthless. They dispersed instantly.
William stepped out of the battered house, blood dripping from his knuckles.
"Is that all you've got, old man?" he called out. "You disappoint me. Age really has eaten away at you. Retire already—and follow me."
Darren snorted. "Don't get cocky. Remember who taught you everything."
His voice turned cold.
"Since you dare betray Pop, I'll take your head myself—my final service. And don't forget… I know all your strengths."
He smiled grimly.
"And your weaknesses."
"Haha!" William laughed, hurling himself forward.
He knew it was a trap.
He welcomed it.
That had always been his way—diving headfirst into chaos and crushing it with skill, experience, and sheer will.
An assassin hurled a grenade.
William caught it midair, shattered the man's limbs, and shoved the explosive into his mouth.
The blast erased him in fire and smoke.
Gunfire erupted from all directions.
Anyone else would've died instantly.
But William had already mapped the ambush. He slipped through a barricade and unleashed a massacre—sticks, iron bars, bricks, anything within reach becoming instruments of death.
He was merciless.
Whatever guilt once existed had been burned out of him by the age of five.
To him, corpses meant less than dirt.
At last, only Darren remained.
William stood before him, unarmed.
"Still hiding behind guns?" he taunted. "Against me?"
Darren exhaled slowly. "You stopped finding joy in guns when you were five. I know."
His finger tightened on the trigger.
"But you're still the Phantom."
Three shots rang out.
William slipped behind him and scoffed.
"That's exactly why I told you—your days in this life are numbered. You keep clinging to those useless toys."
He tilted his head, mockery dripping from his voice.
"Why don't we kill each other bare-handed, like the old days? That way, I can properly commemorate the passing of the great Life Snapper."
The title stirred something in the old man.
Darren's eyes gleamed. He fell silent, weighing the words—then nodded.
"Fine," he said. "I agree."
He stepped out from cover and began stripping himself of weapons. Rifles hit the ground first, then four pistols, disassembled with lightning speed.
William watched, unimpressed.
"You're slow," he taunted. "The man I knew could disassemble and reassemble a rifle in under three seconds. Looks like age finally caught you."
Darren hurled the last pistol part at William's face and leapt forward with a brutal high kick aimed at his head.
William slipped aside and countered with a sharp left-leg side kick.
From that moment on, he fought using only his left leg.
Fists collided. Legs crashed. Bone met bone.
"You're still underestimating me," Darren growled, launching five vicious jabs into William's chest. "Why won't you use your right side? You're a righty."
William staggered back, spat blood, and smiled.
"No. I'm being careful."
His gaze hardened.
"I'm saving my right—for the final blow."
They fought for nearly an hour.
Shaolin forms. Western boxing. Eastern assassination styles. Techniques learned, stolen, perfected.
Neither gave ground.
A deadlock.
Then—William feinted.
For the first time, his right leg moved.
A devastating frontal kick slammed into Darren's chest.
Crack.
Ribs shattered inward. Darren coughed violently, blood spraying across the ground.
William advanced slowly.
"This is my final gift to you," he said quietly. "The Flying Dragon Kick."
He leapt skyward, both legs twisting like a dragon ascending to the heavens—ready to crash down on Darren's skull.
"Not so fast!"
Darren yanked a small box from his back strap and clicked it open.
Thousands of needles exploded outward in every direction.
Half pierced Darren himself.
The rest struck William mid-air.
He had nowhere to dodge.
He hit the ground hard, groaning as needles embedded across his body.
William clenched his teeth. "I thought we agreed—no weapons."
Darren laughed weakly, coughing blood.
"I lied. Lying is the first lesson of an assassin. I taught you that… remember?"
William calmly began pulling the needles from his flesh.
"Don't bother," Darren said, slumping against a pillar. "They're coated with poison I made myself. Even I don't have the antidote."
William suddenly burst out laughing.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pill, and swallowed it.
"I knew this day would come," he said casually. "So I prepared in advance—made an antidote while you were locked away in your lab."
He tossed another pill toward Darren.
The old man stared, stunned.
"You tried to kill me… and you give me this?"
William met his eyes.
"Because you're the man who raised me."
His voice softened—but only slightly.
"It would stain your legend if you died by your own poison. If you're going to die—"
He pulled the last needle from his chest.
"—it should be by my hands."
He turned away.
"Recover. Come for me again."
A pause.
"Next time, I'll honor you properly."
William straightened.
Bang.
A gunshot thundered.
Pain exploded in his chest.
He froze.
Slowly, he looked up.
The one holding the gun was his wife.
The woman he loved.
The woman he tried to protect.
The woman he planned to leave the underworld for.
Even Darren was stunned.
The battlefield fell into a deathly silence.
William smiled, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, and looked at his wife.
"Why?" Darren asked for him, his voice hoarse.
"Why?"
The woman burst into laughter, rage seething beneath it. "You bastards slaughtered my entire family—and you still dare ask why?"
Darren's eyes narrowed. "Who… are you really?"
She raised the gun calmly.
"You can ask them yourself—once you enter the afterlife."
Bang.
The bullet pierced Darren's forehead, dropping him lifelessly to the ground.
She then turned back to William.
"You're a good man, Will," she said softly. "Maybe too good for this world."
Her eyes trembled for a brief moment before hardening again.
"It was fate that we met—and fate that we kill each other."
She smiled sadly.
"If there's another life… I'll truly be your devoted wife then."
She raised the gun.
"But in this life—"
Click.
A crimson bullet spun out of the chamber.
Time slowed.
William felt the world stretch and distort. He tried to move—tried to scream—but his body refused to respond.
His gaze dropped to his chest.
The dragon pendant around his neck began to glow—then melt—its form dissolving into light.
The bullet struck his forehead.
Agony tore through his consciousness.
Darkness swallowed everything.