New York, night.
They say: "If you love someone, send them to New York—it's heaven. If you hate someone, send them there as well—it's hell."
This city—one of the finest concrete jungles of human civilization—is as complex as it is simple.
To many, it feels like an endless battlefield. Survival, profit, power, or principles—everyone comes here ready to gamble their lives, washing blood with blood. The losers fade into oblivion, while the victors earn nothing more than a fleeting moment of peace.
But no matter how brief that moment is, victors enjoy their privileges.
Just like the Gucci family.
In an upscale district of New York, the Gucci estate remained brightly lit long after nightfall. Leaders big and small had gathered from across the city—and even the country—for the family's first major assembly of the year.
As one of the oldest underworld lineages in New York, the Gucci family's rise dated back to World War I. At its peak, it was a behemoth controlling most of the city's illegal activities, even holding sway over the mayor and police commissioner. It had once come close to challenging the supreme authority of the underworld—the twelve seats of the High Table.
But arrogance blinded the family head of that era. He misjudged the situation and suffered a crushing defeat when attempting to attack the High Table. If not for old ties and internal conflicts within the organization allowing them to retain fragments of influence, the Gucci family would have long since become nothing more than history.
Still, a dying camel is bigger than a horse.
Entering the new century, the current matriarch, Madam Ma Gucci, remained a symbol of ruthlessness in New York. In recent years, she had opened new channels in Europe and heavily expanded into human trafficking, temporarily restoring the family's prestige.
However, today's gathering was anything but celebratory.
The attendees not only wore grim expressions but had brought as many guards as possible. The vast mansion felt overcrowded, amplifying the tension and unease in everyone's hearts.
And in the main hall, that tension erupted into a storm.
Seated at the head of the long table, Ma Gucci's aged face—buried under layers of makeup—burned with uncontrollable rage.
Her voice thundered across the hall:
"Ladies and gentlemen, how many years has it been since we suffered such humiliation?! In the past two months, we've lost five bars, eight warehouses, four shipping routes, and goods worth tens of millions!"
"At least seven people who should be sitting here right now are being dissected in police morgues! And to this very moment, I don't even know which bastard is targeting us! Have the men of the Gucci family completely lost their spine?!"
Under her furious tirade, the gang leaders—men who had spent their lives licking blood off blades—remained utterly silent, afraid of becoming scapegoats for an enraged old woman.
But silence didn't save them.
Her gaze snapped to a woman from Eastern Europe—Vera Konstantin.
"Lady Vera. Your business was the first to be attacked. I hope you haven't spent the last two months doing nothing."
Vera replied, her voice trembling, "I'm deeply sorry, Madam."
"… The attack was sudden… the killer nearly wiped out all our men. We only know that he's highly skilled with cold weapons and operates alone. The police have given him a temporary codename… Assassin."
Ma Gucci sneered, "You mean the message he leaves behind? 'Nothing is true, everything is permitted'? Are you telling me a ghost from the 12th century has come back to haunt us?!"
This killer had appeared out of nowhere. He didn't steal money or seize territory—he simply slaughtered Gucci members in cold blood, left behind a cryptic message, and vanished.
She turned to another man, Plat, asking about losses.
He answered shakily, "Madam… as of yesterday, we've lost 313 men. Just last week, on the ship from Romania… no one survived. We lost 50 brothers in that single incident."
He still remembered that ship—turned into a slaughterhouse. Fifty armed men, killed without even firing a shot.
Then—
A calm, icy voice echoed from the ceiling:
"Actually, it's exactly 313 people. And 57 on that ship. I know the mafia doesn't pay death benefits, but at least count the bodies correctly."
Chaos exploded.
Everyone leapt to their feet—guns drawn!
But the shadow was faster.
A black figure dropped from the ceiling like a ghost, descending by rope. Mid-air, the body spun with terrifying speed—
Whoosh—!
A storm of daggers, needles, and shuriken rained down.
Blood splattered across horrified faces. Blades pierced throats with surgical precision.
In less than five seconds, everyone in the room—except Ma Gucci—collapsed, each body embedded with at least two lethal weapons.
Cold notifications flickered in the shadow's vision:
[Vera Konstantin killed. Gained 75 Sin Points]
[Kristo Plat killed. Gained 80 Sin Points]
…
The black-clad youth landed on the long table and shot forward like a bolt of dark lightning toward the stunned Ma Gucci.
He wore a hooded black coat, and a strange mask—like flowing ink—covered his entire face.
In the blink of an eye, his left hand sealed her mouth, while his right yanked her collar, slamming her frail body onto the cold table.
Ten seconds.
That was all it took to annihilate every mafia leader in the room.
No one dared scream.
Not a single drop of blood stained the killer.
The masked man leaned in and whispered:
"Honestly, I owe you my thanks. The first funding for transmigrators is always the hardest. Thanks to the generous contributions of the Gucci family, I've reached where I am today. And don't worry about the 'higher-ups' behind you—I won't make you wait long for them in hell."
Without waiting for a response, his hand moved.
Skretch—!
A hidden blade shot from his sleeve like a venomous fang, piercing through her throat and exiting the back of her neck.
[Ma Gucci killed. Gained 250 Sin Points]
[Chain Mission Completed: Blood of the Underworld]
[Evaluation: B. Reward: 1000 Sin Points + Chance to Activate E-Rank Summon]
And just like that—
In a single night, a century-old criminal dynasty came to an end.
By tomorrow, New York would erupt with the news.
But this was the nature of the city—
A battlefield where only blood-colored flowers bloom.
Half an hour later, when the guards stormed the hall, they found nothing but lifeless corpses… and a message carved deeply into the wooden table:
"Nothing is true… everything is permitted."