[Void Between Worlds. Timeless.]
Viktor drifted through luminous currents, each movement propelling him through substance that defied classification—neither liquid nor gas, but something between dreams and starlight. The radiance clung to his essence like molten platinum, warm yet weightless. His consciousness—razor-sharp, undiminished—catalogued the impossibility of his continued existence.
'Dead. Eliminated by an amateur with a vendetta.'
The thought brought no remorse. Only wrath. Surgical, calculating fury that crystallized in what remained of his being. In thirty-seven years of dealing death, he'd never failed a contract. Never missed a target. Never been outmaneuvered.
Until tonight.
'Careless. Arrogant. Complacent.'
Each self-indictment fed the inferno of his rage. Where others might have lamented their truncated existence or pondered missed opportunities, Viktor's mind circled like an apex predator around a singular, consuming desire: retribution. Not against Jane specifically—she was merely a variable, a calculation, a temporary disruption—but against his own inadequacy.
The light surrounding him convulsed, then contracted. Reality folded inward, compressing eternity into a single point before erupting outward again. Viktor found himself standing on void. Beneath his feet stretched an infinite obsidian plane that reflected his form with crystalline precision. Above, galaxies spiraled in cosmic silence, stars pulsing like distant heartbeats.
"Impressive. You're adapting remarkably well."
The voice—feminine, melodious, laced with dark amusement—came from everywhere and nowhere. Viktor pivoted, his movements precise even in death, to confront its source.
She materialized from concentrated starlight, atoms weaving into a form that challenged mortal comprehension. Hair that shifted between platinum and sapphire cascaded down her spine in impossible geometries. Her skin radiated subtle luminescence, as if captured moonbeams dwelt beneath alabaster. Two luminous orbs floated beside her shoulders, suspended by invisible threads of cosmic energy. Within each orb, entire worlds turned in miniature—cities rising and falling, oceans birthing and dying, civilizations blooming and withering in eternal cycles.
Most unsettling was her smile: too broad, too knowing, revealing teeth that occasionally shifted into obsidian fangs before reverting.
"Most mortals shriek or prostrate themselves upon arrival," she said, her voice resonating despite the apparent absence of surfaces for sound reflection. "Some sob. Many refuse reality. You merely appear... vexed."
Viktor's expression remained neutral. "I'm deceased. This is the consequence."
The goddess—for what else could possess such presence?—circled him, her bare feet hovering inches above the obsidian surface. The ethereal fabric of her gown rippled against currents of energy invisible to mortal perception.
"Direct communication! Refreshing." She clapped her hands, the sound reverberating like distant thunder. "Indeed, Viktor Thorne Blackwood—though I suppose we should shed that pedestrian surname, shouldn't we? The Shadow needs no earthly anchor. Simply Viktor Thorne, master of death itself."
She halted directly before him, the floating orbs rotating slowly around her shoulders. "You are quite deceased. Polonium-210 poisoning. Excruciating death. Right now, your corpse is being discovered by hotel personnel in Zermatt. Your killer has already reached Milan."
"But such trivialities are irrelevant now, wouldn't you agree?"
"My location?" Viktor's voice betrayed no fear, no awe—only the clinical interest of an operative gathering intelligence.
"The Nexus Between. The Crossroads. The Eternal Threshold." She gestured dismissively. "Names are so limiting, aren't they? Consider this a transitional space between what was and what shall be."
Her smile widened. "And regarding what shall be..." She snapped her fingers, and reality transformed.
The star-drunk void shifted into a vast, suspended projection—a world, cerulean and emerald, shrouded in spiraling white clouds and orbited by twin moons, one silver, one gold.
"Behold Aethermoor," the goddess proclaimed, her arms extended wide. "A realm of magic, monsters, heroes, and tyrants. Far more interesting than your rather mundane Earth."
Viktor studied the projection with calculating eyes. "Why do I exist here?"
"Efficient! Economical!" The goddess laughed, the sound like shattered crystal. "I've been watching you, Viktor. Your precision. Your dedication. Your absolutely merciless commitment to completing tasks."
She gestured, and the projection magnified, revealing continents, mountain ranges, sprawling cities encircled by walls of gleaming stone.
"I need an assassin," she stated, her amusement suddenly replaced with something glacial. "Not just any killer, but the apex predator your world produced."
"You're divine," Viktor observed flatly. "You could erase any existence with a thought."
The orbs beside her shoulders pulsed with brighter light. "Divine intervention has... complications. Rules. Balances. I need someone who operates outside those constraints. Someone from beyond this reality's system."
The projection shifted again, focusing on a single figure—a young woman with crimson hair and eyes like polished emeralds. She moved through a marketplace, laughing, unaware of observation across dimensions.
"This is Seraphina Dragonheart," the goddess explained. "Not now, of course. This is twenty years from now. Currently, she's a wailing infant, born yesterday during the Celestial Convergence."
Viktor observed the woman—Seraphina—as she paused to help an elderly merchant who had scattered his wares. "She appears harmless."
"They always do." The goddess's voice hardened. "Seraphina is destined to save Aethermoor from the Shadow Blight that will soon consume its people. She will unite fractured kingdoms, rediscover lost magic, and defeat the Void Emperor who even now gathers his armies in the Desolate Reaches."
She gestured, and the image changed. The same woman—older now, her eyes blazing with unnatural light, her hands weaving patterns of arcane force that tore reality's fabric itself.
"And then," the goddess continued, "drunk on power and convinced of her own righteousness, she will shatter the barriers between dimensions. In her crusade to save everyone, she will doom everything—not just Aethermoor, but countless worlds beyond. Including the one you left."
The projection dissolved, stars rushing back into view.
"Your mission, Viktor Thorne, is simple: Kill Seraphina Dragonheart before she destroys existence itself."
Viktor's eyes narrowed slightly—the closest he ever came to showing surprise. "The savior becomes the destroyer."
"Old story," the goddess agreed with theatrical sadness. "Power corrupts, good intentions pave roads to hell, and so on."
"This savior," Viktor said, his mind already calculating angles, methods, weaknesses. "If she possesses enough power to threaten existence, killing her won't be simple. In my profession, I relied on tools. Weapons. Information networks."
His eyes met the goddess's cosmic gaze without flinching. "What advantages will I have against someone wielding magic?"
The goddess's smile returned, predatory and razor-sharp. "I thought you might ask that."
She snapped again, and a glowing web of symbols materialized between them—runes, sigils, and emblems arranged in tiers, connected by threads of phosphorescent energy.
"The Ability Matrix of Aethermoor," she announced. "Every reincarnated soul gets to choose. Most get one, maybe two picks. You, my deadly artist, get considerably more."
Viktor examined the glowing web with the same intensity he'd once applied to building blueprints and security systems. The symbols pulsed with color-coded energy—platinum for SS-rank, gold for S-rank, silver for A-rank, bronze for B-rank, copper for C-rank, iron for D-rank, and gray for E-rank.
"Choose wisely," the goddess advised, floating cross-legged beside him. "These will determine your operational capabilities."
Viktor's eyes moved systematically, evaluating each option with clinical precision.
'Enhanced Perception, SS-rank.' His finger touched the platinum rune, which blazed in response. 'Essential for target acquisition and environmental assessment.'
'Mana Weaving, S-rank.' Another selection. The golden sigil pulsed. 'Mandatory for operating in a reality where magic dominates warfare.'
'Toxin Mastery, A-rank.' A silver emblem glowed under his touch. 'Familiar methodology. Multiple killing options.'
'Physical Augmentation, B-rank.' Bronze light flared. 'Foundation requirement for operational viability.'
'Pain Resistance, C-rank.' The copper symbol glowed softly. 'Operational endurance under torture.'
'Lie Detection, D-rank.' An iron rune pulsed dimly. 'Information verification in intelligence gathering.'
'Basic Healing, E-rank.' The gray sigil flickered. 'Minor wound management for extended operations.'
The goddess observed, the orbs floating beside her shoulders rotating faster. "Interesting choices. Most pick flashy combat magic or regeneration abilities."
"I'm not most people," Viktor replied without shifting focus from the ability matrix. "I'm an assassin. My job isn't to overpower—it's to kill before power becomes relevant."
"And elemental affinities?" she prompted, conjuring five primordial symbols—a flame, a stone, a swirling vortex, a water droplet, and a void sphere.
"All five," Viktor stated, his tone brooking no argument.
The goddess raised an eyebrow—both floating orbs flickered with surprise. "Ambitious. Most can only channel one, maybe two elemental forces without their magical circuits catastrophically overloading."
"You said I'm not native to this reality," Viktor countered. "Different rules apply."
She studied him for a long moment, then threw back her head and laughed, the sound sending ripples across the void. "Oh, I chose perfectly with you! Very well—all five elements it is. Fire, Earth, Air, Water, Void."
The elemental symbols merged with Viktor's essence, sinking beneath his form in a brief aurora of multicolored light.
"Now that brings us to what makes the heroine special," the goddess said, her expression growing more serious. "Seraphina possesses all five elemental affinities plus light affinity, making it six total. But more importantly, she wields twice as many ranked abilities than you do."
The goddess's orbs pulsed with ominous light. "This is why she becomes capable of shattering dimensional barriers. Her power doesn't just surpass mortal limits—it challenges divine ones."
"Understood," Viktor replied, his tone unchanged despite the revelation. "Superior firepower. I'll adapt accordingly."
"Now," the goddess said, suddenly businesslike, "regarding logistics. You'll be reborn into House Steinfeld, a noble family with proud heritage but declining wealth. They have court connections but operate mainly from their remote stronghold."
Images flashed before Viktor—a granite fortress surrounded by dark forests; a stern man with silver threading his temples and a battle scar across one cheek; a woman with raven-black hair and eyes like molten amber.
"Lord Damien and Lady Evangeline Steinfeld," the goddess explained. "Your new parents. They've tried to have an heir for nine years without success. You'll be quite the miraculous arrival."
"And the target?" Viktor asked, unmoved by sentiment.
"Seraphina was born to House Dragonheart—your future family's allies, ironically—during yesterday's Celestial Convergence. The next convergence will occur on her twentieth birthday." The goddess's expression grew grave. "She must die before then. Once she reaches full power during the convergence, even I cannot predict the outcome."
Viktor nodded once, the gesture his closest approximation to acceptance. "Timeline established. Target identified. Parameters defined."
"Excellent!" The goddess clapped her hands together, reality fracturing at the edges with each impact. "Final detail—you'll keep your memories and abilities, but they'll manifest gradually as your new body develops. Can't have an infant demonstrating combat techniques in the nursery, after all. Might raise uncomfortable questions."
She leaned forward until her face was inches from his, the floating orbs drifting closer as the primary gaze bored into his. "Do we have a contract, Assassin?"
"We do," Viktor confirmed, his voice without hesitation.
"Perfect!" The goddess straightened, her form beginning to blur at the edges. "Oh, and do try to enjoy your second life somewhat, won't you? Aethermoor has beautiful sights—shame to miss them while planning infanticide."
Before Viktor could respond, she snapped her fingers one final time. The void collapsed around him, compressing into a single point of light that expanded into blinding radiance.
[House Steinfeld Fortress, Kingdom of Valenhall. Winter Solstice.]
The first sensation was cold—a jarring contrast to the void's warmth. The second was confinement, pressure from all directions as muscles he couldn't yet control contracted and pushed. The third was sound—voices, distant yet clear, urging and directing.
"Push, my lady! The child crowns!"
"The bleeding—it's too much!"
"Hold on, Lady Evangeline! One final push!"
Pain pierced his new, undeveloped consciousness—not his pain, but his vessel's, his mother's—as his awareness flickered between the liminal space of before and after.
Then—light. Harsh, blinding. Cold air against wet skin. The indignity of rough hands handling his fragile form. The humiliating reality of complete helplessness.
"A son, my lord! The Steinfelds have an heir!"
Through blurred, unfocused vision, Viktor saw them—the faces from the goddess's projection. The stern man, now pale with worry and relief. The dark-haired woman, exhausted and sweat-soaked, reaching with trembling hands.
"Bring him to me," Lady Evangeline whispered, her voice hoarse. "Let me see my son."
Viktor felt himself transferred from the midwife's weathered hands to the gentle embrace of the woman who would be his mother in this existence. Her amber eyes, bright with tears, studied his face with naked devotion.
"Look at him, Damien," she breathed. "He has your jawline and your white hair. And such intense eyes, even now."
Lord Steinfeld approached, his hand—massive from this infant perspective—coming to rest on his wife's shoulder. "What shall we name him, beloved?"
Lady Evangeline smiled, tracing a finger along Viktor's cheek. "Lore," she said softly. "Lore Steinfeld."
'Lore,' Viktor thought, his infant brain struggling to contain his adult consciousness. 'New identity. New vessel. New reality.'
But the same mission. The same abilities. The same cold, methodical determination.
Somewhere beyond mortal perception, a goddess with floating orbs observed and smiled.
Seraphina Dragonheart was already dying. She simply didn't know it yet.
Twenty years to perfect the art of divine assassination.
The Shadow's hunt had begun a new.