The sun hung low over the sea, spilling orange and gold across the gentle waves. Birds chirped somewhere among the palms, and the breeze carried the soft scent of ripe mangoes and jasmine. A quiet island. Hidden. Untouched. Alive.
On its western edge, where the green cliffs met the sea, a man sat with a steaming mug between his hands. His silver hair fluttered in the wind, thin but still abundant for a man of his years. Deep wrinkles carved valleys across his forehead and around his eyes, testament to over two and a half centuries of life. Time had etched its passage into every inch of his face, creating a topography of experiences that few humans had ever lived long enough to acquire. His hands, once steady enough to thread a needle in darkness, now bore prominent veins and age spots. A simple black robe draped over his diminished frame. Slippers on his feet. Just a chair, a stone table, and a view that could calm gods.
He took a sip of coffee—dark, bitter, with a spoonful of sweetness. The warmth travelled down his throat, momentarily easing the ache in his ancient bones.
"...Still good," he murmured, running a weathered finger along the mug's rim.
His house was small, half-covered in vines. Beside it, a garden thrived—tomatoes, herbs, small citrus trees. Every stone had been placed by hand. Every flower is planted under the sun. He had built this sanctuary without magic, only patience.
Strange relics dotted the garden's edge—signs of an unusual past. A long sword, half-rusted but unmistakably crafted by a master, stood upright and buried in the soil.
Not far from the edge, an old, blackened suit of armour stood impaled on a tall wooden post. Cracked, jagged, and corroded by years of exposure, the armour reeked of once-forgotten evil. Bird droppings coated the battered helmet, its visor frozen in a scream. Seagulls occasionally circled but rarely approached it anymore. It was a scarecrow of sorts—macabre and symbolic.
Near the steps of his home, a legendary obsidian blade—one that once ended kings—rested on a wooden board, its pitch-black edge dull now. It was his fruit knife. He used it to carve apples every morning.
In another lifetime—or rather, in many lifetimes—they had called him Ghost. Black Pen. Nameless. An assassin without a nation, without a record, without mercy. His hands had ended emperors and altered the course of wars with a knife in the dark or a drop of poison. He had witnessed empires rise and fall, technologies transform the world several times over. But that was decades ago, before he disappeared into legend, before he found this island where no satellite marked its shores and no hunter dared approach.
He had made it that way—his final act as the world's deadliest shadow.
The mug trembled slightly in his gnarled hand, a tremor that had developed in recent years despite his lifetime of perfect control. His heart slowed, each beat more distant than the last. His eyes grew heavy as he took one last look at the sunset. He had chosen this day, this hour, this peaceful ending. After more than 250 years of walking the earth, his impossibly long-lived body was finally surrendering to time—the one opponent even he could not outrun forever.
"This peace... was worth the blood."
He closed his eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out. And then, he was gone.
No pain. No sound. Just silence.
As the last rays of sun dipped below the ocean, the island shifted. Not violently, but with the gentle certainty of a final breath. The roots of ancient trees wilted. Birds took flight in silence. The soil cracked without a quake.
The entire island began to sink, swallowed by the earth like a secret returning to silence. No roar. No thunder. Just a slow, graceful descent into the sea, as if the world itself honored his passing.
By the time night fell, there was nothing left. No land. No trees. Not even the scent of coffee. Only ash remained—drifting through the sea breeze, scattered like stardust—and the world kept turning, unaware that a legend had ended.
.....
Darkness lingered for a long time.
Not the kind of darkness that sleeps behind closed eyes—but a weightless, silent void. There was no pain, no warmth, no sensation at all. Time, if it moved at all, flowed like cold syrup.
This was death, he thought. The final silence. The darkness he had earned.
And then—breath.
Ragged. Weak. A gasp stolen from still lungs.
He coughed violently, air rushing into his lungs like water into cracked earth. His throat burned—dry and raw—and the taste of iron sat bitter at the back of his tongue.
Alive? That shouldn't be possible.
His mind spun with the clarity of an assassin assessing danger, but his thoughts moved slowly, fragmented like shattered glass. He tried to speak—a question, a curse, anything—but his mouth wouldn't move. His tongue was lead. His lips, numb.
He tried to lift a finger. Nothing responded.
He strained, focusing his will as he had done countless times when injured on missions. Still nothing.
Paralyzed? Drugged? Captured?
For the first time in decades, panic rose within him. The assassin who had faced death without flinching now felt helpless, vulnerable. His instincts screamed against this immobility, this weakness. But years of discipline had taught him patience. To observe first.
So he waited. He breathed. Listened.
Somewhere beyond this darkness, children laughed—the sound muffled and distant. A voice—older, gentle—hummed a lullaby he almost recognized. The air carried warmth, along with the scent of clean wood, chalk, and fresh ink.
And light. He sensed it now—seeping past the edge of his eyelids. Not the harsh fluorescents of an interrogation room or the blue glow of monitoring equipment. This was soft. Natural. Like morning sun through linen curtains.
With effort that felt like moving mountains, he cracked his eyes open.
Blinding light overwhelmed him.
He squinted, groaned—a sound not of an old man but something higher, unfamiliar. His vision blurred, then slowly, painfully began to focus.
A ceiling of white plaster above. Wooden beams crossed it in even patterns. A mobile of faded paper birds dangled overhead, spinning gently in a breeze he could barely feel.
"A crib?"
Confusion hit him . His body felt wrong—too small, too weak. His skin—where were his scars? The burn mark from Prague? The knife wound from Jakarta? His hands—he could barely twitch them, but they appeared smooth, pink, unblemished.
"No. This isn't possible. This can't be..."
With immense effort, he shifted his gaze downward, confirming what his instincts already knew.
A baby's body. He was an infant.
And yet—his mind remained intact. His memories stretched back decades. The faces of his targets. The weight of his favourite blade.
He was Ashen Quill, the nameless assassin. Retired legend. Ghost of the underworld.
Now? A newborn child lying in a crib, reborn with all his memories.
The revelation didn't crash over him all at once, but unfolded slowly—tangled in his struggle to move, breathe, and understand.
why? And for what purpose?
From beyond the crib, the humming grew closer. Soft footsteps approached. A shadow fell across him.