A figure moved stealthily across the crumbling rooftops of the castle of darkness, despite the fact that his present clothing hampered his movements and that the recent rainfall made the roof tiles slippery.

He eyed the upper landscape of Glast Heim, until the sight of a crooked spire with no access from the lower tiers satisfied him. As quietly as he could, he ran across the tiles and went into the small thatched spire.

Tell-tale signs of brutal bloodshed reached his ears, and the man quickly moved in the makeshift shelter, the sounds of fabric swishing and muffled breathing accompanying his hurried change of clothing. A panicky woman’s voice mentioning Venris by her nickname confirmed that he indeed went to the right place.

An Assassin emerged, clothed in midnight black with moonlight silver. Catlike, he crouched over the edge of the hundred-foot high roof deck, and observed the scene below him; his keen sight not impeded by the Blinker covering his eyes. He never needed visual sight to see things. The Assassin only needed to feel his surroundings and map a model in his mind, which was useful in working in the dark. For him, there was no such thing as enhanced sight, but only sight coupled with intense sense of touch.

A skeletal knight—a dead knight—was closing in on a hapless woman in sniper’s gear. The poor woman was gradually losing what spunk she had, and the Assassin could unmistakeably smell fear overtaking her.

He was about to jump down when he noticed a pillar of white light erupt from the ground. Venris Dastonia emerged, still wearing the gossamer gown and with the Muramasa slung over her shoulder.

The Assassin felt a slight tingle rise up his spine as he saw the demon of Muramasa's blade embrace her, whispering with its lipless mouth what could probably be some sort of an enchantment as she brandished her sword.

Without so much as a word Hesper retracted his pale skeletal arm from the killing strike meant for Selrotta, and faced Venris and her demon. “Ah. Want to watch me having a go at your sister?” He leisurely swiped at the former Pronteran Sword, the blade howling in the air.

Hesper's smoky blade did not even touch her, but it cut through her gown and her skin nonetheless. Venris's leg bled, but she did not do so much as flinch. She stood there, passively staring at the undead knight, one of her palms raised towards his direction.

It was a grave mistake that he slashed at her once again, since Venris effortlessly caught the unusually light blade with her free hand and one-handedly brought down the Muramasa on her opponent.

Seeing that the other two were occupied, the Assassin decided to tend to Venris' wounded sister. He leapt down—the entire hundred feet—the Evil Wings fluttering from the sides of his head; the torn ends of the vermillion red scarf, which covered the lower half of his face, flapping behind him during his descent.

With a soft thud, he landed next to the half-conscious Sniper slumped on the still-damp ground. He quickly rummaged for a potent white potion in one of his secret pockets as he knelt down beside her, propping her head up and bringing the bottle to her lips.

Selrotta coughed and opened her eyes, her gaze unfocused. “Thanks,” she whispered. “I...I thought I was a goner,” she murmured, then peered at him. “Aren't...aren't you supposed to be older?”

“I'm younger than you think,” was all he replied, his voice barely hiding his slight annoyance. While it could be said that many enemies who fell by his hand underestimated him to his advantage, the Assassin felt that his credibility was diminished everytime he killed foolish opponents.

“Who are you then?”

His brows furrowed. People who saw him never got the chance to ask for his name, since he never went out to save people until then. Assassins were not allowed to have any individual names since they moved, took action, as a part of a whole.

“They call me—”

An inhuman howl of pain from Hesper brought their attention to the fight. Venris was panting, leaning on her Muramasa. Hesper was missing one of his arms, which was strewn a several feet away from him.

A strange, fierce glow enveloped the woman. Tendrils of Venris' hair floated and her gown billowed—exerting sheer power from within her tremendously—and the ground shook violently, shockwaves spreading across the terrain.

Selrotta's falcon instinctively covered its mistress with its wings, sensing imminent danger.

The demon of the Muramasa blade even dissipated and, the Assassin assumed, hid itself within the blade to cower in fear.

The ice-blue of her pupils burned into a distinct shade of dark orange. Venris was now absorbed in her own power, no longer dependent on another entity's strength. She reverted into the Knight Lords who, along with a few other warriors, changed the world with sheer willpower.

More particularly, she was the one who had gone Berserk.

The next few seconds happened in a blur. Burning with strength and speed far greater than what can be achieved through artificial means, Venris hacked Hesper literally to pieces, his oddly-transparent blade dropping to the floor.

Her lips opened, but the words remained caught in her throat. Venris was about to pick up her adversary's blade when it emanated a cruel blue flame and striked her arm, sending her Muramasa rattling across the cold, damp ground. She rubbed her hand, gritting her teeth.

“Hahaha. Think again, beloved Venris,” Hesper's hollow voice rang out through the night.

Venris, still Berserk, was slowly being drained of her own power, unable to undo her own trance. Shuddering, she fell once again to her knees, the fire of her own blazing lifeforce consuming her, choking her that she could not even speak. She was gradually being engulfed by high fever, copious sweat making her nightgown cling to her skin.

“It's no use,” said Selrotta bitterly. “Not even my sister can beat him, not with Hesper undead and the Immaterial Sword binding his body together,” she said in the tone of someone who exhausted all means in trying to kill a pest . “Please help Venris!” she begged, tugging at the Assassin's hand. “Her life will burn out if Hesper doesn't die first!”

“If a person can die twice, that's okay,” murmured the Assassin as he studied the ghostly edge, which slowly rose upright along with Hesper's bones. “I'm dying to find out.”

The skeleton slowly re-assembled itself, and Hesper even took more time to replicate flesh and knight's armor to look like how he did before he died by Venris' hand years ago: a rugged-looking man with winsome features and a con artist's grin.

Hesper finally noticed the Assassin's presence and turned around. “Ah,” he said in his instructor's voice once more. “I do not believe I had the pleasure of being introduced to you before. Who's your bodyguard, Selrotta? And where's your useless husband?”

Selrotta shouted expletives the Assassin never heard before.

“They call me...A,” said the Assassin monotonously, ignoring the woman. He eyed the knight’s weapon as the latter slowly turned around to face him. The fabled Immaterial Sword, he noted. No wonder Hesper couldn't stay put. It was not impossible that the undead knight would bind his own soul to the sword that is, in itself, also made out of souls.

That way, Hesper will not be destroyed unless the Immaterial Sword is broken. But how can one break something that is made entirely out of intangible spirits?

Hesper seemed to notice A studying him and his weapon. “Yes, this is the Immaterial Sword,” he droned on, as if carrying out a lecture. “The formless blade created with the most evil souls ever to roam this plane.”

“And it destroys the mind,” said A, remembering what happened to Venris.

Hesper keenly stared at the short but lithe figure in front of him, with distinct black wings on his head and blindfold across his eyes. “You. I remember you. But you’re supposed to be older—”

“I’m younger than you think.” said A crossly, his Evil Wings almost twitching. Irritated, he shook and changed his stance, his scarf falling off from his shoulders and baring his chest.

“Oh, look at what we have here,” said Hesper with a lilt in his voice. “Is that a…Cross?”

A was about to answer until he reminded himself that he shed his disguise in the rooftops. Hesper meant the other Cross, tattooed over his exposed chest.

“Yes,” said the A. “The Assassin’s Cross. The only one I make an oath to.”

Hesper grinned. “Let’s see you strut your stuff, Assassin of the Cross,” he said, abandoning his patronizing tone for a deranged one, “if your puny knives can hit me!” He laughed. “Oh, this is fun. Fighting a melee battle with someone who is trained to backstab, and with something that,” he once again raised his sword, wisps of evil power rising from the Immaterial Sword like fingers hungry for blood, “is useless with my weapon!”

“Ah,” murmured A, reading the other’s thoughts. “You wish to fall with one strike only? Very well then.” With great care, A unclasped and removed his bladed gloves. As he did so, he told the knight, “I see that death did not take what is left of your Code of Honor. You may strike me as you wish, while I remove my gloves.”

An ordinary thug may have been infuriated by A’s words, but Hesper Silberhof was not an ordinary street thug. In fact, he was one of the few Pronteran Knights who took up the Instructor’s Staff and became one of Midgard Academy’s esteemed faculty members.

“That will take the fun away from everything,” said Hesper as he caressed his ethereal edge absently. “Go on.”

A placed his gauntlets on the ground and stood up straight, stretching out his bare hands. “The evil souls of your spiritual blade may choose to vaporize at will, Hesper, and my twin daggers will be powerless against such a weapon,” he said, referring to the stilletto and knife of Haus Auger that remained strapped to his sides. “But.”

A bright violet glow erupted from both of his hands. A flexed his fingers, then clenched his fists, the purple aura exploding to such an intensity that the glare eventually illuminated the whole of the Glast Heim Courtyard.

The souls of the Immaterial Sword cried out in fear, and Hesper just stood there, his gaze fixed on the Assassin of the Cross’ glowing aura.

“I am the Soul Breaker,” he said. “Remember that.”

With only the sound of wind, A leaped into the air, the purple aura extending behind him like Death’s Wings; and like Death, he lunged and lashed out a scythe of violet light with his bare hands, aiming for Hesper's Immaterial Sword.

The ghostly weapon shrieked wildly and shrilly as it burst into an infinite number of glittering stardust upon impact.

A was about to brandish his twin blades when he saw Venris still trembling with suppressed energy, and decided to let her deal the final blow.

Venris and Hesper seemed to have a relationship which needed some sort of closure. Killing your old lover was an example of perfect closure.

“Now, Lady Dastonia!” shouted A, turning to Venris.

She snapped into full awareness. “How about a simple Magnum Break, for old time's sake?” said Venris, finally out of the Berserk trance, grinning with pure hatred. “I expect perfect grades for this one, Master Silberhof.”

Venris swung her blade downwards, its tip kissing the ground; sparks flew from where her blade made contact with the floor as she ran towards her quarry. As she closed the gap between her and Hesper, she lifted the blade over her shoulders, a trail of blazing flame following the path of the blade’s tip.

With a soul-piercing shout she brought down the Muramasa.

Crash.