The air in the alley was as damp as a moldy cloth, with faded advertisements plastered on the gray walls, rustling softly in the wind. At three twenty-nine, Kieran stood in the shadows, leaning against the cold brick wall, deliberately softening his breath.

  He cut himself in half—

  one half was a tool for executing tasks: timing, observing, judging, and acting; the other half was a wild beast, thrashing deep within his chest, trapped in a cage.

  At three thirty-one, faint footsteps echoed from a distance, light and rhythmic, accompanied by the sound of a backpack zipper swaying. The girl appeared.

  Emilia Grey.

  Smaller and more real than in the photos. She wore a deep blue elementary school jacket, her pink backpack slung a bit askew, kicking at the gravel on the ground with her toes as she walked, humming a disjointed melody. She wasn’t looking at her phone or wearing headphones—a nine-year-old child completely unguarded against the world.

  Kieran's palm began to heat up, that familiar power like a drawn bowstring. His vision penetrated skin and fabric, seeing her small heart in her chest, beating steadily and healthily, as if to tell him: this is not a threat, this is just life.

  He raised his hand.

  Just as his will was about to falter—

  Emilia vanished.

  Not turning a corner, not ducking into an alley, not running away. It was as if someone had wiped her directly from the scene, leaving only the fading notes of the melody she had just hummed in the air, and the echo of her shoes stepping through the puddles hanging in the silence.

  Kieran froze, the warmth in his palm losing focus, like a shadow stripped of its skeleton.

  “...What?” he whispered, his throat dry and painful.

  He took two steps forward, scanning both sides of the alley: on the left was the iron gate of an abandoned warehouse, with only darkness visible through the cracks; on the right was a dead end piled high with wooden pallets, not even a cat in sight.

  No footsteps. No breathing. No signs of hiding.

  Only emptiness.

  His heartbeat began to quicken—not from the anxiety of a failed mission, but from that instinctive alarm when prey suddenly becomes the hunter.

  Kieran did not rush out immediately.

  He stood still, as if nailing himself to the wall, forcing his brain to break down the “impossible” into explainable fragments—an illusion? Teleportation? Visual obstruction? The cover of the Order of Solace? Or perhaps... she wasn’t “Emilia Grey” at all?

  The wind at the alley's mouth picked up a newspaper, the corner scraping against the ground, making a rustling sound. That sound reminded him: time was still passing, and his earlier hesitation had not brought forgiveness, only greater risk.

  He retracted the warmth from his palm, letting that power sink deep within him. Then, as if nothing had happened, he turned and left the alley, his pace neither fast nor slow— to any surveillance camera or passerby, he was just a student passing by.

  But his eyes were at work.

  He followed the route home marked in the data, bypassing two intersections, crossing a row of low old houses, and finally stopping outside a small park. It was less than a five-minute walk from Emilia's house: a half-collapsed slide, a peeling graffiti wall, and swing chains bleached by the sea breeze—everything matched the data.

  But the most inconsistent thing is "her."

  Emilia sat on a bench, her little legs swinging back and forth, holding a cup of hot chocolate. Next to her stood a man in his thirties, wearing a dark suit jacket, looking like an elegant white-collar worker. He took off his scarf and wrapped it around his daughter's neck, his movements a bit clumsy but very careful.

  The girl looked up at him and smiled, saying something, and the man smiled back, reaching out to tousle her hair.

  Kieran stood in the shadows outside the park, feeling as if something hard was blocking his chest.

  What he saw was not a "target"—he saw a father.

  A father who was still alive, who would wrap a scarf around his child in the cold wind.

  He remembered the last time Doyle had aimed a gun at him; he recalled the pale face in the coroner's office at the police station; he thought of the day of the funeral when no one held his hand. Then he saw Ivy breaking down at the podium, unable to even say "I love you."

  If he succeeded in the alley today, this man would end up like that—or worse, become a wreck that wouldn't even know where to cry.

  Kieran's fingertips turned white from gripping tightly. He forced himself to fold away his emotions, neatly like surgical cloth, because what he needed now was not pain, but answers.

  —How did she just disappear?

  He stared at Emilia, his gaze penetrating the surface to capture any remnants left by "ability usage." There was a slightly discordant sense of cleanliness in the air, as if someone had wiped away a certain trace.

  Foreknowledge does not make people "disappear." Foreknowledge only allows people to "make choices in advance."

  A cold wave of nausea rose in his stomach: things might be more troublesome than he imagined. He had lost control over his target, and he couldn't grasp the other party's background.

  He couldn't act next to his father. Not because of conscience—but because of traces, witnesses, and the most deadly point: a father watching his daughter die would do anything. He would shout, grab someone, go insane; the police would investigate, the media would chase, and all "reason" would collapse.

  Kieran took out his phone, his finger hovering over the contacts before retracting it. He couldn't use regular communication to ask Sabrina; device communication would be recorded as "he is seeking help." He needed to confirm one thing first—was this child already being "protected by the other side"?

  He took a deep breath, making himself look like just a passerby entering the park. The next moment, he stepped over the iron railing and into the light of the park.

  Emilia was the first to notice him.

  Her eyes brightened for a moment, as if she had seen something interesting. It wasn't fear, but a kind of... discernment.

  Kieran's footsteps nearly faltered.

  The girl stared at him, her mouth still bearing the brown traces of chocolate, but suddenly she hugged the cup a little tighter, as if confirming it was still there. Then she tilted her head slightly and said to her father, "Daddy, that big brother is looking at us."

  The man lifted his head, his gaze landing on Kieran. There was no hostility in his eyes, only an instinctive wariness—a normal reaction of an ordinary father facing a strange teenager.

  “Who are you looking for?” the man spoke, his tone impolite but not rude.

  Kieran stopped a few steps away, maintaining a non-threatening distance. He quickly adopted the safest “disguise”: a lost high school student.

  “Sorry,” he said, his voice steady, “I’m looking for a street name nearby; I took a wrong turn.”

  The man frowned and pointed to the side: “Just go out and turn left; that’s the main road. Don’t wander into alleys like this; this area isn’t very safe.”

  “Thank you.” Kieran nodded, but his gaze fell on Emilia’s face.

  The girl was also looking at him, her expression too calm—too calm for a nine-year-old. She even blinked at him, as if to say: I know who you are, and I know what you want to do.

  A thin layer of sweat broke out on Kieran’s back.

  He turned and left the park, and only after walking a few steps did he finally exhale. In the next moment, he forcibly activated the communication device in his mind.

  ‘Sabrina.’ He spoke in his mind, his voice low but clear, ‘The target route has changed. She appears to possess a warning capability above intelligence.’

  Sabrina did not reply immediately, as if she were receiving and comparing information.

  “Did you mess up?” she asked, her tone still calm, but there was an underlying pressure beneath that calmness.

  “She didn’t show up at the designated point,” Kieran said, “She avoided it. It wasn’t a coincidence.”

  “What’s your current location?”

  Kieran glanced at the park's exit and the surrounding street corners: “Two blocks away from the target address.”

  “Evacuate.” Sabrina said without hesitation, “Do not approach again.”

  This statement should have relieved him, but it only made him more uneasy. Evacuation meant: the organization would reassign personnel, escalate their handling methods, and use more brutal, reckless approaches—which often meant greater slaughter.

  “She’s with her father now,” Kieran added, as if reminding her, or trying to carve out some space for an outcome he shouldn’t care about, “In the park.”

  “Not important.” Sabrina replied coldly, “What matters is that the threat is self-protecting. The probability of intervention by the Order of Solace is increasing. You are no longer suitable to handle this target.”

  Kieran’s Adam's apple moved slightly.

  “Then who will you send?” he asked.

  Sabrina paused for half a second: 'You don't need to know.'

  Connection lost.

  Kieran stood at the street corner, hearing the distant laughter of children in the park, thin as a needle yet piercing through the winter wind. That laughter reminded him of something even more terrifying—

  Emilia was able to avoid him today because she saw the "danger."

  So, would she also see—the "greater danger" she would have to face later?

  If she saw it, what would she do?

  Kieran shoved his hands back into his pockets and turned to walk deeper into the shadows of the street. Each step felt like walking on a line that was collapsing.

  For the first time, he wished he wasn't the most efficient tool in the organization.

  Because when tools are replaced, there is never any mercy.

  *

  ‘Kieran. Vale.’

  As Sabrina's voice cut in again, Kieran was standing under the bus stop sign. The wind blew in from the sea, and the edges of the advertisements stuck to the sign curled up, as if someone was holding on to them tightly.

  ‘You need to reply immediately.’

  Kieran's throat tightened. She rarely used this tone—emotionless, yet it felt like a nail driven straight into his bones.

  “I’m here,” he replied.

  “You need to come to headquarters. Depart tonight,” Sabrina said, not giving him time to react. “We need to trace back your recent visual records to confirm the reason for the target's 'disappearance.' And—”

  She paused for a moment, as if sharpening her next words.

  “Re-education and corrective training for you.”

  Kieran's fingertips instantly turned cold. He stared at the traffic light at the end of the street, as if looking at a road he knew all too well would lead him somewhere.

  “Is this really necessary? I…” He tried to keep his tone steady, but he was very afraid inside. Training… that was the memory he least wanted to recall.

  “You are an executor, not an analyst,” Sabrina interrupted him mercilessly. “The only thing you need to do is complete the mission. You didn’t complete it, so we need to know every detail of your 'incompletion.'”

  Kieran was silent for two seconds, but ultimately asked, “Where is headquarters?”

  “The capital—Asterion.” Sabrina replied, “The night train departs at eleven forty tonight. You will receive pickup instructions at the station. Don’t bring extra luggage.”

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Asterion. The name felt like some ancient vow, cold, distant, carrying a scent of power that did not belong to Caelora.

  “I understand.” He replied.

  “Additionally,” Sabrina added, her tone still flat, “from now on, all campus social interactions are to cease. Castellan's daughter, Rowan—everything must be cut off. The source of your emotional turmoil must disappear.”

  Kieran didn’t respond.

  He understood very well what she meant by "disappear"—it didn't mean he would no longer see those people, but rather that those people would no longer "approach" his life. In the simplest way—he took a leave of absence or dropped out of school.

  After the communication was cut off, the world was left with only the sea breeze and the sound of traffic. Kieran stood under the bus stop for a long time, until his fingertips regained sensation, before slowly turning to walk home.

  *

  At eleven twenty that night, Caelora Station.

  The platform was dimly lit, like a hospital corridor. Kieran, wearing a hat and carrying a light backpack, blended into the crowd. His phone vibrated—a single ring from an unreturnable number. The next moment, a line of instructions popped up in his brain implant: Car 3, Seat 12A. Do not talk to anyone.

  The night train arrived, the sound of metal scraping like a long knife against bone. Kieran boarded the train and found 12A. Next to the seat lay a folded newspaper, its edge holding a black ticket—there was no name, only an imprint: the silhouette of a Dreadspire, its tower shrouded in shadow.

  He sat down without opening the newspaper. Because he knew these things were not meant for him to read—they were a reminder: you are being drawn in.

  Shortly after the train started, he felt a slight dizziness, as if someone had covered his face with cotton cloth, reducing the oxygen. This was not a drug; it was a calming frequency that "mixed technology with magic," flowing into his nerves from his brain implant, forcibly leveling his emotions.

  He no longer felt like vomiting, nor did he feel like crying.

  Only the cold of wakefulness remained.

  *

  In the morning, Asterion.

  The capital lacks the sea flavor of Caelora; the air is dry and cold, carrying the scent of stone and gasoline. The lines of the buildings outside the station are straighter, the sky grayer, and the pedestrians move faster, as if everyone is rushing towards some center of power.

  The person waiting for him at the exit is a man in a dark coat, with a face so ordinary that one would forget it upon turning away. He doesn't speak, just extends a metallic object resembling an earplug. Once Kieran puts it on, the surrounding noise is instantly cut off, leaving only a low-frequency hum, like a heartbeat.

  "Follow me," the man finally speaks, his voice flat and without inflection.

  They walk past three streets and turn into a narrow alley without any road signs. At the end of the alley is an unremarkable fire door, with a construction notice posted on it, as if to disguise that this is merely an old building awaiting renovation.

  The man taps the doorknob three times in a rhythm, pauses, and then taps it a fourth time—inside the door, a very faint "click" is heard.

  The door opens.

  Inside is not an old building, but a black corridor extending downward, with walls made of light-absorbing material that even swallows the sound of footsteps. As Kieran walks down, he increasingly feels that he is not entering a building, but being swallowed into the throat of some enormous creature.

  At the end of the corridor, the space opens up.

  Dreadspire—Dreadspire's headquarters is hidden beneath the capital.

  It is not a "tower" in the traditional sense, yet it has the verticality of a "tower": an inverted Dreadspire extending deep into the ground. In the center is a massive hollow shaft, with circular black platforms descending from above, resembling segments of a spine; each layer of platforms is connected by metal bridges, with no railings at the edges, and a single misstep could send one plummeting into the unseen depths of the shaft.

  A massive crystal column hangs in the center of the deep well, translucent and glowing with dark red and deep purple light, inside which there seems to be a slow-moving smoke. It is not a lamp, but rather emotions that have been distilled—fear, pain, collapse—sealed within, becoming the energy core of the entire facility.

  The walls are engraved with ancient runes, interspersed with modern wires and instruments. Magic and technology are brutally stitched together, with a chill seeping from the seams.

  Kieran stood at the edge of the platform, looking down into the depths that were as black as if they could swallow his gaze. He suddenly understood the true meaning of the organization's name: it was not "to instill fear," but "to build an underground world with fear."

  "Beautiful, isn't it?" the man who met him said lightly, "Many people stare for a long time when they come here for the first time. You don't need to look. Just remember that you belong here."

  Kieran didn’t respond.

  He felt the device in his brain becoming more sensitive here, as if placed in a strong magnetic field. Some invisible gaze pressed down on him from all directions, even his heartbeat seemed to be recorded.

  He was taken to a circular retroactive room.

  Inside the room, there was only a metal chair, with several slender contact needles extending from the backrest, resembling insect legs. The walls were a complete circle of black screens, which looked like mirrors when turned off, reflecting his overly pale face.

  Sabrina stood in front of the screen. She was wearing a dark suit today, her blonde hair neatly arranged, and her blue eyes like cut glass.

  "Sit," she said.

  Kieran sat down, and the contact needles on the backrest pressed against his neck and temples, cold enough to make him want to break free for a moment. But he did not move.

  Sabrina raised her hand, and the screen lit up.

  The scene is — that alley.

  The angle is not from a surveillance camera, but from his perspective: the walls, the gravel, the damp stains, and the melody the girl hummed as she walked into the alley. Kieran saw the warmth in his palm begin to gather, saw the moment the girl looked up —

  Then, she "disappeared."

  The playback froze at that frame, zooming in, and zooming in again. It magnified to the point where even the slightest color differences in the air and the residual energy patterns were drawn out.

  Sabrina's gaze became focused, like a doctor reading a CT scan.

  "Did you see it?" she asked.

  Kieran stared at the blank space, his throat dry: "…She avoided it in advance. Precognition."

  "Not just that." Sabrina replied coldly, "There are traces of folding here. Very thin, as if erased. Someone has done 'concealment' on her — not complete invisibility, but enough to make you lose track of the focus at a specific point in time."

  Kieran's heart sank: "Order of Solace?"

  Sabrina did not answer directly, only said: "We need to reassess her 'ability type.' The mark you received may be wrong. Or — she may not be the nine-year-old girl you thought she was from the beginning."

  Sabrina straightened up and pressed a button on the wall. The screen instantly switched to another image—a screenshot of new data: a photo of the same girl, but with a different background; different height proportions; and a different angle of her smile. She looked like the same person, yet also like someone else.

  The only code at the bottom of the screen is: Chameleon.

  Sabrina turned to look at him, her eyes carrying a clear warning for the first time.

  “The first thing you need to learn is: do not believe any age, any face, any tears you see.”

  She paused for a moment, her tone like a sentence:

  “Welcome back to Dreadspire, Kieran. Your education and training start now.”

  Sabrina's sharp eyes stared directly at him: “Do you know why I brought you here?”

  “...Because I messed up,” Kieran said softly.

  “Not just messed up.” Sabrina walked to the edge of the table, leaning forward with her hands on the surface, “Your performance shows a dangerous trend—you're hesitating, you're questioning, you're forming emotional connections that shouldn't exist.”

  Kieran didn’t argue.

  “Kieran Vale,” Sabrina's voice grew colder, “Do you remember what I said when I found you at the age of nine?”

  “...I remember.”

  “Then repeat it.”

  Kieran closed his eyes, those words etched in his bones, never to be forgotten: “'The world will not become better because of your kindness, but it will become worse because of your weakness. If you want to survive, you must learn to be a necessary evil.'”

  “Very good.” Sabrina straightened up and moved behind him, “So tell me, what did you think when you saw that nine-year-old girl?”

  Kieran's fingers gripped the armrest of the chair tightly.

  “I thought... what her parents would go through if I killed her.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I...” Kieran's voice began to tremble, “I thought of Ivy. I thought of how she looked when she lost her father.”

  Sabrina's hand suddenly pressed on his shoulder, her touch as cold as a corpse.

  “That's your problem,” she whispered, her voice hissing like a snake, “you start to see the target as a 'person' and their death as a 'tragedy.' But you forget the most important thing—”

  Her fingers dug into his shoulder: “We are not creating tragedies. We are preventing a greater disaster.”

  Kieran gritted his teeth and endured the pain.

  “If Emilia Grey is recruited by the Order of Solace,” Sabrina continued, “her precognitive abilities will allow them to anticipate all our actions. At that time, it won’t just be a few people who die, but dozens, even hundreds of our members. Are you willing to sacrifice so many comrades for the life of a child?”

  “I...”

  “Answer me!” Sabrina shouted, her voice echoing in the enclosed room.

  “I’m not willing.” Kieran said softly, but the voice was so weak that even he didn’t believe it.

  Sabrina released her grip and walked back to sit on the other side of the table. She stared at Kieran for a long time, and finally sighed, “Your abilities are beyond doubt, Kieran. You are the most talented child I have ever seen. But talent, if not paired with the right mindset, is just a knife that can hurt oneself.”

  She opened a folder on the table and pulled out a stack of photos, placing them in front of Kieran.

  “These are the cases of failure over the past decade due to the executor’s ‘soft-heartedness.’”

  Kieran stared at the photos, each one hitting him like a heavy hammer to the chest.

  One photo stood out in particular—a young woman in her early twenties, with blonde hair and blue eyes, lying in a pool of blood. Her eyes were still open, pupils dilated, the fear from her last moments frozen on her face.

  “Her name was Anna Summers,” Sabrina pointed at the photo with her fingertip, “an executor from three years ago. Her mission was to eliminate a journalist suspected of having connections with the Order of Solace. But she hesitated because that journalist had a five-year-old son.”

  Kieran's Adam's apple bobbed.

  “She decided to just ‘warn’ that reporter to stop investigating,” Sabrina continued, her tone as flat as if she were reading the weather report. “And what happened? That reporter not only didn’t stop, but took this ‘warning’ as evidence and wrote an explosive article. Although we eventually managed to suppress that article, the cost was—”

  She flipped to the next photo. This time it was a whole family: a father, a mother, and two children, all lying on the living room floor.

  “We had to clean up all the witnesses,” Sabrina said, “including that reporter, his wife, and that five-year-old son. And Anna herself.”

  Kieran's stomach began to churn. “Why did Anna have to—”

  “Because she proved herself untrustworthy,” Sabrina interrupted him. “An operative who would disobey orders out of ‘compassion’ is more dangerous than any external threat. Do you understand?”

  Kieran didn’t respond.

  Sabrina stood up and walked to a screen against the wall. She pressed a button, and the screen lit up, displaying a segment of surveillance footage—exactly what Kieran had seen in the alley yesterday afternoon.

  In the footage, he stood in the shadows, his hand raised and then lowered, and then Emilia suddenly disappeared.

  “We have analyzed this footage,” Sabrina said, “and the conclusion is: the target's precognitive ability is stronger than the intelligence suggests. She can not only see the short-term future but also instantly alter her course of action to avoid danger.”

  The screen switched to another scene—a park, where Emilia and her father were sitting on a bench.

  “More importantly, this scene,” Sabrina zoomed in on the screen, focusing on the girl's face, “look at her expression. She is not afraid; she is certain. She knows who you are, knows what you want to do, and may even know that you won't act in front of her father.”

  Kieran looked at the screen, where a pair of clear yet unnaturally calm eyes stared back at him, sending a chill down his spine.

  “What does this prove?” Sabrina turned to face him, “It proves that she has awakened. And very likely—”

  The screen switched again, this time to a still photo. In the photo, a middle-aged woman dressed in a simple robe stood at the corner of Emilia's house, holding a book, as if waiting for someone.

  “This woman appeared near the target's residence at three forty-five yesterday afternoon,” Sabrina said, “She stayed there for seventeen minutes before leaving. Our database shows that she is a low-ranking member of the Order of Solace, code-named ‘The Watcher.’”

  Kieran's heart sank.

  “In other words,” Sabrina's voice grew colder, “the Order of Solace has already taken notice of Emilia. If we don't act quickly, she will soon be taken away and become our enemy.”

  “So... what now?” Kieran asked, his voice hoarse.

  Sabrina walked back to the desk, took out a small box from the drawer, and placed it in front of him.

  “This is a new type of tracking device,” she opened the box to reveal a black crystal smaller than a grain of rice, “It can penetrate the defenses of precognition. As long as you can implant it into the target's body without being detected—by any means, food, water, or even air—we can continuously track her location and status.”

  “And then?”

  “Then,” Sabrina's lips curled into a cold smile, “we will dispatch a special team. They specialize in handling such high-difficulty targets. You won’t need to get your hands dirty yourself.”

  Kieran stared at the small crystal, feeling as if it were a poison.

  “What if I refuse?” he suddenly asked.

  The air in the room instantly froze.

  Sabrina slowly lifted her head, the temperature in her eyes dropping below freezing: “You won’t refuse.”

  “I mean, if—”

  “There is no if,” Sabrina interrupted him, her voice sharp as a blade, “you’ve already failed once. If you fail again, or refuse to carry out the task, you know the consequences.”

  Kieran certainly knew. He would be seen as an “unstable factor,” and then—

  “We would regret losing you,” Sabrina said, as if reading his thoughts, “but more regrettably, we might have to clean up all your social connections in Caelora. After all, we can’t risk anyone detecting the organization’s existence through you.”

  Jasper. Ivy.

  Kieran's fingers are tightly clenched into a fist.

  “So,” Sabrina pushed the box towards him again, “you will accept this mission, right?”

  Kieran was silent for a long time before finally reaching out to take the box.

  “I accept,” he said quietly.

  Sabrina nodded in satisfaction: “Good. You have seventy-two hours. Report back immediately upon completion.”

  “There’s one more thing,” she added, “before you leave headquarters, we need to give you a ‘tuning’.”

  “Tuning?” Kieran looked up.

  “Yes,” Sabrina pressed a button on the desk, and the door opened, revealing two people in white coats who walked in, “your emotional fluctuations have exceeded safe limits. We need to temporarily reduce the intensity of your emotional responses to help you focus more on the mission itself.”

  Kieran's heart began to race: “What are you going to do to me?”

  “Just a minor procedure,” Sabrina said casually, “through the device in your brain, we can fine-tune the concentration of certain neurotransmitters. The process is quick and will leave no side effects.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “This is not a request, Kieran,” Sabrina's voice became stern, “this is an order.”

  Two men in white coats approached him, one of them pulling out a device resembling a syringe.

  “Relax,” the man said, “it will only sting a little.”

  Kieran wanted to resist, but he knew it was useless. In this place, at the heart of Dreadspire, he had no room for choices.

  He closed his eyes, feeling a cold sensation at the back of his neck, followed by a jolt of pain that shot through his brain like electricity.

  The world began to spin.

  Colors faded, sounds became muffled, and all sensations felt as if separated by a transparent membrane.

  He remembered Ivy's tears, Jasper's worries, Emilia's smile—but those images were fading away, like shells left on the beach after the tide recedes, becoming smaller and less significant.

  When he opened his eyes again, the world became clear, cold, and—controllable.

  Sabrina stood before him, a satisfied smile on her lips: “How does it feel?”

  Kieran stood up and stretched his neck. The emotions that troubled him and the images that made him hesitate were still in his memory, but they no longer affected him.

  It was like watching a play that had nothing to do with him through thick glass.

  “Very well,” he heard himself say, his voice steady and without any fluctuations, “I’m ready.”

  Sabrina nodded, “Then go. Remember, seventy-two hours. Don’t let me down.”

  Kieran picked up the box containing the tracking device and turned to leave the room.

  The corridor was still dim, and the floating orbs of light continued to move slowly. But this time, he no longer felt oppression or fear.

  He only felt a cold, clear, absolute—sense of mission.

  He knew what he had to do.

  And he knew he would do it.

  Because now, he was no longer Kieran Vale, swayed by emotions.

  He was the perfect weapon of Dreadspire.

  And weapons only need to aim at the target and then pull the trigger.