The figure writhed, bound tightly by rope.
"What are you trying to achieve?" it demanded, struggling against the restraints.
Arka stepped closer, still smiling.
"You tell me first... what are you"—he leaned in—"trying to achieve?"
"I will not." The figure rejected the question without a flicker of hesitation.
"Then I'll do the same as you."
BANG—
A gunshot ripped through the air. The figure's leg jerked violently.
"Tell me your motives. Who sent you? Are there more from your organization here?"
The figure groaned through its robotic voice. "Y-You'll pay for this… the others will be here soon…"
Arka tilted his head, grin still stretched across his face.
"Is that so?"
He pointed at the left arm.
BANG—
"AAAH!" The voice cracked mid-scream, metallic and human all at once.
"You'll pay for this! I WILL MAKE YOUR LIFE HE—"
BANG—
"Shut the fuck up, man." Arka fired at the right arm this time.
The figure thrashed, screaming louder, skidding uselessly across the ground.
Arka exhaled and shook his head. "Because of you… I had to waste three bullets."
---
Meanwhile, in the main area of Petrogard, Anastasia was busy tending to the wounded. Her uniform was stained, her expression focused. Amid the chaos, a junior officer rushed to her side and whispered something in her ear. Her eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the words.
Without hesitation, she left the dying man she had been helping and moved swiftly toward a specific group of people. Others around her cried out, begging to be saved—but no one came for them.
---
Arka, elsewhere, was still torturing the figure. His smile remained—calm, detached, like the pain and chaos didn't matter to him.
The figure screamed, squirmed in agony, but still refused to betray his comrades.
Arka slowly raised his revolver, placing the barrel under the figure's chin, forcing him to meet his eyes.
He let out a quiet sigh.
"I think you need to die. You're useless—to me, and to your assassin comrades."
He pushed the gun harder against the figure's jaw.
"Remember… weaklings are always overpowered by those who have power."
He was about to pull the trigger, still smiling—
—but then, everything stopped. Time froze.
In an instant, his expression shifted. The playful smile vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating look. He glanced around.
Six hooks had appeared all around him, hanging in the air mid-flight.
He looked up. Six figures stood above him, identical in appearance to the one he had captured. It was obvious now—they were part of the same organization as her. The same group. The one he had decided to call "M," at least for now.
The hooks had been fired from grappling launchers they wielded in one hand. In the other, they each held a sword.
"The fuck... now I need to fight all of them? I can't," Arka muttered, scanning the frozen scene around him.
Without wasting a second, he reached down and ripped the mask off the assassin he had tied up—didn't even glance at the face. It wasn't the time for that. He flipped the insignia from M to 47, then slipped it on over his own face.
A second later, he summoned the same tools the others had—grappling hook launcher in one hand, sword in the other.
Time resumed.
But before the hooks could tear into his body, Arka launched himself sideways, slamming toward the side of a still-standing building.
"Woah! I thought I had to pull myself after the hook latched onto something... but it pulled me itself?" He grinned midair. "This thing is fucking amazing."
Flying through the air, zipping from structure to structure, he felt a rush—like some superhero soaring through ruins.
But the fantasy didn't last long. From the corner of his eye, he spotted the assassins launching after him.
Shit.
He fired toward another building, zipping away again.
Now I need to finish them all. They haven't seen my real face, so there's no risk of intel leaking.
Let's end this.
---
The moment Arka landed, he turned and saw the six assassins flying toward him, their grappling hooks tearing through the air like metal snakes.
"Six-on-one? That's just unfair," he muttered, his tone flat. No grin, no panic—just quiet focus.
They closed in fast—too fast.
Playtime's still on cooldown... I need to survive fifteen seconds.
The first assassin landed close, blade swinging with deadly speed. Arka leaned back just enough, slid beneath the strike, and fired—
BANG!
The bullet tore through the assassin's shoulder. Not fatal. Just enough to drop him and create space.
The others followed in waves.
Fourteen seconds...
He rolled out, fired the grappling hook, and launched to a nearby balcony. One followed. Sword raised.
Arka blocked with his own, steel meeting steel, his body steady.
"You don't talk. That makes this easier."
He twisted their blades apart and fired at the assassin's foot—BANG!
Dropped.
Ten seconds...
Two more landed on a rooftop ahead. He launched again. A hook zipped past, aimed at his leg. He shifted—bare miss.
Seven seconds...
Heart calm. Eyes scanning.
He turned, fired—missed on purpose. Saw the fifth one leaping from above, sword ready to cut him down.
Three...two...one—
Playtime: Activated.
Time froze.
He shifted behind the mid-air assassin, kicked his spine, forcing him into another. Twisted a blade toward its owner's throat. Tangled hooks. Disabled grips.
Time resumed—
Two bodies collided, crashing down. One screamed—his neck slit by redirected steel. Another slammed into a wall as his wire snapped out of control.
Only two left.
Why aren't they using their assassin abilities? Arka's thoughts ran cold as he soared through the smoke. Is this some sort of trap?
He narrowed his eyes, wind slicing past his face.
Then I'm not falling for it. I'll end this before they get the chance to end me.
He launched himself forward with a burst from the grappling hook. Petrogard stretched below him—smoke, fire, ruins. He didn't need guesses. He knew who did it.
Mid-air, Arka twisted. Without warning, he threw himself back.
The assassins below instantly went on guard, pulling their swords in front, forming a defensive stance. Their eyes locked on his flight path.
But Arka didn't come for them head-on. He passed right between them.
They turned—just a second too late.
BANG—
BANG—
Two bullets passed straight through their hearts. Bodies dropped to the ground.
"H-how did he do th-that so fast in mid-air?" That was the first and last thing he heard from those assassins.
"I didn't do anything fast. You were under a fake illusion that I opened when Playtime was activated. I was behind you since after killing your other comrades."
Arka lands on the ground, checking their bodies to see if there's any useful information. But he finds nothing.
"Tch… waste of bullets."
Still, he steals one of their robes, brushing off the blood.
"Better to blend in than stand out."
He started walking back.
There must be more. I need to find them.
---
In the military headquarters of Germany—an old stone building surrounded by thick fog and gas-lit streets—was the general's office. The room was dressed in dark oak furniture, velvet curtains drawn tight, and walls lined with maps, rifles, and ticking clocks. A faint scent of tobacco and engine oil lingered in the air. A brass phonograph played a slow violin piece in the corner, barely audible over the rhythmic tapping of boots outside.
The military general of Germany stood tall beside an ornate communication console. He wore a dark navy greatcoat with silver trim, a chest full of medals pinned neatly, and leather gloves worn thin at the knuckles. His mustache was sharp and regal, his monocle reflecting the soft glow of a gas lamp. A cane rested against the side of his desk—more for style than support.
He was on a call with the higher-ups of the government.
"Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Okay, okay. Yes, I understand," he said, voice steady, eyes scanning the documents on his desk—each one stamped with a blood-red emblem of Petrogard.
After the call ended, he dialed another number on the telephone and spoke with a calm, commanding tone,
"Launch missiles on Petrogard. That's the order."
He hung up and leaned back in his chair. A deep sigh escaped his lips as he lit a thick cigarette.
"I don't know what the Chancellor is trying to achieve by blowing up Petrogard…"
Smoke drifted upward, curling in silence.
"But we pawns can't do much more than follow his commands."
Another drag. A longer exhale.
"I don't know what's going on in his mind, or what he wants—and why."
He narrowed his eyes, lost in thought.
"But one thing is clear… that man, Adolf Kriegman, is not what people think he is."
---
Somewhere else in Germany.
Adolf sat in his chair, one hand resting under his chin.
A man knelt before him, hesitant but daring to speak.
"Are we going to go to war with Russia?"
"Why do you think that?" Adolf's deep, calm voice alone was enough to strip the arrogance from any man.
"But… you planned the bombing of Petrogard. And now, you're trying to blow it up again. It's more than an act of war."
"A country where people believe in fictional beings called 'God' more than they believe in themselves… that country doesn't deserve to stand. I'll blow it up and make the territory mine."
Adolf smirked, then lit a cigarette, the flame briefly reflecting in his cold eyes.