"Phantom Rebirth: The Last White Raven’s Path to the Ultimate Assassin"

Seraphis walked out of the Guildmaster’s office, the silver badge of her new rank cool against her palm. She unfolded the parchment he had given her, scanning the details of her next target.

The name on the paper was Ruthven Vale, a merchant of considerable wealth and influence.

The crime?
Manipulation, extortion, and murder.

He had a habit of harassing those who defied him—shopkeepers, travelers, even his own employees. If they angered him, they didn’t just lose their livelihoods. They lost their lives.

And yet, every time a body was found, the blame conveniently landed on bandits. The guards did nothing, either paid off or too afraid to go against him.

A snake hiding in plain sight.

Seraphis folded the paper and tucked it away. This would be easy.

Or so she thought.

A City of Secrets

The marketplace was bustling when she arrived. The air was thick with the scent of spices, roasted meats, and fresh bread. Merchants shouted over one another, advertising their wares, while pickpockets weaved through the crowds like silent predators.

Seraphis moved effortlessly, her black assassin’s uniform blending into the sea of people. Her mask, covering her nose and mouth, concealed her identity.

She had already learned everything she needed to know about Ruthven Vale.

His habits.
His routes.

He operated from a lavish estate just beyond the market, a fortress disguised as a home.

But Seraphis wasn’t interested in storming his gates. That would be messy.

She would do this the way she knew best.

Silent. Unseen. Absolute.

The Merchant’s Web

She perched atop a building, observing the flow of people below. Then she saw him.

Ruthven Vale was a heavyset man draped in silks, a smug smile plastered across his round face. He moved through the market like he owned it—which, in many ways, he did.

Two bodyguards flanked him, both armed with short swords. Their eyes swept the crowd, searching for threats.

But Seraphis wasn’t in the crowd. She was above them.

She followed as he entered a small shop, his voice booming inside.

A woman’s voice responded—frightened.

Seraphis narrowed her eyes. Another victim?

She moved swiftly, her form nothing more than a shadow as she reached the building’s rooftop.

Through a tiny opening

A Merchant’s Cruelty

“I gave you a fair warning, didn’t I?” Ruthven’s voice was sickly sweet, like rotting fruit. “And yet, here you are, still selling to that rat from the east side.”

The woman stammered. “P-please, sir, I had no choice. I need to feed my family.”

A loud smack echoed through the shop. Seraphis clenched her fists.

“You don’t seem to understand,” Ruthven continued, his tone dripping with false sympathy. “I decide who prospers and who suffers in this city. And you, my dear, have made a very bad choice.”

Seraphis didn’t need to hear more. Tonight, he would die.

Setting the Trap

That night, Ruthven Vale hosted one of his infamous private gatherings in his estate. A banquet, where only the wealthiest merchants and corrupt officials were welcome.

Seraphis didn’t bother with the main entrance. She had her own way in.

Scaling the walls was effortless. She slipped through an open window, her presence like a whisper in the wind.

She moved through the lavish halls, her footfalls silent on the marble floors. She had one goal—find Ruthven, end him, and leave without a trace.

The Moment of Death

She found him in his private chambers, reclining on a velvet chair, a goblet of red wine in one hand. His guards stood nearby, laughing as they counted coins.

Seraphis was already in position.

From the shadows, she flicked three playing cards into the air.

They whirled like blades—one slitting the throat of a guard before he could even scream, another piercing the heart of the second.

The third card hovered at Ruthven’s neck.

His goblet clattered to the floor, red wine pooling beneath his trembling feet.

“W-wait!” he stammered. “I can pay you! I can—”

Seraphis didn’t wait.

With a flick of her wrist, the card sliced through his throat.

He gurgled, eyes wide with terror as blood spilled down his silks. He collapsed, the room falling into dead silence.

The Final Touch

Seraphis wiped her blade clean, then pulled out a small parchment.

She pressed it into Ruthven’s lifeless hand.

It was a fabricated bandit insignia—one she had planted at previous crime scenes.

When the guards found him, it would look like he had finally fallen victim to the very criminals he blamed for his murders.

Poetic justice.

Without another sound, Seraphis melted into the shadows, disappearing as if she had never been there at all.

The city would wake to a new world.

And Seraphis?

She was already moving toward her next mission.