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A man was staring somberly at the sky through his window. The moonlight was the only source of light in a room as dark as abyss. He leaned on the wooden desk right next to the window, crossing his arms in front of his chest. His eyes bored. His body was there in the room, but not his mind, which had wandered far away into the depth of the unknown.

As if forcing him back to reality, a knock came on his bedroom door. He eyed the square redwood with nothing but lack of emotion.

“Excuse me, Master,” a terrified, polite voice of a woman came through the door. Must be one of his maids—or slaves, to be precise. “I... I brought him.”

The man’s face twitched to form a brief expression that could barely be caught by normal eyes. “Open the door and leave him there,” he ordered with a low, croaky voice.

There was hesitation before the door creaked open slightly, followed by the sound of footsteps scurrying away. The woman probably dashed away as quickly as possible.

Slowly, the wind swung the heavy door open, wide enough to show a figure of a boy, hands chained, standing outside the room. His messy and dusty dark hair ruffled, hiding his darkened gaze. His clothes were torn and dirty and dusty, indicating it was the only clothes he wore for months. His sunburned skin was bruised everywhere, also dusty and dirty. His cut lips showed a thin line of no emotion. His expression was still; except the cold, death gaze hidden under his hair.

The man looked amused now; his lips twitched into a manic smile. “So, it is you?” he asked, to no one in particular, tilting his head to the side. “The infamous immortal creature of Goddess Eirhine, Nightingale.”

The dark-haired boy stared cold like a statue at the man as he stood up and approached him.

“Well, well,” the man greeted with a crooked grin. “Not as great as expected, though.”

He laughed, as though telling the funniest joke ever. The boy remained silent, keeping an eye on him through his messy hair. The man tilted the boy’s chin up with his point finger, forcing the boy’s eyes to meet his.

“But, well, you owe me for setting you free from Goddess’ wicked string of fate.”

His hand grabbed the boy’s head. The boy gasped as he struggled to free himself, but with his wrists chained, all his struggle was nothing but vain. Seconds later, the boy oddly calmed down, as his hands drew back down. The man smirked, satisfied with his work of creation.

“You are not the Nightingale. You are one of my underlings, my precious, precious assassin—or shall I call you, Zero. And all you must do is,” he ordered, his voice firm and stoic with a hint of sinister behind his words. “kill the Chosen One.”

Slowly, he pulled away. The boy shook his head normally, as though he had not struggled with his life just seconds before, and brushed his hair off to show the golden orbs that shone in darkness.

The boy’s eyelids closed, and when he opened it, the orbs shone as red as the blood of his enemies. “As you say,” he said in an icy cold tone. “Master.”

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