The body was still warm when Adrian stepped out of the alley. Steam rose faintly from the corpse's mouth, as if the man were trying to breathe one last time. The neon signs overhead flickered, casting a cold red shimmer across the blood pooling beneath the dead man's cheek.
People passed by without looking. A couple rushed past, pretending they didn't see a pair of shoes sticking out of the shadows. A delivery rider swerved around the alley's entrance and sped off. A homeless man across the street peeked once, immediately pulled his blanket over his face, and pretended to sleep.
This was a city of selective blindness. Everyone knew better than to stare at trouble for too long.
Adrian joined the human flow without a backward glance. His heartbeat was steady, his steps confident, his breath controlled. He blended into the anonymity of the night-cloaked crowd effortlessly. He had killed countless times in his previous world, but here? This first kill carried a strange, quiet meaning. It was not duty, not survival, not war.
It was identity.
A confirmation that the Villain System hadn't chosen the wrong soul.
The Archon's whisper threaded faintly in his mind, like a cold finger trailing down the spine:
A perfect execution. Efficient and clean. Continue, Host. The city rewards the ruthless. The weak simply rot.
The words dissolved as quickly as they came. But he didn't need the System to tell him that. He already understood.
He walked past a group of drunken university students laughing too loudly. One bumped into him, sloshing beer on his sleeve.
"Watch it, dude!" the drunk shouted, but his voice faltered as soon as his eyes met Adrian's. Something in Adrian's gaze—something feral, something ancient—made the drunk freeze. He shrank back into his friends without another word.
Adrian didn't react, didn't answer. He just walked on. The echo of the man choking on his own blood still replayed behind his eyes like an unfinished melody.
When he reached the ramen shop the next morning, the city felt different. Too bright, too noisy, too normal. The clash between mundane life and last night's violence irritated him in a way he couldn't fully explain.
The owner barked orders the moment Adrian stepped in. Customers complained about broth temperature. Dishes clattered. Someone's baby cried endlessly in the corner.
It all felt so…human.
Adrian washed bowls and wiped down tables with mechanical efficiency, but his mind was far away. He kept replaying the moment the man's knees buckled, the way life drained from his eyes. Not out of guilt. Out of analysis.
Out of hunger.
"Boy," the owner grunted, snapping him back. "You're acting strange. Didn't sleep?"
Adrian wiped another bowl. "A bit."
"Drink less. Work more."
The old man shuffled away, grumbling about irresponsible youth.
Adrian almost laughed. Drink less? If only the man understood the blood he tasted last night, he would run for his life.
But there was a comfort in this mundane environment. The clang of pots, the hiss of boiling water, the customer chatter — it was a fragile anchor. A thin slice of life wedged between two crushing worlds: the grim reality he had come from and the ruthless world the System promised to shape around him.
Yet deep down, he knew it couldn't last long.
The city would not let him remain normal.
That night, it didn't.
He had barely walked three blocks from the shop when a sensation—cold, sharp, instinctual—crawled up his spine. He slowed his pace just slightly, enough to listen.
Footsteps mirrored his own. Quiet. Too quiet.
Shadows shifted unnaturally behind him.
By the time he turned the corner into a narrow street near his apartment, three silhouettes peeled away from the wall ahead. Not homeless men. Not thugs.
Assassins.
They had that stance, that straight-backed posture, the silent, predatory way they occupied space. Their expressions were blank. Professional.
Adrian's hand slipped casually into his pocket, but he didn't reach for a weapon. He didn't need one.
The tallest assassin stepped forward. "You walk like you own the street."
Adrian tilted his head slightly, studying him.
"And you speak like you want something from me."
"We do."
A thin smile crept across the man's lips, humorless and cold.
"Someone wants you reminded of your place."
"And what place is that?" Adrian asked.
The assassin flicked his wrist. A dagger flashed in the neon light.
"The gutter."
They attacked with precision. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
Adrian moved before the blade reached him. His hand clamped the man's wrist, twisted—bone cracked with a soft pop—and he shoved the man into the second attacker.
The third came from behind, blade reflecting neon pink.
Adrian ducked, pivoted, and struck low. His leg swept sharply across the pavement, knocking the man off balance.
The dagger skidded across the ground.
Adrian snatched it up in a single fluid motion and plunged it into the man's thigh. Blood spurted. The scream echoed between the buildings.
The System stirred. Not a whisper this time—an awakening.
Good. Pain is truth. Push further.
Adrian's eyes darkened.
The two remaining assassins circled him, more cautious now. Their eyes no longer held mockery. Only calculation.
The first one, nursing his broken wrist, spat on the ground.
"He's not the useless brat we were told about."
Brat. Useless.
Ah.
So someone did know him.
"Who sent you?" Adrian asked casually.
They said nothing.
The crippled assassin lunged again. Adrian sidestepped effortlessly, grabbed the man's collar, and slammed his head against the wall. A crunch. Blood splattered.
The second assassin tried to stab him from behind, but Adrian caught the man's arm mid-air. He twisted, turning the blade against its owner, pressing it slowly into his ribs.
The assassin struggled. Adrian pushed harder.
Blood seeped through the fabric of the man's shirt as the blade sank in inch by inch. The assassin's breathing grew ragged. Adrian watched, emotionless, as his body trembled.
"Who sent you?" he asked again.
This time the man answered through clenched teeth.
"Your own blood."
Ah.
So it had begun.
Adrian's expression didn't change, but something cold bloomed inside him. Not shock. Not betrayal. Something deeper.
Expectation.
"Which one?" Adrian pressed. The blade twisted.
The man gasped. "Your— your cousin. Valen Nightbane."
Valen.
A name that meant nothing to his transmigrated self, but everything to the body he now occupied. A cousin whose hatred ran deep enough to send assassins. Clearly, the original Caelum's reputation wasn't simply "disgraceful."
It was fatal.
The dying assassin choked. "He said— said you should die quietly."
Adrian released the blade and stepped back. The man collapsed to the pavement, blood soaking into his clothes.
The final assassin — the one with the broken wrist — tried to flee.
Adrian caught him by the collar before he took three steps.
He dragged the man into the dark corner of the street, where no neon lights reached.
"Don't— don't kill me—"
Adrian slammed him against the wall hard enough to rattle his teeth.
Death was easy. Too easy. Adrian wasn't looking for a kill right now. He wanted a message. A warning. A promise written in flesh and fear.
"You attacked me with confidence," Adrian murmured softly. "Don't whine now."
"I–I didn't want to—"
"You did," Adrian said. "And you failed."
The man whimpered.
Adrian leaned in close, his voice low and lethal.
"Tell Valen this: If he wants me dead, he should come himself."
He tightened his grip until the man's airway compressed.
"Next time he sends anyone, I'll send pieces of them back."
He threw the assassin to the ground. The man scrambled away, crawling like an injured dog until he finally managed to run.
Adrian watched him go, then exhaled slowly.
The city was loud again. Sirens wailing in the distance. Someone laughing drunkenly. Cars honking. Life went on, oblivious to the violence buried in its shadows.
But Adrian felt the shift inside him.
This wasn't just a new world.
It was a battlefield disguised as a cityscape.
The System pulsed in satisfaction.
Host, you have fully adapted to the environment. Darkness suits you. Continue the ascent.
Adrian walked toward his apartment, shoes stained with blood. The streets glowed with evening lights, so ordinary...