The city of Vireholm never slept. Its towers pierced the clouds like obsidian fangs, humming with neon veins and ancient enchantments. Beneath its gleaming surface, the world rotted—corrupted by power, ruled by blood, and blind to the broken souls it left behind.
He was one of them.
No name. Not anymore. Names were for the cherished, the remembered. He had been neither. Born to shadows, raised in silence, discarded like a failed experiment. His parents had vanished before he could speak their names, and the world had followed suit—turning its back, locking its gates, and branding him unworthy.
But he remembered everything.
The cold nights in the gutter, where the rain tasted like rust and the stars mocked him from behind smog. The nobles who spat on him. The guards who beat him for breathing too loud. The orphanage that sold children like livestock. And the one who smiled as they took everything from him.
He had no magic. No lineage. No allies. Just rage—and a blade.
In Vireholm, assassins were the ghosts of justice. Unseen, unspoken, feared. He would become one. Not for coin. Not for glory. But for vengeance. Every cut would be a memory. Every kill, a reckoning. He would climb the tower of power, brick by bloody brick, until the world that abandoned him knelt in apology—or burned in silence.
They called him forsaken. Soon, they would call him something else.
Death.