The Timeless Assassin, Vol 2.
(The Next Dragon)
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"If you study the psychology of those affiliated with the so-called 'Evil Cult,' you will find not madness—but extreme narcissism.
They do not deny the supremacy of gods out of disbelief.
They reject them out of competition.
To them, divinity is not a destination—it is a rival to be outshone, surpassed, and ultimately destroyed."
— Dr. Major Klaasen, Universal Government Psychology of Crime Journal, Vol. 87
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(Planet Ixtal – Capital World of the Cult of Ascension)
If seen through an objective lens, then Ixtal was just another bustling planet—rich in biodiversity, climate-zoned cities, and a population exceeding twelve billion civilians. Markets thrived. Small police ships patrolled its orbit. Children played in the streets of domed arcologies that kissed the clouds.
At a glance, it was no different from any other highly urbanized planetary hub in the galaxy.
But that illusion ended the moment one tried to leave orbit.
Ixtal's defense systems were unmatched. Entire continents were rigged with anti-Arc Ship rail turrets capable of punching through planetary shields.
The atmosphere itself was layered with invisible disruption webs and complex mana arrays that were designed to tear apart any unauthorized warp drives before they could initiate jump sequences.
Its skies were protected by hardened orbital arrays, capable of tracking and vaporizing a fleet within seconds of detection.
And the surface?
Its largest cities were hidden behind folded space barriers, their locations warped and redirected through a network of reality distortion nodes so intricate that even the Universal Government had yet to map them.
All of this protection, all of this effort, was not for the twelve billion civilians.
It was for the man who ruled from within its heart.
Soron.
The current God of the Cult of Ascension—known to the rest of the universe only as the Evil Cult.
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Nestled within the dense canopy of the Lost Forest, far from the floating cities and military complexes, stood a castle—if one could call it that. No taller than a noble's estate, nor grander than a baron's fortress.
Its stone walls were gray, unpolished. No spires reached for the stars. No symbols adorned its face.
The castle was quiet, functional, unassuming, and it reflected its occupant and his simple nature.
Inside the castle, from the innermost chamber, steam curled upward from a sunken medicinal bath that glowed with a dim crimson light.
Crystalline herbs floated in the liquid, hissing as they slowly dissolved, releasing pungent fumes that smelled of copper and burnt incense.
A man stood at the edge of the bath, his body slack, robes loosely draped over his shoulders.
*Cough*
*Cough*
The sound echoed in the silence—dry, harsh, mortal.
A god should not cough.
Gods, after all, were four-dimensional creatures—transcendent beings capable of rewinding time, skipping to moments before they were harmed, erasing wounds from the record of reality itself.
And yet…
As Soron let his robe fall to the ground, the truth came into view.
His body was ravaged.
Long black scars crisscrossed his chest and arms—some deep, others shallow, but all very much real. Where wounds hadn't sealed, dark pus leaked from open lesions that shimmered with corrupted energy, pulsing in rhythm with some otherworldly parasite that no amount of time manipulation could erase.
The immortality of gods had failed him.
*TWUP*
He stepped slowly into the bath, the liquid making a slight noise as the surface tension broke, as immediately he let out a breath of relief, as the heat of the bath met his raw flesh.
The crimson fluid clung to his skin like blood.
His eyes remained half-lidded, unfocused, as if seeing far beyond the chamber. Beyond Ixtal. Beyond the universe.
And yet… still trapped here.
Still wounded.
Still dying.
The wounds inflicted from the blade of the Timeless Assassin did not heal.
It was the only blade in the universe which inflicted unhealable wounds, which was a big reason behind the Timeless Assassin being able to kill as many gods as he did.
However, unfortunately after the Great Betrayal 2000 years ago, that blade fell into the hands of Kaelith The Eternal Sovereign….. or rather Kaelith The Dog.
Who unfortunately happened to be his elder brother—
However, although the Great Betrayal was two thousand years ago, Soron still bore the wounds of that day.
The wounds inflicted on him during that days fight, refused to heal even 2000 years later, as although he survived that day, the blades lingering corruption energy developed an infection in his body over time.
The infection had spread slowly at first— looking nothing more than lingering mana rot from the blade that had once slain gods.
But now, even a god's divine physiology could no longer keep pace. The pus that oozed from beneath his scars was not ordinary rot. It was legacy poison, remnants of an unhealable truth—that Soron was dying.
*TWABLE*
Soron shifted in the bath, the crimson water lapping at the sides as another breath escaped his lips. Not out of pain.
But from acceptance.
'I'm running out of time.'
He had known this for a while—but he kept the knowledge hidden beneath centuries of strength and ceremony.
But the signs had grown harder to ignore recently.
Longer recoveries. Slower mana cycling. And now… even his grip on time was beginning to slip.
A god who could not step beyond the fourth dimension was a pretender, nothing more than an injured demi-god playing dress-up with immortality.
And Soron had already accepted the fact that he was no longer the warrior that he once was.
And that meant one thing.
If no one rose to take his place soon, the Cult of Ascension, a.k.a. the Evil Cult, as the universe called it—would fall.
The Universal Government had tolerated Ixtal's independence not out of mercy, but fear. Soron's existence had been the shield, the great unknown that even their pantheon of gods tread carefully around.
While the other cult-held worlds, scattered and few, clung to that illusion of protection like drowning men to driftwood.
But once he was gone…
Without him, there would be no deterrent. No balance. No bluff to play.
'One hundred and fifty years,' he thought. 'That's all I can afford them. After that…'
The image formed in his mind unbidden—black flames spreading across Ixtal's cities, orbit cannons silenced, and warships breaching folded space barriers with contemptuous ease.
And then silence.
That would be the end.
Unless someone stepped forward.
Unless the prophecy came true.
Soron's eyes narrowed slightly as he dipped lower into the bath, the blood-red liquid reaching his lips.
He believed in the prophecy.
He believed that someone from his bloodline would someday rise to become the next Timeless Assassin.
However, he just didn't know when?
He had spent the last hundred years engineering the perfect storm—curating bloodlines, manipulating blood oaths, bending fate until it aligned just enough to carve out a single chance.
One candidate. One vessel. One dragon.
But unfortunately, not one promising candidate had appeared yet.
No-one that could truly take his spot.
As it was this pressure of having no suitable candidate, that made Soron feel like he was ageing a year with every passing month.
'2000 years…. But I still miss you…. Father—
2000 years, and I still couldn't leave a legacy half as good as yours.'