World Cry

The Sho clan estate rested atop a gentle rise overlooking Taisora, its walls stretching like the arms of an ancient guardian over the city below. The estate was a statement—elegance and power woven together in perfect harmony. Pale stone buildings with sweeping, curved roofs crowned with blue tiles gleamed faintly under the moonlight. Delicate carvings of cranes and lotus blossoms adorned wooden pillars, and paper lanterns swayed gently in the evening breeze, casting a warm glow over meticulously tended courtyards. The faint murmur of a koi pond filtered through the night, mixing with the soft rustling of cherry blossom trees.

Within the heart of this domain, Za'an Sho, clan leader and ruler of Taisora, sat in his private chamber—an austere yet refined room. The air carried a faint chill, an extension of his will. The calligraphy scrolls lining the walls spoke of his lineage and the might of the Sho bloodline, their characters etched with both artistry and menace. A low brazier smoldered nearby, but the heat barely touched him.

Za'an knelt on a meditation cushion, eyes closed, breathing slow. Mana gathered around him, visible to trained eyes—a faint shimmer in the air, cold and sharp. Frost crept along the polished wooden floorboards beneath him, thin as spider silk. He was a Tier 3 Frost Mage—treading the Pathway of the Frost Daemon. Power was his birthright, but the ascent had not come without pain. The chill of his path had seeped into his bones long ago.

The scuffling outside his door came like an itch against his focus. A hurried shuffle, then a pause. The nervous energy of someone weighing whether to interrupt him. He allowed the hesitation to stretch for a few moments longer before drawing his mana inward with a final breath. The faint frost receded. His eyes opened—icy and sharp.

"Enter," Za'an commanded.

The door slid open with a soft creak. A young retainer stepped in, bowing deeply, forehead nearly to the floor.

"Reporting to the Clan Leader," the man's voice was taut with anxiety. "A body… is missing from the depths."

Za'an's gaze was unreadable, but the words registered. The depths. The place where the clan's darkest rituals were carried out, hidden beneath the earth.

"We believe the body… revived," the retainer continued, hesitating over the final word as though it carried a curse.

Za'an's eyebrow lifted, barely perceptible.

"How certain?" His voice was measured, but the cold in it made the young man flinch.

"Nearly absolute, Clan Leader. It was left in a side chamber near the ritual hall, awaiting disposal. When the workers arrived, it was gone. We conducted a search. There were… footprints in the dust leading to the surface." He hesitated, then added, "A guard stationed near the sewers reported hearing movement."

Za'an's expression remained still. Inside, his thoughts raced.

Revival?

Impossible, and yet…

"Whose body?"

"A street rat, Clan Leader. A boy under Scarface."

"Who is Scarface?"

"A lieutenant under Reaper. Controls some streets in the lower districts. Petty theft, smuggling, debt enforcement."

Za'an's fingers tapped lightly against his knee—one of Reaper's men. That name carried weight in Taisora's underworld. Reaper ruled the shadows, and his word carried as much fear as the Sho name itself.

Za'an exhaled through his nose. This was not mere inconvenience. If the ritual became known to the public—if the Church of the Mother Gaia caught wind—it would not simply be his life at stake. The Sho Clan's legacy, their ambitions, everything could crumble.

"Lock down the city. Quietly. Deploy Black Mask—his path suits this kind of work. If the boy is alive, I want him found."

The retainer bowed deeper. "And the Church?"

Za'an's voice hardened. "Nothing reaches them."

"Yes, Clan Leader."

"Oh—and kill that guard."

The retainer bowed even further.

A flick of his hand dismissed the retainer, who withdrew with practiced efficiency.

Silence reclaimed the room—briefly.

Za'an's gaze drifted toward the darkened corner near the paper screen.

"You can come out now," he said.

The shadows shifted.

A figure emerged—a presence more than a man. He moved like smoke, his form cloaked in black, his face concealed by a mask that seemed woven from night itself. But the air around him carried a subtle wrongness—an unnatural void where sound and warmth should be.

The assassin's voice was light, almost amused. "Ho? You sensed me? As expected from a Tier 3 Frost mage. I thought I masked the temperature shift well."

Za'an's face remained impassive. He rose, walking to a low lacquered table where a jade decanter and cups awaited. He poured himself a drink—sake chilled to perfection.

"An assassin. Umbral Tower?" Za'an's tone carried neither fear nor respect. He had faced death before.

The figure stepped forward, casual. He plucked the cup from Za'an's hand and drank without invitation.

"Good stuff." He licked his lips beneath the mask. "Path of the Frost Daemon… yes, that was it. Temperate Initiate, Tier 3." He snapped his fingers, as if remembering an old tune.

Za'an's eyes narrowed. The casual mention of his full pathway name sent a ripple of unease through him.

The assassin tilted his head. "That reaction. Ah… you understand, don't you? Someone paid well. Very well."

Za'an's fingers tightened around the hilt of his ceremonial dagger resting on the table.

"Who sent you?"

The assassin's eyes gleamed behind the mask. "That… I can't say."

Za'an's voice dropped to a dangerous cold. "Then you die."

The assassin chuckled. "Formalities, formalities.

Silent Blade Squad's No.34—of the Umbral Tower."

He stepped back into a half-bow—mocking, exaggerated.

"Here to reap your li—"

Za'an struck.

Frost surged from his palm, coalescing into a blade of crystalline ice. He slashed in one fluid motion, the air hissing as the temperature plunged. The assassin was gone before the blade met flesh.

He reappeared across the room, leaning lazily against a pillar.

"Temper, temper. You so called "Pathfinders"… so eager to prove your worth. You think your personal path is a match for established pathways refined by generations over the ages?" He clicked his tongue. "The Path of Frost Daemon?… What an arrogant name. Three tiers, and your ancestor realized his folly and abandoned it, yet his descendants are parading it as an inheritance"

Za'an's breath frosted with each exhale. He knew the assassin's words were meant to provoke. And yet they struck true.

"You've been grasping, haven't you? Those rituals… trying to resurrect something ancient… A Frost Daemon?... with just you? Ha!

Desperation smells the same in every kingdom."

Za'an surged forward—mana spiking, frost wreathing his body. His blade arced through the room, ice spiraling in his wake. The assassin sidestepped with effortless grace, moving faster than Za'an's eyes could fully track.

A touch—light, almost gentle—on Za'an's back.

Everything went dark.

Za'an stumbled. His vision vanished, sound snuffed out, his senses stripped away. He flailed, slicing at nothing. The cold blade cut only air.

A dagger calmly slid across his throat.

He collapsed to his knees, hands clutching at the wound, his breath gurgling with blood. His final thoughts were not of power—but of failure and confusion. Who had sold him out?

The assassin eased Za'an's lifeless body into the seat behind his desk, arranging him as though he had merely fallen asleep in meditation.

He gazed out over the sleeping city—Taisora glittering under the stars.

"You played with forces beyond your grasp," he murmured. "You could have continued and no one would bat an eye," he sighed. "But you went and killed someone of noble blood in your desperation."

He gazed on for a little while and with a final glance at Za'an's corpse, he melted into the shadows.

Hours later, a maid's shriek pierced the night. It was followed by wailing cries from the Sho estate as word spread—

The Clan Leader was dead.