Celestial Emperor of Shadow

When the Night Listens Too Closely

The world was asleep.

Not peacefully—no, nothing about this part of the border ever slept peacefully—but it slept in that uneasy, breathing way a wounded animal does. The wind skimmed low across the dry grass, thin and restless, carrying the cold bite of the night deeper into the forest that marked the Lionheart Kingdom's far edge.

And in that forest, tucked between shadowed trees and broken stone, a campfire burned far too brightly for a group that called themselves assassins.

Fifty men sat around the roaring flames, sprawled across old roots, half-broken logs, and smooth boulders that had been dragged closer for comfort. The fire cracked and sent sparks spinning upward, tiny stars dying before they touched the branches above.

This was the Moon Eagle assassination unit—elite by reputation, crude by behavior, and notoriously arrogant even among killers.

Their clothes were dark, stitched with the symbol they carried like religion:

a wide-winged eagle, wings spread to their fullest, and a crescent moon resting behind its crown. A badge inked in deep black thread, catching only the faintest glimmer of firelight.

Tonight, they ate well.

A massive slab of beast meat—twice the size of a man's torso—hung over the flames on a thick metal spit. Fat dripped into the fire, sizzling loud, sending waves of savory scent rolling through the air. Knives sliced through steaming flesh, and greasy fingers tore at the meat before it ever cooled.

Laughter echoed. Boots scraped. Someone belched loudly. Someone else cheered.

But one man didn't laugh.

He sat on a boulder slightly apart from the rest—not higher, not elevated, but positioned in a way that made it impossible to look anywhere without noticing him. His boot rested lazily atop another rock, one knee raised, posture relaxed but never careless.

His face was unmistakable.

Black hair. Black eyes. A long, violent scar running from his cheek to the edge of his left eye.

Ego.

Not his birth name, but the only one people used.

He earned it—through the way he talked, the way he killed, and the way he never bowed to anyone except their master.

He tore a thick chunk of meat free with a single pull of his gloved hand, steam rising off it. He took a slow bite, chewed, and watched the fire dance.

Around him, conversations rose and fell, weaving through the crackle of flames.

"Leader," one man called, mouth stuffed full of roasted meat. "Did you hear? That Lionheart fool started moving their troops. Fortifying everything. Running like scared rabbits."

Another snickered. "Yeah, I saw it myself. Patrols doubled. Walls reinforced. They're mobilizing the whole damn border."

"They think they can stop us?" someone else barked with a laugh. "Idiots. All they're doing is making the killing slower."

"No, no," a younger man chimed in, raising his cup. "They're just ignorant. Let them waste their soldiers. It makes the job easier."

A round of nods followed.

More laughter.

Someone tore another chunk of meat off the spit.

Ego didn't react for a moment.

Then he let out a small, amused exhale and spoke without looking up.

"They're dying dogs," he said. "Desperate animals bite the hardest. But they still die."

The camp quieted for half a second—not out of fear, but because Ego rarely bothered to speak more than he needed to. When he did, they listened.

One assassin leaned in toward the fire. "Leader, by the way… any word on when our patron arrives? Once they're here, we start our work, right?"

Another grinned.

"Yeah, I need to complete my mission early. Earn some gold."

"And maybe pick up a few beauties on the way!"

The men burst into laughter.

Ego lifted his eyes, unimpressed but faintly entertained.

"Our patron," he said lightly, "is on the way. Just like last time. They'll come soon."

Heads nodded around the fire.

"Good," the man with the cup grinned. "When they get here, we can finally—"

He stopped.

Not because he chose to.

But because Ego's gaze slid past him… sharp, focused.

Two others noticed.

Their bodies went unnaturally still.

The fire crackled.

The wind shifted.

Footsteps whispered through the trees—soft, careful, but deliberate enough that trained killers recognized the rhythm instantly.

Two figures walked toward the camp.

Both fully draped in black hoods that covered their heads and cloaked their bodies from shoulder to boot. No torch. No visible weapons. No hesitation.

Just two silhouettes cutting cleanly through the darkness.

Ego rose to his feet in one fluid motion.

The shift of his weight alone was enough to make three assassins reach for their blades instinctively.

He didn't draw his.

He didn't need to.

One of his sub-leaders, seated on a stump, shot to his feet and barked:

"Stop right there! State your purpose!"

The hooded figures didn't flinch.

Instead, they stepped into the edge of the firelight—slow, unhurried, almost casual. The flames reflected on the black cloth draped over them, turning their shadows long and sharp across the forest floor.

Then—

The two reached up at the same time.

Fingers curled under their hoods.

And they pulled them back.

The first man revealed was older, bald, his expression cold and unreadable—the kind of face that had seen enough violence to know how cheaply life sold itself. His features were carved by discipline, every line speaking of scars he didn't bother showing.

The second had a grey hair, wild in a way that looked natural rather than careless, eyes dark with a strange mix of amusement and calculation—as if every person in the camp had already been weighed and measured.

The first man spoke, tone flat:

"Looks like we're not very welcome."

Ego didn't blink.

Didn't breathe for a heartbeat.

A few assassins shifted nervously, unsure if they should reach for weapons or hold back. Even the fire seemed to crackle more quietly.

Recognition tightened the air.

Ego stepped toward them, jaw tightening as he finally answered.

"…Ronan Ironcold."

His voice dropped lower.

"And Loret Blackcrow."