Mr. Starkridge's anxiety was steadily mounting. Well over an hour had ticked away since his covert operative's last call. He'd assumed handling an unarmed woman would be a straightforward endeavor, yet a gnawing unease crept over him, suggesting an unforeseen twist in the narrative.

Pacing the confines of his office, he ruminated, "That rat better have managed to evade capture." A crystal tumbler, its contents amber and inviting, beckoned from the desk's expanse. He seized it, taking a final prolonged swig of the bourbon before bidding the night adieu.

His overcoat lay carelessly across the armrest of his office chair. With a decisive exclamation, he declared, "That's it, I'm leaving." Strewn across the table was a medley of papers – a passport, an ID card, and a pair of plane tickets. It was evident he stood on the precipice of departure, on the cusp of fleeing. Swiftly draping the overcoat across his shoulders, he stowed away the pertinent documents into his briefcase. A sweeping scan of the room followed, assessing for any irregularities. Papers littered the floor, fragments of glass lay forgotten, none demanding his immediate concern. It was only upon reaching for the ajar window that realization struck him.

"Hold on a moment! I never left this window open." As his grip relinquished the window frame, he muttered to himself, "By the gods..." A surge of realization swept over him as he withdrew from the window, hastening to the vial-laden shelf to his left. Simultaneously, the door adjacent to the bookcase – the entrance to the office's restroom – burst open, yielding a cloaked figure in ebony. Concealed beneath a mask, daggers sprouting from either hand, the figure embarked on a decisive advance. They converged upon the rack of vials with a swift movement, Mr. Starkridge snatching one before the others met their demise beneath the dagger handles. A calamitous descent narrowly averted, Mr. Starkridge verified the vial's seal, only to be transformed. A robust, sinewy tail sprouted from his rear, cushioning his fall and launching him back upright. He assumed a poised, formidable stance.

"Who are you? Who's behind this?" Mr. Starkridge's inquiry fell upon deaf ears, unanswered. The shadowy figure pivoted, its progression leading it toward the room's center, treading the treacherous terrain of glass and paper, daggers aimed unwaveringly.

"King Vonner's dogs, are you?" Mr. Starkridge's query persisted, to no avail. The figure's intentions remained a mystery, their identity veiled.

"Well, if you serve him, I'll be sure to present your head as a farewell offering!" Mr. Starkridge's proclamation was followed by an impulsive lunge at his enigmatic adversary. Employing his scaled tail as both defense and assault, he encircled it around his frame. The figure's daggers were foiled, skimming over the scaled barrier. The blades buckled and the figure staggered, colliding with an adjacent cabinet.

"Admire my new creation. My very own handiwork. Allow me to introduce: Dragon's Tail!" Mr. Starkridge's countenance flushed with pride. Each strike he delivered was a statement of malevolence. The serpent-like tail swooped, grazing the figure's head by mere inches, the intent was unmistakable. Although the figure's concealed features precluded visual confirmation, their trepidation was palpable, their aggression waning. The tide turned as the figure ceased their assault, shifting to a stance of defense, evasive maneuvers ensuant, aimed at evading the beastly tail.

With decisive intent, Mr. Starkridge surged forward, his tail a potent instrument. His aim: to shatter the vial or cripple the figure's hand before it accessed a vial strapped to their waist. The strategy was simple – corner his adversary, cultivating an opportunity for the final, lethal strike.

Mr. Starkridge swung his tail forward in another uncontrolled swing, exposing his entire abdomen. When the figure realized what had happened, he hurriedly went for his dagger. He realized he couldn't attack and escape the oncoming tail at the same time, so he took a chance and took a hit in the hopes of landing one of his own. Mr. Starkridge's chest was pierced by the blade, which went deep into his lung. Thankfully, his tail yanked the figure across the room and slammed him into the bookcase, stopping the blade from entering any further.

Soon after, the figure felt the impact of the collision. It had not anticipated how much it would hurt.  Attempting to raise its arm, it realized the shoulder was dislocated, causing the arm to become stuck in an uncomfortable angle, preventing it from flexing. Mr. Starkridge coughed blood and wiped the blood off his chin with his tail.

"You won't survive this!" he exclaimed. He lunged forward for another attack with all the speed he could muster. His advance was halted abruptly as a surge of pain coursed through him. His vision plunged into complete darkness, leaving him blind to his own flailing arms. A sharp, resonating ache radiated from the area inside his chest where the blade remained embedded. He realized that yanking the weapon free might rupture blood vessels, causing him to bleed out faster than he wanted. Unbeknownst to him, leaving the blade lodged in the wound was the very cause of his excruciating torment.

Slowly, his sight returned, and as he focused on the figure before him, he observed the vial at the assailant's waist had vanished. He scanned the room until he spotted the empty vessel by its leg. It seemed that during the attack, the figure had surreptitiously removed it from his belt and coated the dagger with its contents.

"So the blade was merely a ruse. The true weapon lay within the potion vial, hidden behind the blade's facade. That's a cunning ploy indeed!" A cough escaped him, followed by a spatter of blood across the table. Mr. Starkridge staggered, dropping to one knee, and began tearing at the buttons on his chest garment. The fabric peeled away, unveiling a grievous gash marred with a  green poison that frothed ominously.

"Poison, you killed me with poison!" Mr. Starkridge, sprawled on the floor, said. The figure approached him and stood over him for a few moments, ensuring that he was weak and unable to retaliate when it removed its mask.

The person went over Mr. Starkridge's body and removed the mask that had been covering his face once he was unmoving. Mr. Starkridge's eyes widened in surprise as he saw his face.

"You! Of all people, you! His voice was wheezing as he spoke.

"You thought you'd get away with it! But you messed with the wrong guy Director," Nelanian said, still standing over Mr. Starkridge's dying body. Before walking away from him, he waited for him to draw his final breath.

Following Mr. Starkridge's fading cries, the sound of determined footsteps echoed up the stairwell leading to his office. He dashed toward the partially open window, but a sudden migraine struck him, causing him to stumble. He swayed toward the window, almost colliding with the frame. His vision blurred, and the footsteps drew closer.

Throwing caution to the wind, he lunged through the windowpane, shattering it, and landed on the rooftop below. His body rolled across the tiles, dislodging some as he went. Eventually, he slipped from the roof, plummeting toward the ground. A figure outside the window exclaimed, "I've spotted him! The intruder is heading for the walls. Call security before he escapes!"

The night offered cover to Nelanian, his face obscured in the darkness. He pulled his mask over his face and staggered toward the school's perimeter wall. Distant barks of combat dogs resonated, signaling their approach. Though unseen, he knew they were closing in.

Despite a sprained ankle and a dislocated shoulder slowing him down, scaling the wall was imperative for his safety. Upon reaching the wall, he relied solely on his prosthetic arm's strength to ascend. Lacking sensation in the limb, he trusted his instincts, ensuring he maintained a secure hold.

Managing to surmount the wall, he narrowly evaded the snapping jaws of the pursuing dogs. Soon, blaring sirens filled the air, accompanied by flashing lights directed toward his location. Concealed by a cluster of trees, he remained hidden from view. leaning beside one tree, he tore a portion of his shirt, biting onto it as he forced his dislocated shoulder back into place with a sharp snap, muffling his groan.

He retrieved his last dagger, its handle concealing a vial. Upon releasing the vial, he shook it and quickly swallowed its contents. Shortly after, he vanished into thin air, leaving behind only the guards and dogs who arrived to find him vanished.

UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

"You appear before the Watchers' council. Please state your name! "

As he stood up and stretched his arm again, Nelanian sighed.

"Nelanian Henfery," he murmured as he spat out the stopper he swallowed by accident when he drank the potion from the vial.

"State your full name! " a threatening voice resonated from behind him.

With a sigh of tiredness, Nelanian sighed. As he moved closer to the voice, he rolled his eyes again and muttered, " Zegrath Void, The Necessary Evil, and Keeper of Darkness, hundred and seventh to hold the title."

"Has the deed been done? " inquired the voice.

Nelanian said, "Yes."

"Who am I speaking to right now?" I can't keep track of how many of you there are," he remarked. "Mostly because you all use the same bloody voice," he grumbled beneath his breath.


"My name is the Seventh, and I am The Death List. I am the one who has the list of souls you must assassinate. I am the one who gives you the order to kill,"

"So you're the one who ordered me to assassinate the director?"

"That is correct,"

"So when do I know who my next target is?"

" I told you about this before, but you asked to have your mind erased, shall I read the death list to you again"

"Wait, I asked for my mind to be erased? Why?"

"That is unclear to us. However, when we gave you the first name to kill, you stated that you wanted your memory erased once you killed him,"

"Then... I'd like to know the name of the first person I killed,"

"You made it apparent that you didn't want to know anything else, and that we shouldn't divulge that information,"

"Well, now I'm going to ask for it! I'm curious as to who was the first person I killed!" Angrily, Nelanian inquired.

The voice took a long time to respond, and Nelanian became impatient, so he asked again. Finally, the voice responded.

"This is the name of the first person we advised you to kill," said the voice.

"It was Rhaizen Gale!"