The Demon-Born was back in his dorm room, for the first time in days, at that. And instinctively, he threw himself onto his bed and laid still for a moment, only to remember why he went back there in the first place.

'Right. The box.'

A groan echoed in his head as he willed himself to stand, to pull himself away from the comfort of his bed and the warmth of his blankets.

Archibald had mentioned something about a uniform to the Virtues, something to use on their missions instead of their plain and normal clothes. After all, the Virtues often returned from battles dirtied and bloodied, their clothes were torn and ripped apart in some areas. For some (Alexander), it was more often than not.

It always seemed like a good idea, especially when the Demon-Born considered the number of white shirts had been turned crimson. He always hated where that color came from in those circumstances.

Now standing, it didn't take much searching to find what Archibald told him about. A large wooden box sat atop his desk. It was ornate, painted black, and adorned with golden edges. More gold was fixed onto the hinge that allowed the book to open.

He gently unlocked the latch, letting the golden hook fall and clatter against the wooden surface. Alexander grabbed the top and raised it. It fell and let out another rattle against the back of the box.

The first thing inside was a single piece of paper, a single note. 'Designed for The Heavenly Virtue, Diligence: Alexander A. Lane. Courtesy of your favorite Paladin. Thank you.' it read.

Alexander picked it up and smiled.

But under that note... sat his uniform.

It was almost all black, save for a handful of white and golden features riddled evenly throughout the uniform. Met with that sight, Alexander couldn't help but spit out a heavy breath. "Holy shit..." he muttered.

He placed the note down beside the box, leaving Alexander to slide his hands into the cloth, pausing to realize how comforting it was. It was as soft as silk, yet as he traced his fingers against it, he realized it was tough and sturdy. Durable.

His grin widened.

It was only a matter of a few minutes for Alexander to change out of his normal clothes and into his uniform. He left his white undershirt on, of course, but regardless of anything, that uniform was comfortable. Surprisingly so, he determined as the soft cloth rubbed against his skin with each moment.

Alexander sped to his bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror.

The uniform itself was mostly black, both the top and pants, with white accents attaching across his arms wrapped in gold.

Alexander didn't know what cloth it was made of, but he understood what it was supposed to be capable of. No, what it was capable of. The shirt was built of flaps, overlapping at the center, brought together by a line of thick buttons over the first layer. And so, it created a perfect seal of comfort and efficiency.

It was a collared shirt, with stark white running across the ends of that collar and atop the shoulders with golden cloth surrounding each layer of white. A thick pale streak ran down the long sleeves, reaching his white cuff with two golden bands encircling his wrists. That shirt carried down just under his waist, the cloth sitting beneath the black leather belt that held it all together.

The pants were a similar case, nearly all black with two vertical strips of golden cloth interjecting at the sides and a single band of white within.

It was perfect. That was all Alexander thought.

He exited and once again went back to the box. After all, at the bottom, there still sat a pair of black boots.

Again, Alexander smiled. He couldn't help not to. After all, the sneakers he used on his missions and battles were the same he wore every day, to school, to a store, in any case he had to.

While he never had a real problem with such a thing, having specific boots to use... Well, it was sure to be a great help.

Alexander threw on the long socks from within the box, and then forced the boots onto his feet. He slid the pantlegs down into the boots and tied the laces, tightening them around his legs. Right now, all he felt was pure gratitude as he looked back on the one disadvantage of wearing sneakers– the time he rolled his ankle in a fight. It almost resulted in him getting his head cut off.

He smiled at the memory as he finished tying the boots up and putting his feet back on the floor. He reached over for his phone and called Archibald, wanting to learn more about what the suit was made of and capable of.

Without even need for greetings, Archibald picked up with a question. "You like it?"

"Dude, it's incredible." Alexander was still staring at himself, watching his movements as he stepped back and forth in his uniform. "What's it made of?"

The Paladin paused. "I have no idea how it's pronounced, but it's this fiber from Japan. Y'know, how silkworms produce silk? It's the same thing but, it comes from this species of giant spiders."

"How giant?"

"...Well, you'll see them one day." Archibald continued with a smile. "In any case, the material makes it fireproof, shock resistant, impact absorbent, and most importantly, magic resistant. It naturally wards against magic energy and attacks, so it's a bit of extra protection," he said with a laugh.

"But anyway," he spoke into the phone. "You'll go on missions, trust me. Missions that just so happen to involve some of your fellow classmates, who just so happen to have been part of the Heavenly Virtues. That's the compromise I made."

"Missions?" Alexander asked. "You already have those planned out?"

"Of course I do." The Paladin’s smirk remained traced along his lips. "In any case... What happened with Mammon was something to take note of. He destroyed Excalibur and with a black flash, you brought it back. That dark sword should be something to explore," he said, his eyes fixed on the book before him.

A map of one of the Nine Realms sat on its pages. Nidavellir.

"Have you ever met a dwarf?" Archibald asked.

"...Nope."

"Well, you will on Nidavellir. They're the best blacksmiths in the World. And that alone is the reason why I'm sending you there." He paused. "I'll speak with you all later. But for now I have to go."

"Ah. Well, thanks again," Alexander told him. "And good-"

Archibald hung up.

Even with that interjection of the beeping phone line, Alexander's lips began to curl into a smile.

He stared at his phone. Dozens of messages from the others, all in an argument about whether or not to casually wear the uniforms, whether or not to wear them right now, and of course, Lumiel and Leonard ordering everyone to put them on and meet in the hallway.

A hearty sigh left Alexander's lips.

He met the other Virtues in the corridor, all except Anastasia, chatting and smiling. Maybe it was something new, or just something Alexander hadn't noticed before, but they all got together well, almost like family.

It shouldn't have been a surprise, considering all that they had been through together.

Still, for some reason, which Alexander knew was stupid, Gabriel was standing in his plain clothes.

The first words he spoke were to Gabriel. "Why aren't you wearing yours?" he asked, pointing at his own uniform and then at Gabriel's white long-sleeved shirt, plain and empty as always, as if he had a dozen of that shirt.

"Didn't want to," he said. "It's a uniform, anyway, they all look the same."

They all stared at Gabriel. All of them, dressed in different colors of different tones and shades.

A sigh left his lips. "Same design, I mean. Except mine is just white with blue all over the place. And instead of the gold on Alexander's," he told the others, pointing at the Demon-Born. "It has silver."

"Hm," Alexander let out. "What shade of blue?"

"Archibald Blue."

The Virtues once again fell into silence. They traded quiet stares amongst each other as their thoughts drifted into the same question. '...What the fuck is Archibald Blue?'

Lumiel was the one to break the silence. "...That's still a thing?"

"It always has been and always will be." He turned back to the others and explained, "Archibald Blue is just a color created and patented by my grandfather. He's a disgusting man, and I don't know how he just invented a color, but it's actually nice. So it makes sense Uncle Charles decided to use it."

Steady murmurs were muttered out as they began to understand.

Alexander's eyes met Lumiel's, who in turn met him with a smile. She was dressed in almost all white, with only a shining yellow and golden streaks to enunciate her uniform.

His eyes continued to trace over each of them. The colors all matched the person, in their strange way.

Leonard wore a deep crimson interrupted with white, just like Alexander did, while Giovanna's was a leafy green with bright yellow patterned along the sides. Liam's was a simple, dull grey, dressed with golden cloth.

And while she wasn't there, Alexander could guess Anastasia's uniform would be deep, dark blue.

Gabriel continued speaking to Lumiel, who was near scolding him just as she always was. They may have been cousins, but even between their love for each other, they found it hard to accept their contrasting ways of being.

They always meant well, and that's why Alexander never grew tired of their combined antics.

"Well, it's not like we're supposed to use them anyway," Gabriel said.

"We are, it's just that..."

Gabriel scratched the back of his head. "We can't."

And with that, Giovanna let out a groan and slumped over while standing. "That sucks."

Lumiel smiled and ruffled Giovanna's hair. "I don't know why you're complaining; you're always scared, Gio!"

She let out a laugh in response. "Yeah, but still! Fighting monsters isn't that bad!"

Alexander agreed. "Either way, I think the uniform is badass," he said to Gabriel. "So I think I'll find a sword and find a Gateway tomorrow, y'know? To put this to good use."

It was then that Liam interjected. His eyebrows were furrowed, his arms crossed as he spoke: "Alexander, you've been through a lot. Why would you want to go into a Gateway?"

"It's just a way of getting stronger, I guess." He shrugged again. "Plus it's easier to fight an army of giant bugs than a handful of dudes that have the mission to kill you."

"Fair enough." He spat out a sigh and let his arms fall free at his side. Again, the 'former' Virtues returned to their usual chatter. Again, Liam only stared at those he called his friends.

Even after all they had been through, they were all still kids, regular teenagers. A group of friends. Just because they were born with a certain amount of magic energy, a certain amount of talent and skill...

Liam clenched his jaw. None of that meant they had to fight such a war nor enter such battles. As they talked together, smiled together, laughed together, Liam couldn't help but wonder, but think to himself.

Maybe the abandonment of the Virtues, the destruction of the 'order' or whatever the Association labeled it... Maybe it was for the best.

- - - - -

Dermot Douglass was one of the men Xerxes tried to tolerate every day. One of the chosen few of the Hgh Council of the Norteon Union. Still, that hatred from the chairman was more of a generalization.

After all, Douglass did all that he could to make sure he made the right decisions. Each of his actions could ripple into a tidal wave of consequences in the Union. He might have been the only one to understand this among the councilmen.

But in the end, all of the Council's actions, inevitably done to benefit the councilmen themselves, often benefited the Union itself. That was how deep the corruption ran.

And while Xerxes would never come to accept such a system, Douglass did. Because it was at least efficient, he told himself.

That was what he reminded himself as he rode an elevator in the Centro Centum, as he stared into his reflection from the bronze panel before him, shining in the golden light above. He stared into his gleaming green eyes and noticed his whitening hair, with each individual tuft slowly turning from blond to grey. A single curl cascaded down onto his head, a silver lock.

He was getting old, wasn't he?

A sigh left his lips as the elevator dinged and its doors separated. The councilman ran his hand through his hair and pushed his hair back.

And he walked. There was no pace, no spring in his steps. Even as he reminded himself that they summoned him for an 'emergency', he kept himself steady. Slow.

After all, those meetings were never true problems. And so, Douglass would arrive and silence and keep to himself, leaving the others to find a solution to whatever they declared a grave issue.

Of course, there were no real 'emergencies' when it came to the High Council. Any problem can be delegated to lower ranks, the parliaments and congresses and departments of the widespread Norteon Union.

The real problems were what the Council was designed to handle. Emergencies were their specialties.

He reached the door that already sat cracked open and pushed it open to enter the vast room.

It was usually organized, the grand desk sitting at its center and a plethora of armchairs surrounding it. Bookshelves filled with legal codes and articles populated the walls and random tables and assortments of chairs covered the floors.

But now it was different.

All the lights were shut off, leaving him to be met with only darkness. The others of the council were seated, all still and quiet amidst the thick cloud of smoke from their cigarettes and the shroud of the shadows surrounding them.

He could hardly see their faces, only their silhouettes within the darkness. None of that mattered anyway, because they weren't focused on him and his entry, but on something else, someone that Douglass met at the center of the room.

Still, there was some light coming in, only from the setting sun, miles away into the horizon. Blood orange rays of sun settled in, leaving the room to be filled with a crimson glow.

But that light cascaded onto a thin man dressed in black. He was cloaked, his head and face covered with a hood. And within that cloak sat a belt wrapped around his chest, dressed with an array of thin blades.

Those blades and knives and daggers were the only colors on his person. The golden and silver hilts, the pommels and sheaths adorned with jewels and gems.

Douglass paused. He stared at the man but... there was nothing to signify he was human. There was no skin, no eyes, no sounds of breathing nor of the rustling of his clothes. No sign of a face or an appearance. There was no real sign of his existence, save for the fact that he stood before them.

His eyes remained fixed on the black figure. "What the hell is this, Oxford?" Douglass managed to ask aloud.

A voice responded from within the silhouettes surrounding him. "He's a man who can help us."

"Does Xerxes know about this?"

Another voice interjected, another man shrouded under the cover of darkness. His old, gruff voice pierced the cloud of cigar smoke. "Why are you under the impression that boy must know everything about what occurs here?"

A laugh joined in. "Councilman McDoyle, Xerxes isn't a boy anymore."

Douglass was forced to repeat himself. "I asked you what the hell this was."

"Oh, don't make me say it out loud!" Oxford said with a cackle. "As I said, he's the solution to our problems."

"Are you referring to that cursed child?" Douglass clenched his jaw and turned to that man.

He couldn't hear it nor see it, but he understood they were nodding. Each of them, agreeing and moving in silence, just as they always did when it came to matters such as these.

"Sit down," McDoyle spoke. "He'll rid us of that bug."

Douglass headed to the side, to a seat right before the window.

He threw himself down onto the armchair, the crimson sun now behind him.

"And lighten up, will you?" Oxford asked him. He threw a cigar at Douglass, only hoping he could catch it within the cover of darkness.

He managed, swiping it from the air with one hand and placing it in his mouth before he pulled a lighter from his coat. "So..." Douglass asked, speaking through the cigar in his mouth and the clinking of his igniter. The flame never caught on, leaving his motions, as well as its sounds, to be repeated. "Whoever this guy is... I assume he's a hitman?"

A snicker rang out. But from who? Douglass asked himself. His eyes looked up and faced the cloaked man.

It was him.

"Please, kind sir, do not refer to me as such." He raised his head and faced Douglass in return. He spoke through the mask of black cloth that shrouded his face. "I have worked too hard and done too much to be known as a simple hitman. Those are simply inferior versions of me and my practice. I am an assassin, and I would like to be known as such. For that is who I am."

"Ah," Douglass spat out. His lighter let out a click as he tried to ignite a flame but to no avail. "Well, I apologize for that. In any case, assassin, I hope you provide an explanation for-"

McDoyle chuckled and interjected again. "Yes, you must forgive him. He's American, after all. And you know how problematic those people are."

"Says the Irishman," Oxford spat out.

The other councilmen erupted into a roar of laughter, all while Douglass continued to struggle with his lighter and ignite his cigar.

Oxford continued to speak over the wave of chortling and cackling. "You see, Douglass, he's more than a killer. Hassan, here, has been trained since birth to become a special kind of warrior. More than a Grade 1 assassin in general, for that matter. He's the assassin. After all, that's all his family has been doing for over eight hundred years." His lips began to curl into a smirk.

Douglass' eyes remained fixed on that man. "Is this true?"

The assassin's arms finally spread past his cloak. "Yes, it's true." He shrugged and flailed his arms graciously. "I am a direct descendant of Hassan-i Sabbah, the true Assassin."

Another click of the lighter, but still nothing. "Wait... Are you speaking about the Old Man of the Mountain?"

"Correct. His works have been carried throughout our lineage, until finally being bestowed upon me. Through them, there is no one I cannot kill, just as there is no one that can kill me."

The councilman still couldn't see through his mask, he still couldn't see his face. But he understood the assassin was smiling. "Very well," he muttered. Again, he clicked his lighter. This time, the flame finally kindled and lasted long enough to burn against the tip of the cigarette. "So you understand the job you've been given, don't you? Just as you understand why we've given it to you?" he asked, a trail of smoke leaving his lips.

Hassan placed his right hand on his heart, clenching it into a fist, just as his left palm was pressed against his back. That was his salute. "Yes. Of course. It's a simple task."

He kept his left hand behind him and spread his right to the side. He bent over his body to the Council with grace and respect. That was his bow. Again, he spoke. His soft voice rang out as his eyes, fixed on the floorboards, curled with his smile.

"I will kill the devil known as Alexander Lane."