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SLW Chapter 59 : Faceless, Forgotten
🕑 Added 2025-04-16 21:59:41 +0000 UTCThe assassin exploded from the cracked stone like a beast reborn flipping backwards midair, landing crouched atop a broken archway.
He darted forward again faster, more aggressive.
This time, his daggers weren’t just blades, they were illusions. Aeron could see them shimmer, duplicating mid-swing, becoming a swarm of ghostly weapons aimed at every vital point.
But Aeron’s eyes glowing with deep violet fire saw everything.
He spun his Silverfangs in his palms lazily. Then
CLANG!
With one fluid movement, he shattered the illusionary blades with a sweep, slashing through the copies and into the real attack, redirecting it.
No One skidded back, panting.
Aeron grinned.
“You thought that would work? Try thinking next time.”
No One vanished again but this time, Aeron didn’t wait.
He flicked his fingers, and a pulse of shadow chains burst from him like a sonar wave, bouncing off every wall, window, and chimney of the alley. From that instant,
A flicker, behind him.
Aeron turned like lightning, elbow crashing into No One’s ribs before he could even raise a dagger. He followed with a knee to the gut and a spinning strike from the hilt of his Silverfang, knocking the assassin off his feet.
“Your god gave you speed, but not enough time to learn how to use it.”
No One landed on all fours, blood dripping from his mouth.
Then he growled. A low, unnatural sound.
His face began to change again, this time shifting rapidly from child, to crone, to nobleman, to merchant, to faces Aeron didn’t recognize. The magic of the Faceless God, unshackled.
But Aeron only smirked.
“You’re not the only one who can wear many faces.”
He stepped forward, his body unraveling for a brief moment into writhing darkness. Aeron activated Bloodlust. his face… wasn’t entirely human. His presence warped the air around him, heat and cold battling for dominance.
No One hesitated.
A split-second. But it was enough.
Aeron blurred. Silverfang slashed.
The right dagger, gone.
Left hand disarmed.
Both wrists, bound by chains of shadow.
And then, like a puppeteer, Aeron yanked No One into the air and spun him midair before slamming him into a nearby wall, twice,three times, until the stone cracked and the assassin collapsed into the dust.
Panting, bloody, barely conscious.
Aeron walked to him, unhurried.
“You Faceless ones…” he said, crouching beside him. “You think death is the end. That wearing no name makes you untouchable.”
No One tried to rise, coughing blood into the stone beneath him. His body trembled, more from realization than pain. This wasn’t a man.
This was an executioner in the shape of a king.
Aeron stood tall, Silverfangs sheathed. He didn’t need blades. Not for this.
“Let me teach you what it means to be forgotten.”
Then he moved.
One hand gripped the Faceless One by the throat, lifting him like a child’s doll, and hurled him into a pillar with bone-shattering force. Wood splintered. The structure cracked.
Before the assassin could hit the ground, Aeron was already there.
A knee slammed into his stomach with the force of a battering ram, bending the assassin in half mid-air. A twist. An elbow to the spine. The crunch echoed across the quiet Braavosi street like a war drum.
The assassin coughed blood again, this time it hit the cobblestones in long, red splashes.
“Weak.” Aeron growled.
He grabbed the man’s collar and slammed him against the ground.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
Each slam created a crater in the stone. The impact quaked through the bones of anyone watching. The cobbled street had turned to rubble beneath them.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he threw the man across the square.
The body hit a wall and bounced off it. Before it could fall again, Aeron was already in front of it.
BOOM.
A spinning kick cracked across the assassin’s face.
CRACK.
A jab to the sternum drove the wind from his lungs, his ribs twisting unnaturally.
WHAM.
A flying knee collided with his chin, snapping his head back with a spray of blood and broken teeth.
The Faceless One was in freefall now—disoriented, broken, half dead. But Aeron wasn’t done. Not even close.
He descended.
Like judgment.
Caught the man mid-air, one hand on his ankle, and spun, full circle slamming him into the ground like a hammer of the gods.
The stone beneath shattered like glass.
The assassin gasped, tried to crawl.
Aeron stepped on his back.
“Still breathing?” he asked coldly, violet eyes burning.
No One didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
Aeron lifted him by the neck once more.
“You kill kings. Poison lords. Whisper in shadows and call it fate.” He clenched his fist. “But me?”
His knuckles cracked. Power surged through his arm, shadow gathering like a stormcloud into his fist.
“It was a mistake to obey your god.”
He punched.
One blow.
ONE.
And it detonated.
No One’s head launched from his shoulders like a stone from a trebuchet, blood and mist trailing in the air as it soared, before vanishing into the harbor waters with a distant splash.
The body hit the ground. Limp. Final.
The shadows receded. The silence returned.
Aeron stood over what remained.
“You didn’t stand a chance,” he whispered.
As the wind whispered through the blood-stained alley of Braavos and the body of the Faceless Apostle lay broken at his feet, Aeron stood still—breathing calm, posture relaxed, as though he hadn’t just ragdolled a servant of death incarnate.
Then it came.
A low, familiar chime echoed in his ears.
[DING]
[You have defeated: No One – Apostle of the Many-Faced God.]
[You have leveled up.]
Item Acquired: Mask of the Forgotten Faces
A writhing mask that shifts forms, showing countless expressions.
Ability: Assume the identity of any humanoid you've slain in the past 24 hours—gaining access to one of their memories or skills.
Before him, the mask appeared, hovering inches above his open palm. It was a terrifying thing. Its surface crawled with countless faces, old, young, male, female, morphing and warping in an endless, silent scream. A grotesque tribute to the many lives it could mimic.
Aeron stared at it, lips curling into a satisfied smirk.
“Now that… looks useful.”
The mask dissolved into black mist and vanished into his inventory.
Another chime echoed this one colder.
[Notification]
Apostles Slain: 3/8.
Aeron’s eyes narrowed. The air around him darkened slightly as his violet glow returned.
“Still five to go…” he muttered, voice low and sharp like a blade drawn in the dark.
He looked toward the Braavosi skyline, the Titan looming in the far distance and felt the tug of fate coil tighter around him.
“Let them come.”
“One by one.”
****
Tyrion and Varys,The two figures crouched behind a half-collapsed wall in a narrow Braavosi alley, wine forgotten, breaths held.
Smoke lingered in the air like a ghost, the scent of burning shadow still fresh from Aeron’s wrath. Somewhere not far from them, the splatter of blood marked where No One had died, violently, gloriously, undeniably.
Tyrion broke the silence first, gripping the edge of a cracked wine goblet with trembling fingers. His face was pale, his voice dazed and dry as the Dornish sands.
“Am I still drunk,” he began slowly, eyes wide and darting between the alley’s broken bricks, “or was that the most glorious yet most terrifying fistfight between two very human-yet not so human looking men I’ve ever witnessed?”
He took a shaky sip. “I mean… he tore his head off. With a punch. That’s not even dramatic that’s just offensive to physics.”
Varys, beside him, blinked once, lips pursed thoughtfully.
“You’re not drunk,” the Spider replied coolly, though even his usual composure seemed cracked. “If anything, you’re finally seeing what the rest of us only feared was true.”
Tyrion made a small noise that might’ve been a laugh. “shadows, terrifying eyes, magic swords, exploding heads… and I thought wildfire was bad.” He looked over at Varys with a raised brow. “You sure we’re on the right side of history here?”
Varys folded his hands, glancing toward the direction Aeron had walked.
“I’m not sure there is a right side anymore,” he murmured. “Only the side that survives long enough to write it.”
Tyrion sighed. “Well, I suppose if we live to tell the tale, I’ll make sure it sounds far more flattering for us.”
He paused. Then: “But for the record, I’m not drinking around him again. I’d rather get drunk with Cersei.”
Varys chuckled softly. “That… would be suicide.”
Tyrion raised his goblet in mock salute. “Yes, but at least Cersei never suplexed an assassin through cobblestone.”
He shuddered. “Gods help us, we’re following a monster.”
Then after a beat, he added, “A sexy, terrifying, unkillable monster. But a monster nonetheless.”
Varys sighed. “For now… let’s just stay useful to him.”
“And very, very far away from his fists.”
