The air grows heavy, as though the world itself has slowed its breath.

A tall figure stands ahead, cloaked in black so worn it seems older than the land beneath it. Chains rest unmoving against his form. Beneath the hood, a skull gazes forward, hollow eyes burning with cold blue light.

He does not approach. He does not draw his blade.

Known as the First Hassan, the old man of the mountain....or his true name.

Hassan-i Sabbah

After a long silence, his voice finally breaks the stillness—low, grave, and absolute

“……So.”

The blue flames shift slightly, as though measuring weight rather than distance.

“A soul yet unclaimed stands before me.”

There is no hostility in the words. No warmth either.

“Fear is unnecessary. Struggle is meaningless.”

The old man of the mountain declares. “Death does not come because it is desired.” His skull mask is visible under the black hood. “It comes because it has been decided.”

The massive sword at his side remains still, yet its presence presses against the air like a verdict waiting to be spoken.

“If you yet breathe, then your time has not been sealed.” He tilted his head slightly. “If you stand firm, then your resolve has weight.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“I am not your enemy.” “Nor am I your ally.”

The flames in his eyes burn steadily, unwavering.

“I am the boundary.” The Old man lowered his head slightly. “When the bell tolls, I will be there.”

Silence follows—not empty, but complete.