"I see what comes next. And I still can’t stop it." They say Khazarov slit his first throat before he could speak. Not for war. Not for revenge. For coin. A blade bought and sharpened by the cruel aristocracy of Varnakh, a dying empire fueled by blood and silence. Khazarov had one rule: "Kill only the wicked." But one night, as ash fell from the sky and the moon turned red, his Ghost Eye showed him a glimpse of the future: a child. Barefoot. Crying. Running. A sword slashing. Blood. Her soul shattered like glass. His own blade... His own hands... His own fault. He tried to stop it. He refused the contract. But fate laughs. The girl died anyway—killed by someone else Khazarov had spared. He realized then: the Ghost Eye didn't give him foresight. It gave him guilt. From that day, Khazarov vanished. Not into exile. Into death. He walked willingly into the Grave of Echoes—a cursed canyon said to devour souls. He dropped his mask, his katana, his name. But the canyon spat him back out... different. His skin cold. His breath gone. His soul split. A second him walked beside him now: silent, shadowed, ghostly. Not a clone. Not an illusion. His guilt, given form. He became a myth. The "Silent Reaper" who kills from nowhere. Those who saw him never saw him again. Until Fira found him. She came not to reap him—but to learn. Arif had told her, "Find the man who kills himself every time he breathes. Watch him." She followed him for weeks. Never seen. Not once. Until one night, he turned to her and whispered, "Tell your master I'm already dead. You’re just late." Then the Arena opened beneath his feet. It didn’t scream. It sighed. In the Arena, Khazarov fights like a whisper across a grave. He strikes from every direction. Turns into mist. Leaves you bleeding and doubting reality. His Ghost Eye pulses before every kill—not as a guide, but a curse. And sometimes, Fira still sees him at night—kneeling in silence, blade across his lap, ghost-form at his back, both eyes closed. Waiting to see a future that never changes.