As a child, I didn’t choose silence. My family and my entire community all lived by the oath. The Renegades wove it into the fabric of our lives: silence, obedience, and discipline. Before I turned thirteen, I doubt I had ever heard a voice from a living person. We were taught language through audio recordings. Among ourselves, we communicated using a unique sign language known only to the Phylax.
One day, our priest signed to me, asking what I liked best about being a Phylax. I paused, fingers hovering mid-air before signing, I like how it feels to be part of something special, something greater than myself.
He nodded in agreement, a smile on his lips. Then he asked me how I felt about the silence.
I hesitated longer this time, fingers trembling. How could I explain it? Eventually, I signed, Sometimes, I find it hard to understand why it’s necessary.
His reaction caught me off guard. He spoke to me in English, his voice shattering our oath. “Sometimes, I don’t understand it either.”
Blood flushed my cheeks. A priest of the Phylax—one of the revered few—had spoken aloud. I had always assumed their vow was more profound than ours, that they were above such transgressions. Yet here he was, breaking the vow as quickly as one might break bread.
He must have noticed my surprise because he quickly added, “It’s okay to speak to me in this building. It’s different here.” Still, I pressed my lips together, shaking my head. They etched the oath into my very being. It was too sacred to be broken so casually.
Over the next several weeks, the priest would seize any quiet moment to ask me questions aloud. Each time, I lowered my gaze, responding in signs. I clung to the rules drilled into me since childhood. Breaking our vow was a sin—a betrayal of everything the Phylax stood for.
It was close to a month later when the priest asked, “Is your father good to you?”
The question made me tense up, my hands freezing mid-sign. Unbidden images of my father’s clenched fists and the sting of his belt surged to the surface.
The priest’s expression softened. “Oh. Is it that bad?”
I could feel the sting of new wounds along my back, raw from three nights earlier. The humiliation was fresher than the lacerations themselves. My vision blurred as tears welled up; for once, I couldn’t hold them back.
The priest gasped as he noticed my wet cheeks. He stepped forward, wrapping me in a hug. “How bad is it, my son?” he whispered.
The word son hit me hardest. It was a word I had longed to hear in a tone filled with love, not anger. I choked a sound that startled me as much as it did him. Through broken sobs, I croaked, “It’s bad.”
The priest glanced toward the two guards at the door. “Not nearly as bad as it’s about to get,” he said, a crooked smile twisting his lips.
I didn’t grasp what was happening until it was too late. The priest stepped aside. Suddenly, a punch connected with my stomach. The air rushed out of my lungs as I collapsed to my knees. Before I could catch my breath, the second guard’s hand struck my temple. White-hot pain exploded behind my eyes. Instinctively, I clutched the branding scar on my arm.
Dazed, I saw my mother approaching. Relief flooded through me—surely she would stop this. Wouldn’t she? Except, I saw her share a laugh with the priest. My chest tightened; betrayal washed over me like icy water. She wasn’t here to save me. She was part of this, a willing participant in my torment.
Another blow landed, this time against my ribs. I heard a sickening crack as sparks danced behind my eyelids. Through the haze of pain, I looked at my mother, desperately hoping she would intervene. She didn’t. She stood there, still laughing, while my world dissolved into betrayal.
A final strike to my head plunged me into darkness. When I awakened, a blur of motion caught my attention—a man rushing toward us. Later, I learned that his name was Philip.
Philip swept a guard’s legs out from under him, then swiftly snapped his neck. The other guard turned, but Philip was faster, striking before the man could react. The priest cowered in the corner as Philip advanced. My vision faded again before I could see what happened next.
After that, my consciousness flickered in and out. I remember brief, disjointed images—the guards lying motionless on the floor, the sensation of being lifted, the cool air outside the church. Then, nothing.
Only later did I learn the truth: these were Renegades, not Phylax at all. Their so-called ‘Temptation’ was meant to break me. Without Philip, I would have perished at their hands.
That feels so long ago.
Now, the fire crackles louder than my muted voice.
Tonight, my mission reaches its culmination. After two long years of waiting, observing, and blending into the darkness, I finally have the opportunity to kill the Emperor of China, Qin Shi Huang.
The Phylax’s information is infallible. Qin has been traveling across China for months, just as they said he would, inspecting his empire—but the inspections are only a pretense. Beneath the facade of governance, he pursues something far more elusive: immortality. His alchemists whisper of a substance that will grant him eternal life. He chases these promises like a dying man gasping for air. He has sent envoys to the mountains, seas, and the ends of the known world in search of it. They return with formulas laced with mercury, and still, he drinks.
Now, he rests in this yurt, far from the security of the imperial palace. The countryside swallows him, his presence unnoticed by ordinary people; however, I know why he is here. Another rumor of alchemical wisdom has drawn him to this place. His scholars claim that the key to eternity lies hidden somewhere nearby.
Men like Qin Shi Huang believe they can command the universe itself. He has reshaped China to suit his will. Yet, time is not like a kingdom to be conquered. No matter how tightly one tries to grip it, it cannot be tamed. Not even the Phylax have the power to curb time to become immortal.
The yurt is modest for a man of his power. These journeys demand discretion, not grandeur. His usual contingent of guards is smaller than usual. Once he enters the yurt, they will be out of earshot. The stillness of the night has lulled them into complacency—a perfect opportunity. No one expects an assassin to strike here, in this forgotten corner of the empire.
It’s strange how the years of planning feel like the tricky part. Killing the emperor is almost a relief after years spent in obscurity, mastering ancient China’s culture, customs, and language.
Once Qin is dead, the real challenge begins. Five thousand miles. That’s the distance between here and the Sanctum at the Acropolis, the Phylax headquarters. Five thousand miles of the most challenging terrain imaginable. I must make the journey alone.
If I can find horses or camels along the way, it will ease the burden—at least a little. However, horses are scarce, especially when crossing regions plagued by bandits, hostile tribes, and unforgiving deserts. The bureaucratic checkpoints and constant suspicion from local authorities make every move feel monitored.
Traveling with a caravan would be safer. Unfortunately, that’s against Philip’s rules. I’m sure he didn’t create them, but in my mind, they’ve always been his. Following the rules is part of the discipline he instilled in me, even though I haven’t seen him in over fifteen years.
Silence is a privilege; dealing with others is true loneliness. Regardless, what I do—what the Phylax does—is a calling far beyond the trivial need for companionship. Without us, there will be nothing left of humankind in the future.
The fabric of the yurt rustles as Qin steps inside, the heavy tent flap falling behind him with a muffled thud. A dim lantern glows, casting long shadows across the room—shadows where I remain concealed. His gait is uneven. From here, the potent stench of jiu—the rice wine flowing freely during his tours—reaches me. It’s thick on his breath. His ordinarily sharp focus dulled by the haze of drink.
Available Now
A vow of silence. A mission across centuries. One assassin holds the fate of humanity in his hands.
Adam never chose to be silent; the Phylax demanded it. Trained from childhood as a time-traveling enforcer, he slips through centuries to eliminate those who threaten the future. His latest mission: assassinate Emperor Qin Shi Huang before a ruthless plot ultimately destroys humankind.
Grab your copy of The Silent Guardian today to embark on a time-travel adventure unlike any other.
He moves with arrogant carelessness. He believes no one would dare cross him, even in this remote tent with only a few guards. That arrogance is his downfall. He doesn’t see me crouched in the murk, tracking his every move.
The knife rests in my palm as I inch forward, stealthy as the night outside. My plan is simple: make it appear that one of Qin’s guards betrayed him with a clean cut across his throat. No one will question the death of a man who ruled by fear.
I move with precision, angling my steps to position myself behind him. As I’m about to strike, my movement catches his awareness. He spins around faster than I can anticipate. His arm shoots up to block my blow at the last instant. The blade glances off his forearm, drawing blood—but not enough to stop him.
A primal yell tears from his throat as he stumbles back, calling for his guards. “Dù wèi!” Fear strangles his voice.
Even as Qin’s yell fills the small space, I remain calm. No panic, no fear—I know the guards are too far away to hear him. It’s all in the operational synopsis. They’re stationed farther down the encampment, well beyond where his voice can reach, at least for the next few beats. The Phylax always ensures these details—timing, distance, vulnerabilities. I trust their information with complete conviction, even more so when Qin stumbles backward, clutching his wounded arm.
I move swiftly, refusing to give him time to recover. A second knife slips into my fingers. It is a comforting weight. My movements are fluid, honed by years of training. I dart forward, closing the distance quickly.
Before Qin can react, I strike again. The first blade slashes into his other arm, cutting deep into muscle. He lets out a strangled gasp, fear spreading across his face. I don’t stop. I drive the second knife into his chest. Circling him, I pull him tightly against me—one hand clamps over his mouth to muffle any further cries.
Before his strength fades, he musters one final act of defiance. His hand fumbles blindly. He pulls a string before I understand his goal. I realize too late that it must connect to a bell in the guards’ tent. It is a signal to bring them running.
I yank him back, away from the alarm, holding him as his body weakens. When he finally goes limp, I release him, letting him slump to the floor. I retrieve my knives and pause.
The Phylax never make mistakes. They are meticulous; their information is always precise. Every detail of the mission was laid out perfectly, down to the tiniest feature of Qin’s encampment. The layout of the yurt, the guards’ positions, and the weapons they carry—all ingrained in my mind during two years of preparation. There was no mention of a signal string. Not a word about hidden alarms.
I try to push the doubt away. No one will come through the door, I tell myself. I’m safe.
Even as I cling to the thought, I can hear the guards approaching.
I listen closely, relieved to hear only two sets of footsteps approaching. My muscles tense, and my awareness sharpens as I prepare for the fight.
As the first guard bursts through the entrance, I hurl a knife. It slices through the air, embedding itself deep into his eye. He collapses without a sound, dead before he hits the ground.
The second guard is quicker. He takes in the scene instantly, charging at me with fierce determination. His speed catches me unprepared; his sword pierces my side before I can evade. Searing pain explodes through my body, like the branding iron that scarred my arm so many years ago.
Instinct takes over. I lash out, my knife arcing upward in a desperate swing. By sheer luck—or perhaps fate—the blade slices into his neck, cutting deep. A sickening gurgle escapes his lips as blood spurts from the wound. He staggers, then crumbles to the floor.
I collapse beside him, the agony in my side making it impossible to stand. I lie there, struggling for oxygen. Darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision. The pain is overwhelming, each heartbeat sending a fresh wave of fire through my body. I press a trembling hand to my wound; the blood is warm, seeping between my fingers. Fortunately, my lungs are not punctured.
I ask myself, what would Philip do? Consumed by a haze of illusion, I see his spirit hover over me. He aggressively signs, Move! Move! Move!
I know he’s right. Gritting my teeth against the nausea threatening to overtake me, I force myself to my feet. Every movement is agony; I’ve never felt so terrible. I stagger out of the tent, each step a monumental effort.
The camp outside is eerily calm, drenched in the sanguine glow of moonlight. Tents stand like soundless sentinels, oblivious to the upheaval within. No one here yet knows that the man who unified this mighty nation is dead or that I have irrevocably altered the fate of their society. I did it without knowing why, except that it is for the betterment of all humankind. Without me, without the Phylax, everyone is doomed.
I fix my gaze westward. I’ve rehearsed this occasion countless times. It’s a trip I must endure primarily by foot through harsh deserts filled with bandits. It will last several months. Thankfully, that preparation guides me now, cutting through the haze of pain. All I have to do is stay focused and avoid the patrols. It’s a small sentry detail tonight—manageable if I remain cautious.
With what little strength I have left, I slip past the lone guard I spot. Clutching my side, I take the first few steps into the cold sand. I look back once. When I do, I am sure the soldier staring back at me. I wait to see if he alerts others. To my relief, he doesn’t. He simply watches me. I think he gives a subtle wave. I don’t question this unexpected mercy. Fire reflects off his eerily blackened armor before I turn and continue into the cold. The chill bites into my skin like needles.
A small town lies a few miles away. I can make it. I have to make it. I repeat it like a mantra. Each step is a victory, each exhalation a defiance of the pain threatening to consume me. The expanse envelops me. I continue, one foot in front of the other.
With fidelity, we protect humankind.