Biting his tongue, a Japanese-Italian man barely scraping the six foot mark snapped shut a leather bound tome marked with a sigil of the god which only he had the privilege of knowing. With an ink quill his constant companion, he turned on his heel and slowly paced away with long, lanky legs. His hair was short, black, and ragged, and his eyes a surprisingly soft and innocent chocolate brown. His lips gave away his illusion of innocence, graced with a cruel and sharp grin befitting that of a lunatic. The bustling crowds of Tokyo gave way to his lithe form, as if pushed aside by an unknown hand, a hand which parted the cull and encouraged the master to freely walk among his prey. As he merrily passed saint and sinners, those who hid their faces and those who laughed aloud in the world that they belonged to, he quietly paged the book open again, unclipping his pen from his breast pocket where it had once been and then marking down symbols to identify each person on the page. A long black trenchcoat, flapping in the polluted air hid the silver barrel of a Glock and the disassembled iron pieces of a large greatsword, jangling noisily at his hip and unnoticed over the din of prattling merchants, cursing gamblers, and the twin cries of excitement and surprise from children.

Taking in these sights with his smile, he tipped his head, looking towards the clear sky. Soon, it would become dark, to proclaim his deed, the blood which laid heavily on his hands and which had been his life. There was something in the art of death, of purification that was intimate and curious the action of ending a life which you knew would inevitably lead to sin. Death that would have come either way the victim acted. An untimely death at that.

Yet, for all his knowledge, he was always just a step behind, his true quarry always just out of reach. This was his purpose for the pocketbook; a hitlist if you must. He kept track of those that he had caught, and those that his previous victims knew to be connected to themselves. Slowly but surely, he was making traction, he was making good on the purpose that the Rest had attempted to make good upon, the elusive heritage that had been helped my Them for far too long. No longer, for he was the new iteration, the new face. Who knew, perhaps there would be more to come after him, and if so, he had made their jobs much simpler, lessening the targets and the potential victims.

The words, scribbled almost intelligibly in his own messy scrawl, still read neatly for him, a family of similar names which he had known existed for thousands of years, in this world and in the one before, a family which They and the Rest had pursued for each and every one of their lives, and the family that supposedly He had been responsible for. That He had been the genesis of.  He often claimed that the Rest were errors, the mistakes that had been exposed in the pursuit of closure, but in Light's mind, they had been made so that another ending could be fulfilled. They had been made to succeed where the Others had failed. No matter their methods, perhaps it was correct to say that the Rest were in fact more perfect for the dirty tasks. Why guide a wayward herd when you can eliminate it from the equation completely.

Finally pulling away from the crowd, Light found his place under a lamppost, finally composing himself enough to read from the words that he had written over the course of his twenty years.

December 13, 1953,
I found the ones that WWII could not kill. They immigrated to Japan to assist Nagasaki's and Hiroshima's rebuilding. It did not take much time to track them down. A family of thirteen that decided to come together and assist; Parents, children, grandchildren, and even the soldiers who had initially returned triumphant from their service in Italy. How they all managed to pay the fee for coming here may have been a gift from Him, but I care not. I only care for the ex-soldiers. They are the ones that the Previous attempted to preserve, sacrificing his life to do so. Foolish.

February 03, 1963,
They did not stay together, much to my chagrin, and evidently the soldier brothers departed and made their separate paths. However, I did manage to find their cousins at the Japanese school here in Nagoya after nine years of searching. I managed to make my escape just as the police came to investigate the school shooting. Two victims, and only two were reported; a Vivache and Romana Agosti. Both children of about nine and eleven. No witnesses, and those close reported that they only saw a man who bore a book and a gun. I pride myself on this.

February 24, 1963,
Mark this date, the elimination of Roberto and Vannessia Agosti, a daughter of the lineage and her husband. I have found some notes in their desk on the whereabouts of their parents, but unfortunately Vannessia had broken contact with her brothers after their union. Some familial spat, I have no doubts. Perhaps this marks the beginning of the twin Enlightenment? I must move quickly.

May 30, 1963,
Where are those godforsaken twins?! I have now travelled to Kobe, Sapporo, Nara, and have now found myself in Kyoto where I have found the grandfather of the twins. I need not find any members in the tree further back than this, for they carry not the Power for which I search most earnestly. I have found markings of the alluded whereabouts of the twins and the rest of their family. I cannot risk rest, lest I slip up once again. I cannot get messy, lest the law finds and questions me. This whole debacle is quite aggravating.

March 07, 1973,

The lineage is nearly at its end. I have hunted down no less than ten of its twelve members. I need only find the brothers, and the children they must inevitably possess, and my time will have been completed. I only make my way in haste now, located currently in Tokyo, the heart of Japan, now thriving and incredibly beautiful this time of year, the cherry blossoms prepared to open. Quickly now, quickly, lest I fade away with the Rest before my task is through.

Light was disturbed by a strong hand clasping his shoulder, a familiar visage of a Japanese law-enforcer, and officer, and surrounding them the rest of the patrol. Even before they carted him off Light knew that this was the time to depart. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Raven lingering closer and closer, the silver eyes of the bird watching him flatly and without seeming to see him. He had known, hadn't He? That cursed creator and the source of this, the mission that they all possessed, their agendas, twisted and unique in their own degrees.

Let death come, then. Let his successor take the next step, the steps which had been almost too perfectly achieved. Let his successor find the correct inheritors and make quick work of this faltering lineage, a parentage so close to crumbling that it stood now upon its last legs."Sir, you are charged with the multiple assassins in the form of a familial genocide. You are to be sentenced to the electric chair. We have enough proof to incarcerate you in front of the judge, even without this written testament and the weapons which you bear." Of course, what was being mentioned were the silver Glock and the black bound book which Light had been writing in. Indeed, though he had been caught red-handed, he couldn't help but smile.

"Yes. Congratulations, officer. Would you like a bone for your ingenious deductions?"

"Can it. Take him away, fellows!"

Led through the sheepfold, the wolf went grinningly away, as the Raven with silken wings watched from the balconies, his silver scythe hanging overhead as a crescent moon, dripping silver mercury as glowing eye sockets tracked the movements of the iteration fallen. Yet another soldier in a war beyond that which the world could comprehend. There would be only a few more chances for Him. Only a few more chances to perfect the destiny and fulfil what had to be done, for evil or for good, for the rebirth or destruction of the world that He had come to both hate with the fires of Hell and love with the grace of God.

For The Writer, his tale was over, his legacy eternal, even if the world would come to forget him... and the family which had eluded him for the span of twenty years. Inked words bled through pages, staining white parchment, and the Raven flew away on silent wings, searching anew.