The Faceless Men

Braavos was shrouded in thick grey fog before dawn, the sound of the canals muffled.

Their destination was a structure even in Braavos, steeped in taboo and legend—the Hall of Black and White.

It wasn't the magnificent appearance a temple should have, but more like a vast, ancient, forgotten tomb. The building was low and solid, constructed from a dull, lusterless stone that seemed to absorb all light and sound from its surroundings. There were no ornate carvings, no stained glass, only the deep marks left by the erosion of time and a slick, seemingly eternal layer of dampness.

It didn't seem to be begging for divine favor, but rather silently proclaiming a cold truth: the end of all things leads here.

A massive door, inlaid with ebony and yew, stood ajar, revealing a deeper darkness within. It exuded a scent mixed with old dust, a peculiar incense, and... a faint, cloyingly sweet aroma of decay.

This smell wasn't like the stench of corpses, yet it evoked a deeper, more primal resistance from within life itself.

Yulon stepped inside without hesitation, Lysa and Daggmo following closely behind.

The light within was exceptionally dim, illuminated only by a few scattered oil lamps in niches along the walls. The flames were still, like frozen tears.

The air suddenly turned cold and stagnant, as if time itself had slowed its pace here. Huge stone pillars supported a towering dome hidden in darkness, the space vast beyond imagination.

The first thing felt was the silence. A heavy silence that swallowed everything, making one's own heartbeat and breath sound jarringly loud. It felt as if countless eyes were gazing from the darkness, yet no sound betrayed the watchers.

Next came the layout. This place resembled an exhibition hall more than a place of worship.

Along the walls, in the depths of the shadows, stood countless statues—not of the Many-Faced God himself, but effigies of death gods from different faiths across the world. There were unfamiliar deities wearing hoods and carrying scythes, kindly old women cradling skulls, and ferocious beast-like forms... They represented different concepts of death, yet here they coexisted in an eerie harmony, all speaking of the same end: All mortals have one death.

The floor was smooth as a mirror, paved with black and white stones in a complex spiral pattern that stretched towards a seemingly bottomless pool in the distance. Deeper shadows veiled the pool, and the silhouette of a colossal stone statue could be vaguely discerned. This might have been the true form of the Many-Faced God, but its specific shape was indistinct, as if constantly shifting.

Yulon felt the dark energy pervading the air, almost congealing into substance, writhing slowly like living things, converging towards the depths of the temple.

Daggmo felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. There was no obvious threat here, yet every corner exuded a deathly aura sharper than any blade, making the old pirate's throat feel dry.

Yulon stood quietly, his mismatched eyes slowly sweeping across the bizarre hall. He felt no fear, only a cold excitement coursing through his veins. Here, there were no false prayers, no hollow comforts, only the most naked, most honest worship and utilization of death.

Death was not the end, but a power that could be traded, that could be exploited.

A figure detached itself from the deepest darkness, appearing silently before Yulon. His (or her) appearance was utterly unremarkable, clad in a simple grey robe, the kind of face that would vanish instantly in a crowd. Only the eyes were ancient, calm, like two bottomless ancient wells, reflecting no emotion, only a pure indifference to the ultimate fate of all things.

"All mortals must serve," the newcomer spoke, their voice gender-neutral, their tone flat, without inflection, as if stating a truth as common as sunrise and sunset, spoken in High Valyrian.

"All mortals have one death," Yulon replied with a smile, also in High Valyrian.

The figure asked faintly, "What do you seek?"

Yulon's mismatched pupils contracted slightly. The way the other party had appeared had nearly triggered his [Dual Wield] instincts, but he suppressed it.

Facing the Faceless Man's question, Yulon cut straight to the chase, his voice exceptionally clear in the dead silence. "If I wish for someone to not see tomorrow's sun, and hope your Hall... can provide this service. How is it done?"

"The Many-Faced God accepts sacrifices, but even more so, equivalent exchanges," the Faceless Man replied, their gaze sweeping over Yulon's opulent attire, yet seeming to look right through it. "The price is not always gold. It could be a mission impossible to complete, a rare memory, a part of your body, or your most cherished possession. The price must be commensurate with the target... The life of a beggar and the life of a king naturally have different values. State your target, and we will tell you the price."

"A very interesting way of doing business," a cold curve touched Yulon's lips. "Then, what about the reverse? What if someone offers your name and gold to you?"

"If the Many-Faced God accepts the sacrifice, then the contract is established," the Faceless Man's reply was without hesitation, chillingly despairing. "Whether you are in your castle in the Iron Islands or under the shadows of Asshai, no matter how many guards you have or how much magic you wield. All mortals have one death, and we merely... deliver that gift. Of course," they added, their tone still flat, "you can also pay a higher price to buy back that contract. But that price will far exceed the amount your enemy paid."

Yulon fell silent for a moment, feeling the faint presence of the [Stand-in Scarecrow] in his embrace, which gave him a sliver of confidence when facing this absolute declaration of death. He asked the last question, the one he most wanted to know: "Then, myself? Can I learn this... art of delivering gifts?"

The Faceless Man showed the slightest reaction for the first time. It wasn't a change in expression, but the surrounding shadows seemed to ripple. Those ancient, well-like eyes, for the first time, truly and carefully scrutinized Yulon, as if trying to see every fold of his soul.

"Many come here, seeking to become one of us," a subtle hint of something akin to pity seemed to enter the Faceless Man's voice.

"But first, you must abandon. Abandon your name, your identity, your desires, all your loves and hates, everything that makes you 'Yulon Greyjoy'. You must truly 'become the Nameless One', become an absolutely blank vessel in the hands of the Many-Faced God, waiting to be filled. Can you... do it?" Their gaze seemed to pierce through Yulon's eyes, looking directly at the ambition, greed, and ultimate craving for power burning within. "You are not seeking annihilation, you are seeking to control the world in another way. This is contrary to our path."

These words were like ice water, extinguishing any possibility of a shortcut.

The Faceless Man was not an organization to join; it was utter devotion and self-annihilation.

Yulon understood. They were not sellswords, they were fanatics; death was not a business, it was faith. Their power stemmed from absolute "nothingness," not the extreme "existence" he pursued.