INT. Small Living Room | Night
The dim glow of an old television flickers across the room. A dusty fan hums faintly in the background.
Babu, an older man with weary eyes and a face lined by years of quiet pain, sits alone on a worn-out couch. His eyes are locked on the screen, unmoving.
That night, the television blared in the background, the screen flashing with grim images.
A news broadcast showed footage of a burnt village—charred huts reduced to ash, bodies scattered across the dirt. Thick smoke twisted upward, disappearing into a sky that looked as hollow and hopeless as the ground below.
The reporter's voice was steady, but the weight of the scene made every word feel heavier.
Anchor (Voice Over):
"The radical cult known as The Purists continues to spread across Africa, Europe, and parts of Asia. Reports are increasing of the group who believes some Awaken are angels of apocalypse… and have begun sacrificing civilians to prove their devotion.
They believe Kings are divine beings and that Mindless victims are sacred vessels meant to be offered."
Babu watched the screen in silence, his expression unreadable. The reflection of the burning village danced in his eyes, tiny flickers of flame captured in his gaze, though his face remained still—grim and distant.
INT. Grand Palais – Night – Live Broadcast
Floodlights beam across a large hall filled with political leaders, soldiers, scientists, and journalists. Flags from multiple nations hang above a grand stage. Military drones hover quietly near the ceiling. Cameras from over 50 global news networks are live.
The President of the European Union steps up to the podium, formal suit, flanked by security. The crowd settles into silence.
President (into microphone, formally):"Today we acknowledge a truth the world can no longer ignore. That the rise of the Mindless was only the beginning. And that among us now, walk beings far beyond our understanding. Some have chosen to stay hidden. Some have not."
The room stirs. Whispers echo. The President glances down at the speech, then directly at the cameras.
President:"It is my duty to officially announce the existence of a Crowned Awakened, classified Level Unknown. An individual whose power exceeds the current scale of measurement. Codename: 'Cloaked King.'"
The crowd falls into silence as the doors open—and he enters.
He wears a long black cloak, dragging slightly against the marble floor. His face hidden beneath a hood. He moves without sound. Without hesitation.
The very air seems to sink around him. He walks with slow, surgical precision toward the podium. A white crown-mark pulses softly on his neck.
Not once does he look at the cameras.
[SFX: Camera shutters snapping nonstop.]
Reporter 1 (whispering):"That's him. The one who vaporized the Mindless in Berlin."
He reaches the podium. Pauses. He speaks. Calm. Measured. His voice deep and cold.
Cloaked King:"I did not come here for applause. I came because the world deserves to know… what walks among it now."
A moment of silence.
Then he slowly lifts his head. His face is revealed, unreadable—eyes like obsidian stone, radiating power.
Gasps ripple across the room.
Cloaked King (continues):"I am not the only one. There are others like me… Some crowned. Some only pretending. But let me be clear: I did not choose this title. The world gave it to me… out of fear."
The room is dead silent.
Cloaked King (glancing at the crowd):"Nations will race to align themselves with crowned blood. Power always attracts the desperate. But this is not about alliances. This is about survival. And I intend to survive."
One reporter dares to step forward.
Reporter (nervously):"Sir. What... should the world call you?"
The Cloaked King turns his head slowly toward her. His eyes narrow. His smile brief and dangerous.
Cloaked King:"Graves. You may call me Graves."
His presence sends a chill across the room. Reporters instinctively step back. No one laughs. No one breathes.
He walks off the stage. The guards follow. Even they seem nervous.
As he approaches his car outside—a sleek black vehicle with no plates—cameras flash nonstop.
Reporter 2 (shouting):"Mr. Graves! Is it true that other Awaken are forming coalitions? Will Europe use you as a weapon?"
Graves stops.
He turns, gives a slow, piercing glare to the crowd—eyes glowing faintly.
Graves (calm, mocking):"Let them try."
Then he gets into the car. Doors close. The vehicle pulls off in silence.
INT. Remote Mountain Base – Unknown Location – Night
A large TV screen plays Graves' exit on a delay. A light-skinned man seated in shadow lifts the remote and turns the screen off without expression.
He rises slowly. His aura is thick. The cold concrete floor beneath his feet releases a subtle groan as he rises. A deep, almost inaudible sound that echoes through the building.
The camera doesn't show his face clearly—only the white mark of a crown glowing at the base of his neck and his reflection faintly visible on the dark glass.
He moves toward the floor-to-ceiling windows of the skyscraper, the city lights blinking like stars beneath him.
The moment his fingers touch the cold glass, the heavens erupt—lightning tears across the sky in perfect synchronization with his pulse, answering his silent call.
Unknown Man (cold, quietly):"I have to admit, Graves… I actually mourned you for a while. You should have stayed dead and spared me the embarrassment."