Viktor Kuznetsov knelt on the concrete floor of an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Moscow, the muzzle of a Makarov pistol pressed against his temple, cold as Siberian ice against his already numb skin. The air reeked of machine oil, stale sweat, and cheap cigarettes—scents that transported him back to those endless nights on the Chechen battlefields where death was a constant companion. Before him stood Ivan "The Butcher" Petrov, the Russian mafia boss he had betrayed during a botched covert operation that had cost too many lives, staring at him with eyes filled with decades of accumulated vengeance and carefully nursed hatred. "You thought you could run from us forever, Colonel?" Ivan hissed, his voice rough as sandpaper scraped against rusted steel, each word dripping with malicious satisfaction. Viktor, a former Spetsnaz colonel at forty years old, simply stared straight ahead with the stoic composure of a career soldier, his jaw clenched tight as a steel trap. His mind drifted inevitably to the catastrophic failure in Chechnya—the explosion that obliterated his men in a flash of fire and screaming metal, the agonized screams that haunted his sleepless nights with relentless persistence, and the devastating loss of his family following his disgraceful dismissal from military service. This warehouse represented the bloody, vodka-soaked terminus of a journey that had begun with honor and descended into betrayal and desperation. "Any last words, Kuznetsov?" Ivan asked, his finger caressing the trigger with the practiced ease of a man who had ended many lives. Viktor let out a dry, humorless chuckle that carried no mirth, his voice like grinding dust scattered by winter wind. "Send my regards to hell." The gunshot echoed through the empty space like thunder, and the world plunged into absolute, suffocating darkness.
That darkness should have been the end, the final punctuation mark on a life lived hard and fast, but Viktor felt himself falling—not into the void he expected, but into a strange, ethereal space filled with swirling mists and unnatural flashes of violet light that seemed to pulse with malevolent intelligence. Voices echoed around him in the otherworldly space, distinctly non-human, like breathing metal whispering secrets in a foreign language that was somehow comprehensible to his mind despite its alien nature. "Our commander returns," something said, its voice like wind howling from an endless abyss filled with the screams of the damned. Viktor tried to move, to assert some control over his situation, but his body felt weightless, too light, as if constructed from air and shadow rather than flesh and bone. Panic began to creep in like ice water in his veins, but his military discipline kicked in like a well-trained reflex. Focus, Kuznetsov. Analyze the situation. Gather intelligence. Survive. He attempted to scream, to voice his confusion and rage, but no sound emerged from whatever passed for his throat in this place. Suddenly, blinding violet light engulfed him with the force of a nuclear explosion, and he was sucked into a vortex that felt like ice-cold water freezing in his veins while electricity coursed through his non-corporeal form. His consciousness returned gradually, like surfacing from deep water, but the world around him had fundamentally changed, transformed into something unrecognizable, and he was no longer the man he had been.
Viktor jolted awake with a gasp on a massive bed draped with silk sheets that felt too fine for any place he had ever known, in a room that resembled a royal mausoleum more than any bedroom from his world. The high ceiling was adorned with elaborate frescoes depicting angels and demons locked in eternal combat, their faces twisted with divine fury and infernal rage, illuminated by crystal chandeliers that sparkled like dying stars in the darkness of space. Stone walls were covered with intricate carvings of ancient symbols that seemed to writhe and shift when he wasn't looking directly at them, and the air carried the heavy scent of expensive candles mixed with something metallic and organic—almost like fresh blood mixed with copper pennies. "What the hell is this?" he muttered, his voice barely a whisper, but the sound that emerged wasn't his familiar rasp, roughened by years of cigarettes and cheap vodka and shouting orders on frozen battlefields. It was high-pitched, shrill, like a small child learning to speak for the first time, the voice of innocence that had never known war or loss or betrayal. Viktor stared at his hands in growing horror—small, soft, unmarked by the battle scars and calluses he was accustomed to seeing, hands that had never held a rifle or strangled an enemy or pulled a pin from a grenade. His heart pounded like it had when trapped under enemy fire in Grozny, the rhythm of panic and adrenaline that every soldier knew. He leaped from the bed with unsteady movements, his tiny feet nearly tripping on the thick Persian carpet, and rushed to the large silver mirror in the corner of the room, dreading what he might see but unable to stop himself from looking.
The mirror revealed a young boy, perhaps nine years old, with disheveled silver-black hair that caught the light like spun moonbeams and violet eyes that glowed like neon lights in a darkened city street. His face was innocent, unmarked by the lines of experience and hardship that had defined Viktor's adult features, but there was a strange scar on his right arm—a pattern of circles and intersecting lines that looked like ancient ritual markings burned into pale flesh. "Damn it," Viktor hissed, but the child's voice made him want to punch something, preferably something that would break satisfyingly under his small fists. "I'm nine years old? What kind of cosmic punishment is this?" He slapped his forehead in frustration, but his small hand only produced a weak, pathetic sound that emphasized his helplessness. His mind raced like an overclocked engine, trying to piece together the impossible facts: he was dead, shot through the head in a Moscow warehouse, but somehow alive again, trapped in a child's body in a place that was clearly not anywhere on Earth as he knew it. Nexus Dimensional, whispered something in his head, a name that was foreign and strange but somehow felt correct, like a password spoken in a language he had never learned but understood instinctively. Was this hell? Some kind of cosmic joke designed to humiliate him even in death? Or something else entirely, something worse than simple damnation?
Viktor tried to calm himself, drawing on his Spetsnaz training like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man: Unknown situation, stay calm, gather intelligence, assess threats, plan accordingly. He scanned the room with a soldier's eye for detail: a large window with a view of an old city—Gothic towers and stone bridges visible in the distance, looking like something from medieval Prague or Vienna. A desk in the corner was piled high with thick books covered in strange writing, some bound in leather that looked hundreds of years old and smelled of age and secrets. There was a short sword mounted on the wall, but it was too high for him to reach with this ridiculously small body that felt like a prison of flesh and bone. "Alright, Kuznetsov," he muttered to himself, trying to inject some of his old confidence into the childish voice, "we start from zero. Again." He tried to take a step, but his tiny legs made him feel like a circus performer in the wrong costume, stumbling through a show he had never rehearsed. Suddenly, the air in the room hardened, becoming thick and oppressive like the pressure before a thunderstorm, and from the shadows in the corner, three figures materialized, their black robes floating like smoke given form and malevolent purpose.
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"Little Master," said the figure in the center, its voice hoarse and deep, like speaking from the bottom of a well filled with centuries of accumulated darkness. Their red eyes glowed beneath their hoods like coals in a banked fire, and they bowed with a respect that was rigid and formal, the kind of deference shown to absolute authority. Viktor stared at them, his mouth hanging open in shock before anger took over like a flood breaking through a dam. "Who are you? And don't call me 'Little Master'!" he snapped, but his child's voice made the words sound like the petulant whining of a spoiled child rather than the commanding bark of a veteran officer. The figure, apparently their leader, stepped forward with movements that seemed to flow like liquid shadow, its robe moving like smoke in a windless room. "We are the Black Cloaks, your shadow army, bound by ancient void pacts that predate recorded history. We serve you, Lysander Blackthorne." Viktor blinked, his brain grinding like gears without oil as he processed that name. Lysander Blackthorne? Who was that? His mind drifted back to the whisper of "Nexus Dimensional" he had heard while falling into this world. The name felt like a key, but a key to what door, what mystery, what terrible purpose?
He began pacing back and forth, his small feet making soft sounds on the carpet, trying to ignore the absurdity of the situation while his military mind worked to process the intelligence he was gathering. "So, you're my army?" he asked, his voice thick with skepticism earned through years of broken promises and betrayed alliances. "And I, a nine-year-old child, am your commander?" The Black Cloaks bowed again, but Viktor swore he could see a hint of confusion in their glowing red eyes, as if they too were puzzled by this turn of events. "We sense an ancient soul within you, Master," said their leader, whom Viktor mentally dubbed "Number One" for lack of a better designation. "A soul that has seen war and blood, death and betrayal." Viktor froze, his small body going rigid with shock. They knew about Chechnya? About Spetsnaz? About the things he had done in service to Mother Russia? His mind raced, trying to determine whether this was some kind of elaborate trap or the truth spoken by beings that existed beyond normal human understanding. He had once commanded elite forces, soldiers who would die at his word, but now he was trapped in a body that couldn't reach a door handle without assistance, let alone lead men into battle. "Fine," he said, trying to sound authoritative despite the childish timbre of his voice. "If you're my army, give me a report. Where am I? What am I facing? What are the threats and opportunities in this situation?"
Number One tilted its head, as if confused by such direct questions from what appeared to be a child. "You are in Prague, Master. The Blackthorne family estate, home to the oldest practitioners of the magical arts in this ancient city. You are cursed by Void Corruption, bound to dark powers that cannot be controlled by conventional means." Viktor snorted, a sound that would have been intimidating in his adult body but was merely amusing in his current form. "Curses? Dark powers? This sounds like nonsense from a cheap fantasy movie." The Black Cloaks didn't respond, simply standing in rigid military formation that reminded him of his own soldiers awaiting orders. Viktor wanted to curse more creatively, but the bedroom door creaked open with the sound of old hinges, and an elderly servant with a face like a wax mask entered the room with measured steps. "Young Master Lysander," he said, his voice flat and emotionless as a computer's, "the family ceremony is about to begin. Lord Alistair is waiting." Viktor stared at the servant, his Spetsnaz instincts immediately detecting something wrong, some subtle threat hidden beneath the facade of domestic normalcy. A ceremony? After I died and came back to life? This isn't an invitation, it's an interrogation disguised as a family gathering.
He nodded, trying to appear compliant while his mind worked on contingency plans and escape routes, the habits of a lifetime of dangerous operations asserting themselves despite his reduced circumstances. The Black Cloaks dissolved into the shadows like smoke dissipating in wind, but Viktor knew they were following, invisible guardians waiting for orders like the backup forces he had always kept in reserve during his military career. He stepped out of the room, his small feet making soft sounds on the stone floor of the corridor, his mind spinning with tactical considerations: If this is a new battlefield, I need to learn the rules. And fast. The corridor was lined with portraits of stern ancestors whose painted eyes seemed to follow his movement with accusatory stares, and torches on the walls cast an unnatural green light that made everything look like it was underwater or seen through night-vision goggles. Viktor felt like a prisoner being escorted to trial, not a child returning to his family, and every instinct honed by years of combat and survival screamed that he was walking into a trap. At the end of the corridor, a massive door of black wood waited like the entrance to a tomb, and low voices from within made the hair on the back of his neck stand up—if this body had such hair to stand.
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The Blackthorne family dining room was an absurd spectacle to Viktor's experienced eye, like stepping into a period drama directed by someone with a serious mental disorder and unlimited budget for theatrical props. A long table of polished ebony dominated the space, surrounded by a dozen people dressed like nobility from another century, even though Viktor was certain this was still the year 2025 based on subtle details he noticed in their clothing and accessories. Silver plates were filled with food that looked too perfect to be natural—raw red meat that seemed to glisten with its own internal light, wine that had a suspicious dark color and metallic sheen, and bread that smelled like magic itself had been baked into the dough. At the head of the table sat a man with a face hard as granite, his gray hair combed with military precision, and blue eyes cold as Siberian ice in the depths of winter. That must be Lord Alistair Blackthorne, Viktor thought, assessing the man like a potential target in a covert operation: authoritarian, dangerous, and definitely hiding secrets that could get people killed. Beside him, a woman in a blood-red dress commanded Viktor's immediate attention with the kind of presence that spoke of power and danger. Her long black hair cascaded like a waterfall of midnight, her eyes glowed like embers in a dying fire, and her smile was like a blade hidden behind silk and false courtesy. "Countess Seraphina Vespera," Alistair said, his voice cold and formal as a military briefing. "Our guest." Viktor stared at the woman, his Spetsnaz instincts screaming warnings: Vampire. Don't trust that smile. She's a predator wearing human skin.
Seraphina looked at Viktor with the calculating gaze of a hawk studying potential prey, her eyes taking in every detail of his small form with an intensity that made his skin crawl. "An interesting child," she said, her voice soft but loaded with meanings that Viktor couldn't quite decipher, layered with implications that spoke of knowledge and power beyond normal human understanding. Viktor wanted to respond with a cutting remark that would establish his credentials as someone not to be underestimated, but his child's voice would ruin any attempt at intimidation or authority. He chose silence instead, sitting in a chair that was far too large for his diminutive body, his small legs dangling in the air like a child's legs always did, making him feel ridiculous and powerless. Damn it, I need a ladder just to live in this world, he thought, feeling Seraphina's amused gaze taking in his predicament with obvious entertainment. Alistair began the conversation, his voice cutting through the air like a sword through silk. "Tonight, we test Lysander," he said, his eyes locked on Viktor with the intensity of a sniper's scope. "His curse has awakened powers that no child his age should possess. We must determine whether he can be controlled." Viktor tensed, his small hands gripping the silver fork too tightly, his knuckles white with strain. Controlled? I'm not some pet dog to be trained and leashed.
The conversation around the table was full of codes and subtle signals, like an intelligence briefing disguised as casual family chatter, the kind of careful wordplay that Viktor recognized from his years in military intelligence and covert operations. Viktor noted details with professional thoroughness: an elderly woman in a black hood who watched him like an owl studying a mouse, a fat man with rings bearing skull symbols who kept glancing at him nervously, and Seraphina, who continued sipping from her glass—possibly wine, possibly blood, definitely something that normal people didn't drink. He heard words like "Nexus Points" and "European Supernatural Council," terms that made his military mind work overtime: Secret society. Supernatural politics. This is like the Kremlin, but with magic instead of nuclear weapons. The Black Cloaks, invisible to everyone else in the room, moved through the shadows like ghosts, and Viktor could sense their alertness, their readiness for combat. Viktor caught their subtle signals, his eyes narrowing as he processed the tactical information they were providing. Something is very wrong here. The undercurrents of tension and fear were palpable, like the moments before a battle when everyone knows violence is coming but nobody wants to be the first to acknowledge it. Alistair suddenly stood, ending the meal with abrupt finality. "Lysander, come with me to the basement," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for refusal or negotiation. Viktor climbed down from his chair, feeling like a performer in this supernatural circus, his mind full of questions that had no answers and growing certainty that his new life was about to become very complicated very quickly.
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The corridor leading to the Blackthorne family basement felt like a tunnel leading to an execution, the kind of place where people went in but didn't come out, at least not in the same condition they entered. Viktor, followed by Alistair and two guards who looked more like executioners than household staff, tried to maintain steady steps despite his small legs trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation. The Black Cloaks stalked through the shadows, invisible but always present, like reserve forces waiting for orders to engage the enemy. The air grew colder as they descended, carrying the smell of damp earth mixed with something darker—blood, perhaps, or the metallic scent of old magic and ancient rituals. This isn't the first time I've entered an enemy stronghold, Viktor thought, but Lysander's body made him feel naked and defenseless, stripped of weapons and the physical presence that had once made men fear him. Alistair stopped before a massive iron door, carved with runes that glowed with faint, sickly light like radium on old watch faces. "This is where we test your curse, Lysander," he said, his voice full of authority but with an underlying tension that suggested even he wasn't entirely certain about what they were about to unleash. Viktor stared at him, trying to read the man's true intentions. He's afraid. But afraid of what? Me? Or something bigger and more dangerous than a nine-year-old boy with strange powers?
The basement was vast, like an ancient temple forgotten by time and human memory, its ceiling lost in shadows that seemed to move with their own malevolent purpose. A circle of runes on the floor, drawn with what Viktor was certain was dried blood based on the color and texture, radiated energy that made his skin crawl with supernatural electricity. Torches on the walls cast purple light that made everything look like it existed in some other dimension, and in the center of the room stood a stone table with a silver dagger that looked far too sharp for anything benevolent or ceremonial. Seraphina was already there, leaning against the wall with casual elegance, her red dress a stark contrast to the grim atmosphere like a splash of blood on fresh snow. "Cool, isn't it?" she said, smiling at Viktor with genuine amusement at his obvious discomfort. "Like theater, but with real stakes and actual consequences." Viktor wanted to reply, I've gambled with my life on real battlefields, lady, but his voice would ruin any attempt at intimidation or respect. He simply stared at her, hoping that Lysander's violet eyes were unsettling enough to convey his message: Don't play games with me. I'm more dangerous than I look.
Alistair began the ritual, chanting words in an ancient language that made the air vibrate with power and caused reality itself to seem unstable, like standing too close to a high-voltage electrical transformer. Viktor felt something stirring within him—dark energy, like an electrical current that was too strong for the wiring to handle safely. His small body trembled with the strain, his hands grasping at empty air as if searching for something solid to anchor himself to reality. This is like defusing a bomb without a manual, he thought, trying to focus the way he had during high-risk missions when one wrong move would kill everyone in the blast radius. Suddenly, a small portal opened in the center of the runic circle, releasing black smoke and a metallic aroma that burned his nostrils like acid. Three Black Cloaks emerged, their void swords gleaming with otherworldly light, their red eyes blazing like stars in the darkness. Alistair stepped back, his face pale with shock and something that might have been fear. "Impossible," he hissed. "He's too young to summon a legion of shadow warriors." Seraphina stepped forward, her eyes widening with what looked like excitement mixed with genuine surprise. "Oh, Lysander," she said, her voice carrying notes of admiration and anticipation, "you are full of surprises, aren't you?"
But before Viktor could feel any sense of victory or accomplishment, the portal began shaking violently, like a machine pushed far beyond its design limits and threatening to explode catastrophically. Black smoke billowed upward in thick clouds, and a terrifying roar echoed from within—not the controlled sounds of the Black Cloaks, but something far darker and more primitive, something that spoke of chaos and destruction rather than disciplined military force. Viktor felt the Void energy in his body spinning out of control, like a grenade with the pin pulled and the spoon released, counting down to inevitable detonation. His small body began to weaken, his vision blurring as the power drained from him like water from a broken tank, and the Black Cloaks moved to protect him, their swords drawn and ready for battle against whatever was coming through that portal. Alistair shouted, "Close the portal, Lysander!" but his voice was drowned out by the roaring that grew louder and more menacing with each passing second. Seraphina stared at Viktor, her smile now mixed with wariness and what might have been actual concern. "What have you brought into this world, little one?" she said, her voice barely audible above the chaos that filled the chamber like a living thing. Viktor fell to his knees, the Void energy draining his strength like a vampire feeding on his life force, and as his vision began to fade, he saw a terrifying shadow beginning to emerge from the portal—something that was definitely not a Black Cloak, something that made even Seraphina step back with fear written clearly across her usually composed features, something that turned the ritual from a test of power into a fight for survival.