(Nova Imperia, 114 AR)
Rain fell in sheets, washing blood into thin red rivers that traced the cracks of the street.
White armor lay scattered across the outskirts of the city—broken bodies of System soldiers sprawled where they had fallen. The rain struck their plating relentlessly, each drop splashing crimson against the pale surface. Their armor had been designed for bullets, layered and reinforced, but between the plates were narrow gaps. Places a blade could find.
And it had.
The Man stood among them.
He was dressed in full black combat armor, matte and worn, built for silent movement, rain sliding off its surface without reflection.
He had a mask that was smooth and angular, matte black and seamless against the armor. Narrow, dark lenses sat where his eyes should have been, slightly slanted and unreadable. The glass concealed his gaze completely, reflecting only rain and broken light. No markings. No expression. Nothing human remained visible beneath it.
In his right hand, angled downward, he held a katana. The blade was slick with blood, darkened almost to black in the low light.
Against the wall of a half-collapsed building, one soldier still lived.
He was pressed against the concrete, armor cracked, one arm hanging uselessly at his side. His breathing came in sharp, panicked bursts. With trembling hands, he unclasped his helmet and let it fall beside him, gasping as cold rain hit his pale skin.
The Man didn't move.
He watched.
The soldier lifted his head slowly. His eyes met the dark silhouette standing over the bodies of his squad. Fear crept in where pain already lived.
"What… what are you?" the soldier rasped.
His voice was angry, broken by agony. Hurt more by the truth forming in his mind than the wound in his body.
The Man gave no answer.
Instead, he stepped forward.
The katana moved once—clean, controlled, silent.
Steel kissed flesh.
The soldier's throat opened, and his breath died in the rain.
His body slumped to the ground, lifeless.
The Man stood there for a moment longer, staring down at the face now frozen in death. Bald. Pale. Around forty years old. A man who had been born before the worst years of the Global Empire, but young enough that he had grown up under it. Old enough to have built a life inside the System. Possibly a family.
The thought registered.
It meant nothing.
Anyone who chose to become an enforcer of the System deserved death.
Without ceremony, the Man wiped the blade along his forearm, letting the rain finish the work. Blood slid away. The katana disappeared into its sheath with a soft, final sound.
Then he was gone.
No footprints.
No witnesses.
No trace—except the bodies.
This was nothing special.
He had done this countless times over the last year.
In the city above, rumors had begun to spread.
Some civilians whispered that a demon walked the outskirts when the night fell. Others believed these killings were the work of organized rebel groups striking supply routes and patrols. Even among the soldiers of the Global Order, there were stories—quiet ones, shared between shifts.
A vigilante.
A blade.
Dead squads.
Impossible stories.
How could a single man armed with steel slaughter soldiers carrying rifles? How could white armor built to stop bullets fail so completely?
The answer frightened them more than the question.
Because it wasn't a weapon they feared.
It was the silence.
Guns were loud. Guns brought reinforcements, drones, alarms. A katana brought nothing but death—and it arrived without warning.
The Man preferred it that way.
The blade never jammed.
Never ran dry.
Never betrayed him.
And it sent a message.
The rebels used guns. The System was prepared for that. Their armor, their tactics, their doctrine—all built to face bullets. But they were not prepared for a man who closed the distance, who slipped between plates, who killed so close that armor meant nothing.
Fear was the point.
Fear lingered longer than blood.
Beneath Nova Imperia, far from the gleaming towers and propaganda screens, the Man descended into darkness.
The underground was a forgotten world—a network of collapsed transit tunnels, sealed maintenance corridors, and unfinished infrastructure abandoned during the early rebuilding years. The Global Order had deemed it unnecessary to restore. Too expensive. Too inconvenient.
Perfect.
The Man moved through narrow passages lit only by flickering emergency lights long past their expiration date. He passed rusted doors marked with faded warnings, ducked through broken access hatches, and descended deeper until the air grew cold and still.
His shelter lay behind a reinforced maintenance door buried beneath layers of rubble.
Inside, the space was small but deliberate.
A single room carved from concrete and steel. Weapon racks mounted into the wall. Ammunition sealed in containers, organized and cleaned. The katana's spare fittings rested beside sharpening tools worn smooth by use.
A simple cot occupied one corner. No decoration. No comfort beyond necessity.
This place wasn't a home.
It was a den.
He removed his armor piece by piece.
The black plating came away silently, revealing a body built for violence—standing at 6'1, lean, muscular without excess. Strength shaped by necessity. His skin was white, marked with scars—some old, some newer—each one earned.
His face was sharp and clean-shaven, defined by high cheekbones and a strong jaw. A large diagonal scar cut across his left cheek, pale against his skin, impossible to miss. His dark brown eyes held no hesitation as he studied his reflection in a cracked mirror mounted to the wall.
Messy, unkempt hair fell around his face, uneven and neglected. He hadn't bothered to cut it properly in months.
The armor he set aside was tight-fitting and layered, built for stealth and close combat rather than intimidation. Matte black plating protected his chest, shoulders, forearms, and legs, with flexible material between the segments that allowed silent movement. There were no symbols, no ranks, no identifiers—nothing to suggest allegiance or identity. It didn't make him look like a soldier. It made him look like something built for killing.
On the rack, the katana rested as if it were part of him. The blade was long, clean, and worn from use, its edge maintained with obsessive care. The handle was black, simple, and functional—no decoration, no history worth honoring. In his hands, it wasn't a relic or a symbol. It was a tool, chosen for silence, precision, and the fear it left behind.
Next to the katana were the guns.
Two of them—modernized descendants of old-world designs. Compact, suppressed sidearms inspired by the Glock platform, reinforced with polymer-steel hybrids, smart safeties stripped out, built purely for reliability. They rested where his hands could reach them instantly. He carried them on his hips when he moved through the city. Not because he preferred them—but because sometimes distance mattered.
He favored the katana.
But he carried the guns just in case.
His identity didn't matter.
Names had meaning once. Lives had meaning once.
Now there was only function.
He sat on the cot, resting briefly, rainwater still dripping from his hair onto the concrete floor. Above him, the System ruled in light and steel. Below, he remained unseen.
He hadn't chosen this.
The System had shaped him.
Broken him.
Forged him.
And now it feared him.
Somewhere in the city, soldiers whispered about a demon.
They were wrong.
Demons were born.
He had been made.
Don't miss the auxiliary chapter!