A suffocating silence gripped the obsidian council chamber.
Wide-eyed, the members gazed at the screen—watching not merely in disbelief, but in sheer horror. None of them spoke. None of them blinked.
On the video streamed from Phantom's now-shattered lens feed, the unthinkable happened.
First, the man's legs jerked.
A nauseating creak sounded as bones realigned themselves. Sinew flashed over muscle, closing gashed flesh like rewinding time itself. His boots, bent and bloody, straightened as he stood—one agonizing inch at a time.
Then his left hand. The stump jerked. Fingers pushed from the shattered socket like worms crawling out of earth, bone pushing from marrow, until a full arm clicked into position.
From the ground, his own severed head smiled back at him.
He stooped low—grabbing the decapitated portion as if it were nothing more than a misplaced disguise.
Shunk.
With a ghoulish hiss of tissue and blood, the head joined back on. Veins began to pulse. Eyelids fluttered open.
He was whole again.
A moment lapsed.
Then came the final atrocity.
The right hand.
Hovering behind Raven, mere inches away—knuckles rigid, fingers poised in a deadly punch.
It jerked about on its own. Brutally.
WHAM—
Just as it could have pummeled into Raven's face, time itself appeared to slow. Raven tilted his head ever so slightly, gaze fixed on the oncoming fist. His hand softly deflected it in mid-air, like a symphony conductor leading the final note.
Then—crack!—he drove his knee into the villain's gut with sheer power.
Dust rose. Blood spattered. But Raven didn't relent.
With one fluid motion, he unclipped his black cape.
Fwoosh.
The cloth flared wide, cutting off the bodycam's view as he turned his back.
Council screens darkened for an instant—only shadows on the screen.
Then—
Snap.
A sudden sound was heard, reverberating even through the council speakers.
Static overtook the screen. The lens and body cam were erased. Annihilated.
A lone phrase was heard—cold in its completeness.
"That's it for now."
Transmitting ceased.
Silence.
The screen crackled into black static.
None of the council members spoke.
Not that they couldn't.
But since they could no longer look.
Within the emptiness of surveillance darkness, the world froze.
The cape, thrown mid-air, curled in slow motion——casting shadows that curled like claws upon the walls.
His cape, which had clung to his shoulders like the night itself, now drifted midair—an obsidian curtain suspended in the weightless silence of the moment. It rotated once… twice… and started to fall.
Glitch caught his breath. Even the flickering lights of the facility seemed to hesitate, softening ever so slightly, as if unwilling to shed judgment upon what was to be revealed.
A foot advanced—silent, calculated.
And then—
The cape dropped to the floor.
From beneath its descent, a figure stood revealed.
Him.
Raven.
His armor shone with a chilling beauty—matte obsidian white, such as bleached bones, kissed by shadow and moonlight. No gloss. No showy shine. Pure, matted power.
Veins of thumping violet-blue traversed his body as if alive, etching along the surface in a beat that resonated a steady heartbeat—his heartbeat.
The suit was designed not for intimidation—but inevitability. Each plate seemed tailored to his anatomy, forged with surgical precision, as if it had grown onto him.
A half-mask of polished, seamless silver obscured the upper part of his face. It had no eyes, no slits, no markings—only a blank reflection that dared you to look… and see your own fear staring back.
A single silver chain dangled loosely from his left wrist, engraved in strange, celestial glyphs that glimmered subtly—less an accessory, more a relic. It swayed gently, making no sound, yet each motion felt deliberate.
He didn't move like a soldier. He didn't need to.
He simply existed—and that was threat enough.
Raven turned his head slightly, letting the violet-blue hues glimmer faintly under the pale lights.
The ghost had arrived.
And no one was ready.
The silence left in Raven's wake was broken—not by fear, but by a slow clap.
Clap.Clap.Clap.
The man across the floor—the one who had taken a knee to the chest, dodged death, and returned from mutilation like it was just Tuesday—rose, grinning.
"Tch… I guess playtime's over."
He rolled his shoulders once, as if dusting off a coat, and then held out his left wrist.
A bracelet coiled around it—nothing special at first glance. Until he twisted it.
Click.
A sudden pulse of unnatural energy rippled out like a shockwave, shattering the ground beneath him in a perfect ring.
His body was consumed by shadows—no, data. Black and crimson packets of raw code swirled like a violent storm, devouring his silhouette. Machinery clicked. Metal hissed. Sparks danced like demonic fireflies.
When the storm cleared, he stood tall—reformed. Reforged.
His combat suit was an unholy fusion of obsidian alloys and blood-red energy veins. Every inch of it screamed hostility, not power. Where Raven was elegance carved in silence—this man was pure, weaponized madness.
The chestplate bore a twisted insignia—a serpent devouring its own tail, made of tangled circuitry and wire. His helmet was asymmetrical, jagged, like broken glass reforged into a crown. His right arm pulsed unnaturally, almost… organic, as if barely contained by armor.
And then, with a smile too wide to be sane—
"My bad. Forgot to reintroduce myself properly."
He stepped forward, one foot cracking the tiles.
"Drayvok. Lowest-rank Executive… of the Aspen Order."
The words dropped like a hammer in the room.
Aspen Order.
A name never heard before. A weight that shifted the air.
The council's eyes widened. Phantom's gaze narrowed. Glitch muttered something inaudible.
Drayvok extended both arms with open palms, as if welcoming applause.
"You're the first rats lucky enough to hear the full name. Feel honored."
Then, a single beat passed—and he launched forward, warping the floor beneath his feet.
The dust had barely settled.
The council chamber, once pristine and clinical, now crackled with tension so thick it could choke the air itself.
Three figures stood at impossible angles from each other.
Raven—his combat suit finally revealed—stood with his head low, shadows veiling the sharp glint in his eye.
Phantom—bow lowered, not relaxed but calculated—moved like a predator, circling just out of direct line, waiting for that one opening.
And between them, Drayvok—now clad in the chaos-forged armor of the Aspen Order—stood with arms still half-open, like the stage was his to burn down.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then—
A soft sound.
A smile.
Raven tilted his head just enough to let the light graze the curve of his mouth—a silent, savage grin.
Across the space, Drayvok mirrored it—his expression twisting into a crooked, feral smirk that promised carnage.
Their gazes locked.
Lightning cracked silently in the dead air.
The storm hadn't begun yet... but the thunder was already smiling.