Project [Redacted]

[19 years ago: Hanzo's POV]

The wind sighed through Oakhaven, a skeletal village stripped bare. Tiny houses lay in splinters, their timbers blackened by fire, the ghostly scent of burnt wood clinging to the air. A raw gash marked the village center, a blast crater where the earth was scorched and inverted. In the unnerving stillness, broken only by the delicate crackle of embers, a family sifted through the ruins.

"Is that truly all?" the father's voice rumbled, thick with despair as he tore a warped doorframe free with a violent groan of splintering wood. His wife sat on the steps of a ruined home, her fingers gentle but firm as she replaced the bloodied bandages on their son's thin limbs. The discarded cloths lay stiff with the grim evidence of their wounds. They looked up as his heavy boots crunched loudly on the shattered stones. "Empty," he declared, his hands falling in defeat.

A sorrowful quiet descended. The little boy pressed closer to his mother, tears brimming in his eyes. His stomach growled loudly, a painful reminder of their desperation. His father knelt instantly, his large hands surprisingly tender as he produced a meager piece of dried meat from his coat. He hesitated a moment. "Here, little one," he said, his voice gruff but laced with forced cheer. "The last of it. You eat. Need to grow strong." He flexed his bicep, the muscle bulging momentarily, a fleeting image of strength against the backdrop of devastation.

He lifted his son onto his shoulders. The boy's small hand tugged at his hair, a fragile moment of laughter echoing in the desolate space. They left Oakhaven, never once looking back. Days later, they reached a walled town. Towering wooden palisades, punctuated by menacing guard towers, encircled it. At the gate, soldiers roughly shoved a stopped wagon. Jewels and fine fabrics were flung aside in glittering arcs, landing ruined beside an old man pleading with frantic gestures for them to stop.

A soldier leapt with a sneer from the wagon, leveling his rifle in a gleam of polished steel. "Shut it! Just checking for weapons," he spat, slamming the rifle butt into the old man's chin with a sickening thud. He chuckled, delivering a brutal kick that sent the old man sprawling. "Ironwell Grand Army. We do as we please."

Bang! The gunshot ripped through the air like a tearing flag. Soldiers jolted, their eyes wide with panic, scattering like startled birds. The gloating soldier's sneer dissolved into a mask of shock as a crimson bloom erupted on his chest. He stumbled forward, his boots scuffing on the dusty ground before he crashed down. The father stood, a smoking revolver held in a steady grip, unleashing three more shots in rapid succession. The remaining soldiers jerked violently and collapsed, as if yanked down by invisible strings. The old man stared, jaw slack with utter disbelief.

"You… you saved me," the old man stammered, scrambling to his feet. "Thank you, but you must go. Ironwell won't forgive this."

The father helped him up. "I'm Hanzo's father. What's your name?"

"Brucite," the old man replied, his voice trembling. "I'm a traveling merchant. Trade has withered since the small villages… they've been decimated."

Hanzo's father's brow furrowed, the image of the blast ripping through Oakhaven flashing in his mind. He turned away, a single tear tracing a path through the grime on his cheek. "Ironwell will pay." He stared at the distant walls, a cold resolve hardening his gaze.

[Return to present]

Hanzo vanished into the swirling mist like a phantom, a predator becoming one with the shadows, stalking Brakus with silent intensity. Time stretched, an invisible cord tightening with anticipation. From that day forward, my father dedicated his life to dismantling Ironwell. For years, he became a ghost, his movements swift and lethal as he hijacked their supplies, sabotaging their war machine with calculated precision. It was during one of these daring raids that he met your father, Brakus, and an unlikely bond formed in their shared hatred, forged in the crucible of rebellion.

My father encountered Diamond amidst the chaotic ballet of a revolt in Ironwell's capital. I heard the tales – Diamond stood on a barricade, silhouetted against the flames, a severed statue head clutched in his fist like a trophy, his voice a roaring call to arms against the corrupt banking houses. My father argued vehemently, but Diamond's vision was singular, burning with an unwavering intensity. Diamond, Silver, and Brucite, along with Brucite's three imposing sons, forged a revolutionary army, a force meant to shatter Ironwell's dominance with the fury of a storm.

Silver became captivated by Diamond's fervent ideology. I felt the subtle chill of exclusion as my father spent more time hunched over maps and whispering strategies with his charismatic friend than offering a word or glance to me, his own son. A bitter seed of resentment took root and began to coil. I turned to Brucite, seeking the sharp edge of guidance my father no longer offered. Before I was eight, Brucite began my training in the clandestine hours, molding me into a silent weapon, each lesson a honing of my instincts. My purpose narrowed to a lethal point: become the monster necessary to carve a path to our goals. Brucite envisioned a more insidious, more devastating strategy: turning Ironwell's own terrifying power against them.

Hanzo erupted from the mist in a blur of motion, his blade flashing like captured lightning, leaving a crimson streak across Brakus's cheek. After witnessing what they did to my father, the brutal efficiency of Brucite's vision became chillingly clear. We needed to be more than just disruptive; we needed to be a force of utter destruction to truly dismantle Ironwell. The Shade group… is the perfect, razor-sharp instrument.

Hanzo reappeared behind Brakus with impossible speed, the cold steel of his sword pressing against his neck, a whisper of impending death. As we speak, our perfect plan unfolds, each cog turning with deadly precision. After all these years, you will finally witness the cataclysmic reckoning we have prepared for this wretched country.

Brakus thrashed violently, fear contorting his face into a grotesque mask. "What have you done?!"

Hanzo's grip tightened, his knuckles white. "We embraced Ironwell's own monstrous creation: Project Awakening."

Brakus's features flickered erratically, his breathing growing ragged gasps. "Soon, the world will kneel before the Shade's embrace," Hanzo hissed, the sword tip finding the hollow of his throat. Blood welled, then erupted in a crimson fountain. "You won't live to see it. I—"

Thoom!

A violent explosion tore through Hanzo's body in a blinding flash. Smoke and blood erupted in a grotesque geyser from his eye socket, leaving a ragged cavity. Flames and charred remnants spewed in a torrent from his mouth as he was thrown forward. More explosions ripped through his torso with sickening crunches, engulfing him in a vortex of black fire. The sword clattered to the ground, its tip slick with his and Brakus's blood. Moments later, Brakus slammed onto the dirt with a final, shuddering impact, landing directly atop the fallen katana.