Purple Guy

Arka's fingers twitched slightly as he processed everything. The girl standing before him had just reported that members of his gang had been captured by the so-called Morgan Gang. His gang. His men. His warlocks.

He exhaled slowly, keeping his expression calm, but inside, his mind raced.

"So, I'm not just part of a gang—I lead one. And not just any gang… a powerful one."

His instincts as a detective kicked in, analyzing the situation like a case file. His name—Arka Darshana—belonged to a man feared in the underworld. The body he now inhabited wasn't just someone's random second-in-command. He was at the very top of the food chain.

And yet… he had no memory of leading anything.

"I need to get my bearings fast. If I screw this up, people will notice."

His eyes flicked to the girl, who was still waiting for his command. She was calm, but something about her posture told him she was watching closely, maybe even testing him.

He straightened his back and nodded. "Send the six warlocks," he said, his voice smooth and authoritative. "No survivors."

The girl's lips curled into a smirk, as if she had been expecting that answer. "Understood, Boss." She turned to leave but hesitated for a second before speaking again.

"By the way, Morgan's men called you something interesting before they died last time." She glanced at him over her shoulder. "They called you the phantom who never dies."

Arka didn't react, but something about that title sent a strange chill through him.

"Let them keep believing that," he said with a small smirk.

As the door shut behind her, he turned toward the mirror, staring at his own reflection.

"A phantom who never dies, huh? How ironic."

---

In a dimly lit alley on the other side of the city, a group of men sat around a crate, whispering in hushed tones. They weren't part of any big organization—just a small-time gang that did dirty jobs for whoever paid them.

But tonight, their usual talk about stolen goods and upcoming deals had been replaced by something else.

"Did you hear what happened to Morgan's guys?" one of them muttered, glancing over his shoulder nervously.

The man beside him, a scruffy-looking thug with a scar across his chin, took a long drag of his cigarette. "Yeah," he said slowly. "Six of them. All gone."

"And no one saw anything?"

Scar-Chin shook his head. "Not a damn thing. One minute they were there, and the next? Just… gone."

The youngest of the group swallowed hard. "You think it was him?"

Silence.

Then, the fourth man, an older gangster who had been in the business longer than any of them, leaned forward. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

"It was Rudras."

The younger thug's face turned pale.

Scar-Chin exhaled a cloud of smoke. "That's just a name."

The old man smirked darkly. "Is it? Tell me something—how many gangs do you know that have warlocks working for them?"

No one answered.

The old man leaned back, tapping his fingers against the crate. "You idiots don't get it. Rudras aren't just another gang. They don't fight wars—they end them before they even start."

The youngest thug shuddered. "And their boss…?"

Scar-Chin's smirk faded slightly.

"The Phantom King," the old man muttered. "Arka Darshana."

The name itself felt heavy, as if just speaking it carried consequences.

The youngest gangster wiped sweat from his forehead. "Shit… so what do we do?"

The old man took another sip from his flask. "We keep our heads down. And if you ever hear that he is looking for you?"

Another pause. Another sip.

"Run."

---

Back in his office, Arka sat in his chair, deep in thought. His mind had been a constant battlefield since he woke up in this new life, but something was starting to settle.

The detective in him had always sought the truth. And now, as Arka Darshana, he had the power to take it.

His hand moved instinctively, reaching for something in the drawer. When he pulled it open, his fingers brushed against a small, worn-out notebook.

The moment he touched it, a flood of fragmented images rushed through his mind.

A glowing door.

An endless abyss.

A name scratched into stone.

His breathing quickened. This… this was mine. My work. My research.

Somewhere, deep within the layers of reality, he had uncovered something. Something that had gotten him killed.

And if he had been placed in this new body, then maybe, just maybe…

The mystery wasn't over.

It was just beginning.

---

A knock at the door.

Arka looked up, his fingers still resting on the notebook.

"Boss," the girl from earlier spoke from the other side. "The warlocks returned."

He closed the drawer. "Come in."

She stepped in and handed him a phone. "A message from Morgan's men. Or what's left of them."

He pressed play.

Static. Then, a voice, trembling.

"You… you bastards… You don't understand what you've done. The realms… the real—"

A wet, sickening crunch. Then silence.

The recording ended.

Arka's grip on the phone tightened.

"The realms? So I was right. My research was real. And now, someone else knows about it."

A smirk spread across his lips.

This wasn't just about revenge anymore.

It was about finishing what he started.

The girl spoke again, her tone steady but carrying a hint of intrigue. "Boss, someone wishes to meet you."

Arka raised an eyebrow. Who would want to meet me? He was still piecing together his identity in this new life, and the idea of visitors felt unsettling. But then it hit him—whoever had come wasn't here to meet him. They were here for Arka Darshana.

"Who is it?" he asked, keeping his voice even.

The girl's expression remained neutral. "The 6th Ātman… Lord Zain Mark."

Arka frowned slightly. 6th Ātman? Lord? This wasn't just some random thug or rival. Whoever this person was, they carried a title that seemed to hold weight.

"Let him in," he said after a moment.

As the door opened, a man stepped in—perhaps 24 or 25 years old, with strikingly handsome features. He wore an extravagant purple coat and matching pants, along with a ridiculously long purple hat. On his hand, a silver ring bore the design of a skull, and around his wrist sat an obnoxiously bright purple watch.

This guy… what kind of fashion sense is this?! A purple watch? Seriously?!

The man's face lit up with a wide grin, and before Arka could react, he lunged forward, throwing his arms around him.

"My dear Arka!"

WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING?!

Arka stiffened, caught completely off guard, but he forced himself to stay composed. His hands twitched, resisting the urge to shove the man away. Instead, he maintained his cold demeanor and spoke calmly.

"Wh-Who… are you?"

The man gasped dramatically, stepping back as if Arka had just stabbed him. "What?! You don't remember me?"

Arka narrowed his eyes, deciding to take control of the situation. "Let's talk business."

The playful aura around the man shifted instantly. His grin faded, replaced by an unreadable expression.

"Alright, 11th Ātman."

The moment the words left his mouth, an overwhelming force crashed down upon Arka. His knees buckled slightly as an immense pressure pinned him to the floor. It was as if the very air around him had turned into a crushing weight, pressing against his body with an unrelenting grip.

His breathing grew heavy. His fingers twitched. His mind raced.

W-What… is this?! Who the hell is this guy?!