Episode 5: The Order’s Phantom
The ruins of The Gauntlet still smell of blood. The bodies of beasts lay scattered, their corpses steaming in the cold underground air. The audience is silent. No cheers. No roars of approval.
Just disbelief.
Aarav stands in the center of the battlefield, his fists still clenched, his breath heavy. His uniform is shredded, drenched in crimson. But his eyes—his golden, unearthly eyes—gleam like the dawn of something terrifying.
From above, the Head of The Order watches.
A man who never speaks unless necessary.
A man who has seen legends rise and fall.
His grip tightens on the armrest of his throne. He alone understands:
This was no luck.
This was a warning.
The gates open.
Soldiers, warriors, and assassins stand on either side of a colossal hallway, their faces unreadable. Some glare with suspicion. Others avert their gaze.
Aarav walks forward.
His body screams in exhaustion, but he doesn't stagger.
He won.
And he's still standing.
At the end of the path, atop a grand staircase, waits The Head of The Order.
A man with silver hair, an iron will, and eyes colder than death.
The room is suffocating with power.
The moment Aarav reaches him, the man speaks.
"Aarav of Division 404."
The walls seem to vibrate with his voice.
"You are no longer a recruit."
He gestures to a ceremonial box beside him. Inside, folded with military precision, lies a black coat, black gloves, a white shirt, and a black tie.
And stitched onto the uniform, in silver embroidery:
4
O
4
The number of his Division.
The crowd waits.
Aarav steps forward and takes the uniform.
It feels heavy. Not in weight, but in meaning.
A warrior's uniform.
A killer's uniform.
An Order's Phantom.
His grip tightens.
The Head of The Order watches him closely, then speaks again.
"From this day forward… You are a member of The Order."
The words settle.
The moment is sealed in history.
The world doesn't know it yet, but something has changed.
Something irreversible.
For the first time in weeks, Aarav walks under the open sky.
A cold breeze brushes against his face. The sun hangs like a burning eye over the distant mountains. The world is vast, stretching endlessly beyond the Order's stronghold.
And for the first time in his life…
He is free to explore it.
He flexes his fingers, feeling the new uniform against his skin.
"Strange…" he mutters. "I don't feel any different."
But deep down, he knows that's a lie.
Something inside him has awakened.
Something that even he doesn't understand yet.
His mind drifts back to the fight. To the power that surged through him.
That voice… That feeling…
Was it truly his own?
Or something else?
His fingers twitch involuntarily. He remembers the rush.
The Void Hound, the blood, the chaos—and how good it felt.
He clenches his jaw.
I need answers.
And there's only one way to get them.
---
The Order's true headquarters is a fortress disguised as a city.
Beneath its towering walls, bustling streets twist like a labyrinth. The air smells of steel, ink, and danger.
This is a place where assassins, spies, and mercenaries coexist.
A place where loyalty is a myth, and survival is a skill.
Aarav moves through the crowds, his new uniform catching glances. Some whisper. Some nod in respect.
Others?
They watch.
And wait.
---
Somewhere high above, in the sealed chambers of The Order's inner circle, the Head of The Order watches from a window.
A shadow moves behind him.
"You don't trust him," a voice murmurs.
The old man exhales. His silver eyes never leave Aarav.
"Not trust," he says.
"Understand."
He turns.
"That boy… is not what he seems."
The air in the room grows colder.
He whispers:
"He is either our greatest weapon…"
"Or our greatest mistake."
---
That night, Aarav stands on the rooftop of his new quarters.
The city below hums with life, but up here, it's just him.
Alone.
His fingers hover over his palm. He focuses.
Nothing happens.
No golden glow. No inhuman speed. No power.
Just silence.
For the first time in days, a strange thought crosses his mind.
What if it was all in my head?
What if that moment in the Gauntlet was just survival instinct? A fluke?
He exhales.
Then shakes his head.
No.
It was real.
He felt it.
And if it's real…
Then he'll master it.
His hands clench into fists.
"The world thinks I got lucky."
His jaw tightens.
"Let them think that."
He takes a step forward, staring into the night.
Because when they finally realize the truth…
It'll be too late to stop me.
---
TO BE CONTINUED...