YAZE22

He trod beneath a sky where seldom the sun glinted in on a day when it was bright, while walking in the shadow that memory cast but not the light itself: Reymond Steiner.

He was 10 years old when his brother was eaten by something with no name, no form, no pity. He had been called mad by everyone, saying there was never such a creature and condemned by his own blood. Locked in a "fix-it" facility designed for that which is beyond comprehension. His parents could barely margin their grief and shame; they soon disappeared into death, leaving Reymond really alone.

But, within these cold walls, he did not break; instead, he transformed into another kind of being. Silent, Patient, and Sharpened.

As they opened the gates, a woman in black stood waiting for him, her face concealed, her voice soft as wind on a grave. She does not bring solace. She offers purpose. And there is an affiliation: an order hidden in plain sight. They hunt what the world denies. They track the Unknown.

Reymond joins them, motivated by vengeance and a voice whispering in his ear: "It still watches you."

In a world drenched in shadow, Reymond would rise through blood and bone, through secrets and screams, until he stood before the thing that stole his past—and threatened to end his future. 

The Unknown is real. 
And it

Meet The Unknown

They stripped him of his name—Not to erase him,but to rebuild him.

In the catacombs beneath the ruined city,where time stilled and light dared not enter,Reymond was reborn.

Days blurred.Nights bled.The Circle of Umbra did not offer comfort—Only purpose.Only pain.

His body was broken and reforged:pushed past limits until bone screamed and muscle tore.He ran through halls filled with smoke and illusions.Fought specters stitched from fear.Studied ancient texts that whispered when the lights were low.

They taught him how to listen to silence,how to track footsteps left in dust that wasn't there.How to fight without hope—only precision, patience, and rage.

And when he bled,they told him to bleed in rhythm.Like a hymn to war.

Black as dried sorrow,its edge devoured light.Not steel—something older.Forged not by man, but by necessity.

The blade didn't cut flesh.It cut through veil.Through the lie that the Unknown wore.

"This will wound them," the cloaked woman said."It will peel back their skin of deception. Make them weak. But it will not kill."

"So how do we kill them?"

A torch hissed.A circle of symbols lit the floor beneath him.

"The sun," someone answered."The only true purifier."

And then, the lesson twisted deeper—Darker.

When the Unknown is weakened enough,when the sword carves through its false form,it does not die.It shrinks.

Into something childlike.Eyes wide. Body small.A grotesque mimicry of innocence.

"You will want to pity it," said the woman."You must not."

She led him to a chamber,where a golden cage stood beneath a glass ceiling.

A child… but not.Its limbs were too long.Its teeth too sharp.Its voice too smooth.

"They mimic what we love," she whispered."To survive."

Reymond watched as the first light of dawn broke through the ceiling.

Not of flame, but of truth.Burning the mimicry into dust,until only ash remained.

He looked down at the blade in his hand.It pulsed.

"You said they found me once," he said.

"And it will find you again."

"But this time," she said, stepping into the shadows,"you'll be waiting."

The Hunt Begins