The Father’s Shadow
There was no school for the next two weeks.
Some called it "The Noble's Festival." A celebration of lineage, pride, and wealth. Students with famous surnames went home to attend parades, balls, and private duels held in marble arenas. The academy quieted like a dying heartbeat.
Noven walked alone.
No destination. Just movement.
A worn cloak draped over him, hood up. His eyes half-lidded. Expression blank.
He wasn't hunting.
He was waiting.
And they came—just as he expected.
⸻
A rooftop creaked.
A shadow dropped down in front of him.
Then another. And another.
Four figures.
All masked.
Uniform black, trimmed with crimson. Porcelain-white masks, featureless except for the single mark: IX—scratched across where the mouth should be.
Unit IX.
He didn't stop walking.
"Target confirmed," one of them whispered into an earpiece. "Engage."
Noven kept walking.
"Final warning," the shortest said, twin daggers drawn.
"Return to Unit IX or be neutralized."
Noven didn't look at them.
"You were all ranked beneath me," he said flatly. "Do you really think this will work?"
They moved.
Not hesitating.
They knew who he was.
They attacked anyway.
Twin daggers aimed for his spine. A chain hurled from the side. The third one—gloves crackling with aura-enhanced claws—leapt from above.
Noven didn't blink.
Didn't shift.
He simply looked at them.
And the alley exploded with screaming.
No one touched him.
Not one.
But the air folded around him—like reality itself warped in submission.
The dagger-wielder's arms twisted mid-swing—bones cracking inward, snapping at unnatural angles. She hit the ground shrieking, her limbs bending like paper dolls.
The chain-wielder screamed next.
His body flung backward as if yanked by an invisible hook—slamming into the wall so hard his spine bent like a whip.
Blood poured from his mouth before he hit the floor.
The third tried to retreat midair.
Too late.
Noven glanced at him.
His arms snapped in midair—twisting around his own shoulders like a grotesque spiral. Then his legs. Then his ribs caved inward with a sickening crunch.
He didn't scream.
He couldn't.
Only blood leaked from his shattered mask.
They all collapsed.
None of them touched him.
Just his gaze.
Just his will.
The alley was painted with blood.
Noven stood in the center.
Expressionless.
He hadn't moved a step.
⸻
Then came the real threat.
A new presence—slow, composed footsteps clicking across the stone.
A man in a black suit stepped from the darkness.
No mask.
Just neatly combed hair, white gloves, and dead gray eyes that belonged in a crypt.
He stopped ten feet away.
Arms folded behind his back.
Aura coiled around him like a storm made of knives.
Sharp.
Wrong.
Frightening.
The walls cracked. The stone underfoot trembled.
Animals in the alleys nearby ran.
Glass windows fractured from the pressure.
This wasn't aura meant for combat.
This was aura meant for domination.
"I've always wondered," the man said softly, "how far the top of Unit IX would fall if dropped into the filth."
Noven stared.
Said nothing.
"You were the strongest among us," the man continued. "Number One. My Master's favorite."
A small smile touched his lips.
Then vanished.
"Your father is waiting, child."
Noven's voice was calm. Empty.
"I don't take orders outside of Unit IX."
"You were never meant to choose."
The suited man blurred.
Inhumanly fast.
A single palm strike—
BOOM.
Noven was sent flying.
He crashed through two stone walls, skidding across the cobblestone, cloak shredded, shoulder dislocated.
Blood trailed.
Still no emotion.
He stood up slowly, popped his shoulder back in place with a wet crunch.
The suited man adjusted his gloves.
"Still functional," he murmured.
"Good."
Noven raised a hand. The air pulsed.
Crimson light shimmered around him.
The ground cracked—then lifted.
Chunks of earth hovered like satellites around his body.
His eyes glowed faintly.
"You were never built to beat me," Noven said. "You were built to retrieve me."
"And I will," the man replied.
Then they clashed.
⸻
The city shook.
Shockwaves shattered windows three blocks away.
They moved faster than light should allow. Every exchange carved new trenches into the ground.
Fist met palm. Elbow against aura. Blood flickered in the air like red lightning.
The suited man had power like a collapsing star—heavy, crushing, endless.
But Noven moved like entropy—surgical, inevitable, every strike aimed to dismantle, not defeat.
The suited man landed a kick to Noven's ribs.
Something cracked.
Noven didn't flinch.
He countered with a palm to the man's chest—sent him flying backward through a building.
The man emerged seconds later.
Not even bruised.
He wiped dust from his shoulder.
"You've grown cold."
"I was always cold," Noven said.
They clashed again—blades of aura splitting the night in half.
⸻
Ten minutes passed.
Twenty.
Neither relented.
But Noven began to slow.
His right arm bled heavily.
He staggered once.
The man saw it.
He grinned.
"It's over."
"No," Noven replied, eyes gleaming crimson.
"I just found the opening."
Noven's voice barely cut through the wind. Calm. Dead quiet.
Then he moved—just a twitch of his hand across the air.
The suited man's expression shifted, his jaw tightening.
"…You're going to use that?"
The world fell still.
And Noven—
began to dissolve.
Not like smoke. Not like shadow.
Like mist.
Thin wisps peeled off him in slow motion, curling and rising into the air. First his fingers… then his arms… then his face, until his entire form became a swirling vapor of gray-white tendrils, unraveling like fog caught in morning sun.
No flash. No explosion. Just quiet, haunting dissolution.
And then—
nothing.
He was gone.
The rooftop stood empty.
No aura.
No blood.
No warmth.
Not even a footprint.
The suited man didn't speak for a moment. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the mist still lingering, slowly fading.
"…Specter Shift," he said finally, his voice low with a mix of awe and disdain. "He really mastered it."
He stepped forward and crouched where Noven had been, running a gloved hand over the cold, clean stone.
"An elite Unit IX technique," he muttered. "It doesn't just make you disappear. It makes the world forget you were there."
He stood.
This happened faster than light
"No traces. No sound. Not even energy residue. It's erasure."
A pause.
"He didn't run…"
The mist faded completely.
"He ceased to exist."
Only the three mangled corpses remained.
The suited man stood alone, hand shielding his eyes.
His face twisted into the faintest, rarest emotion:
Annoyance.
He pressed a finger to his earpiece.
"Subject escaped."
A pause.
"Yes. He's better than before."
He looked at the broken bodies on the ground.
"Much better."
⸻
Hours Later – Academy Infirmary
Alyss was waiting outside the infirmary room.
The glass window covered the infirmary room she couldn't see what was happening inside.
And for the first time Alyss looked worried.
Noven lay on the infirmary bed, shirt removed, chest bandaged, arm in a sling. Dried blood crusted across his side, and yet—
He didn't look weak.
He looked… bored.
Expression blank.
Eyes half-lidded.
As if none of it mattered.
As if none of it touched him.
She stepped into the room and froze.
His body was covered in scars.
Not fresh ones—these were old. Jagged, pale lines stretched across his chest, shoulders, and sides. Dozens of them, each telling a silent story of violence, survival… and something worse.
Her eyes lingered a little too long.
He noticed.
She snapped her gaze away, heat rushing to her cheeks.
"You—should cover up or something," she muttered, flustered. "It's indecent."
"It's just skin," he said flatly, not even bothering to move. "Unless you're enjoying the view."
She blinked. "Wh—what?"
A slow breath escaped him. "You've been staring for a while."
Her face lit up.
"I wasn't—!" she started, then looked away sharply. "S-shut up."
He said nothing.
But there was something in his eyes now. Not a smile. Not exactly.
Just the faintest glint of amusement.
She walked closer to hide her embarrassment, trying to focus on the bloodstained sling instead of the lines carved into his flesh.
"I don't care what happened," she lied, voice quieter now.
He didn't respond.
She looked at him again—really looked.
The scars. The dried blood. The way he seemed entirely untouched by it all.
Unreachable.
"I don't care," she said again. "But if you die before I figure you out… I'll kill you myself."
A pause.
Then his lips moved.
Not from pain.
But from words.
Soft. Measured.
"I won't die."
"Why not?"
"Because I haven't won yet."
She blinked.
He closed his eyes.
And the room went quiet again.
But beneath the silence—
A strange weight settled in her chest.
She wasn't sure what he was.
But whatever it was… it wasn't normal.
Something monstrous had walked through the city tonight.
And it was wearing his skin.
⸻
Far Away – Facility Zero
A man watched the footage in silence.
Behind him stood rows of researchers in white, monitors showing the aftermath.
The man's voice was cold.
"Subject One has exceeded expectations."
A figure behind him nodded.
"He's not a child anymore."
"No," the man said.
"He's the future."
And outside that glass room—
Rows of figures stood in containment tanks.
Eyes closed.
All bearing the mark of IX.
All failed attempts.
Except one.
The original.
The one who walked free.
Noven.
⸻