A gust of wind swept across the battlefield, scattering embers and broken data shards like dead leaves.
Phantom stood in the heart of it, now cloaked once again in the sharp monochrome of his namesake form. His armor had retracted, his aura muted—yet his eyes burned behind the mask.
He felt it before he heard it.
Twelve figures emerged from the smoke. Perfect formation. Unspoken coordination. They moved like chess pieces guided by a hand unseen.
They stopped a few feet away.
Not one of them removed their mask.
Then, the tallest stepped forward and spoke in a clipped, mechanical tone:
"Mission accomplished."
Phantom said nothing.
"Give evidence."
Glitch appeared beside him, voice low in his ear.
"You feel that chill? That's not wind. That's protocol dressed like a ghost."
Phantom didn't answer.
Instead, he reached into his coat and drew out a single drive capsule—carbon-black, faintly pulsing. He tossed it forward. The lead figure caught it without flinching.
"We will take to Council."
Phantom's gaze narrowed beneath his mask.
There was a pause. A faint whir, almost like a breath being processed through a filter.
Then the operative extended a small, flat object. A sealed metallic chip, glowing with encoded data.
"Take this."
Phantom caught it with two fingers.
It pulsed.
Coordinates. Encrypted.
A sharp click echoed through the air as the chip activated. A hollow hum, distant, like a door being unlocked in another world.
"This task holds higher authority than Council."
That was the last thing they said.
No explanation.
No question.
No room to object.
Glitch's form shifted behind Phantom, his shape twitching like static.
"You hearing this, G? 'Higher than the Council'? Who the hell signs checks bigger than the gods?"
Phantom didn't move. Didn't flinch.
But deep inside, something coiled tighter.
His fingers closed around the chip.
And the silence that followed was louder than any explosion.
The silence stretched.
Even the air held its breath.
Phantom remained still—mask unreadable, body relaxed in a way that could snap into action at any moment. Glitch hovered close, his form dimmed, now more shadow than spirit.
Then—
"Kiddo. Come fast. I hate waiting."
The voice didn't echo.
It didn't boom.
It slid into the world like it belonged—as if space had made room for it.
Phantom stiffened.
Only for a second.
But Glitch noticed.
His eyes flickered. "Yo... you know that voice."
Phantom didn't respond.
Didn't need to.
He was already moving.
His boots dug into the broken terrain—then launched off. A blur through the smoke, his figure slicing through the air, cape fluttering like a phantom banner.
The chip he'd been handed flickered once in his hand. A holographic path pulsed outward—tight spirals of light drawing a tunnel across the war-scarred land.
Destination confirmed.
Zyphorion Government HQ.
Not just the heart of the nation—but a place untouched by conflict, guarded beyond comprehension.
And the location within?
Known to all.
Feared by most.
A name only spoken in whispers when drunk or desperate:
The Throne Hollow.
No place in Zyphorion had more chains of history tied to it. No chamber had witnessed more oaths, betrayals, ascensions.
And it was there that the voice had called him.
Glitch, racing alongside, finally spoke.
"Yo, Phantom—why the hell would they call you there? Unless—"
He cut himself off.
Even he wasn't ready to finish that thought.
Phantom didn't answer.
Didn't blink.
Didn't slow.
But under the helmet, his heart pounded once—just once—before returning to its perfect rhythm.
The Throne Hollow awaited.
And whoever sat near it…
Was not just watching.
They were waiting.
Zyphorion HQ – Throne Hollow
The doors opened on their own. Not with grandeur, not with creaks—just silence.
Phantom walked in, his steps echoing off obsidian-like floors that shimmered with embedded sigils. Columns stretched endlessly upward, their carvings warping in slow motion, as if time bent in this room. It didn't feel like a place of government.
It felt like a cathedral built to house a god.
At the far end, two figures waited.
One lounged on the edge of a wide step—Mavran Valchev, his silhouette almost too still, like reality hesitated to move around him. His robe trailed like shadow-fluid, absorbing light. His golden eyes were half-lidded, but ancient, watching not just the room—but the timeline unfolding.
The other stood.
Young.
Barely older than Raven.
Clad in a deep midnight suit with silver trim, hair tied back, posture regal without trying. But his presence?
It demanded the air make way for him.
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, each footfall more a statement than motion.
Then, he offered his hand.
"Sorry for the inconvenience," he said, voice cool, charismatic.
"But this was urgent."
Phantom tilted his head slightly.
Then removed his glove—and clasped the hand.
At first, it was normal.
Then—
Pressure.
Power.
Not raw brute force. Not heat or lightning.
But a force of will. Like shaking hands with a storm cloud wearing skin.
A test.
Not to crush—but to see.
Phantom matched it. Not overcompensating. Just holding, firm and calm. The way a lion stares back at another.
They held the grip a beat longer than polite.
Then Mavran's voice cut through:
"Manners."
The young man blinked.
Laughed softly. "Right. Apologies—I tend to only behave around people stronger than me."
He let go of Phantom's hand and took half a step back—not out of respect. More like he was giving space to observe.
Then with a small bow, he said:
"I am Kael Veyron Zenith, current ruler of Zyphorion."
His eyes gleamed like forged steel.
"And I've been wanting to meet you for a while now… Phantom."
Kael's words still lingered in the air like echoes carved into stone.
Before Raven could respond, Mavran moved.
And the temperature dropped.
Columns shuddered — just slightly — as if gravity tilted in his favor. The floor didn't creak. It yielded, like it knew him.
"Kiddo," Mavran said, voice like silk wrapping around steel, "we'll talk privately first—before we get to the reason we called you here."
Phantom didn't flinch. "I'm too busy."
His tone was flat. Cold. Disinterested.
Like he was brushing off a council clerk—not one of the most dangerous figures in existence.
But Mavran didn't argue.
Didn't frown.
He simply tilted his head.
He didn't speak.
He just mouthed two names—
and the sound of them echoed anyway.
Not aloud. Not even mental.
They existed.
And in that instant, Phantom felt like a thousand unseen eyes turned toward him.
Not memories. Not ghosts.
Consequences.
And something broke.
Not physically.
Worse.
Internally.
His breath caught. Fingers twitched. His vision blurred—not from pain, but from the storm inside him detonating all at once.
He blinked.
Again.
Harder.
Glitch stirred inside his head but said nothing. Even he felt it.
Raven's fists loosened. His stance shifted. There was no witty comeback. No question. Not even resistance.
Just—
Silence.
Then, softly, Mavran asked:
"Shall we go now?"
Raven nodded.
He didn't trust his voice.
And as he followed Mavran through the vast corridor beyond the throne hollow, the shadows seemed to lean in closer.
Watching.
Listening.
Waiting.