Chaos Ascendancy welcomed a fresh wave of recruits into its hidden fortress that day. Among them stood a man named Makarov.
An Awakened warrior of exceptional prowess, Makarov bore a Transcendent-ranked Aspect — a rarity and a testament to his formidable power. Yet it was not merely his strength that set him apart. He was a quiet, stoic figure, a man of few words and colder actions, whose very presence spoke of discipline honed through countless battles. Makarov was not simply skilled — he was the best of the best.
Once, he had served not on the frontlines against nightmare creatures, but in darker, bloodier wars — wars waged against people. His unit had been an elite force, tasked with hunting down cults and criminal organisations, and other threats festering in the underbelly of humanity. No matter the cost, no matter the means, they eliminated dangers before they could bloom into calamities.
Then came the incident — the nightmare or perhaps blessing that twisted the course of his life.
During a mission involving a Nightmare Gate, Makarov was ensnared by a Spell, a cruel taint that rewrote his very being. When he emerged from that hellish ordeal, he was no longer merely human — he had Awakened.
But that didn't changed his life. He continued the only way he knew: to fight, to protect, to sacrifice — battling Abominations, assassinating corrupted humans, slaying any entity that threatened the innocent.
Yet the longer he fought, the more bitter truths he uncovered.
He had buried countless brothers and sisters, comrades-in-arms who had given their lives for a noble cause. And yet, as he gazed up from the blood-soaked fields of battle, he found no hand reaching down to lift them.
Where were the Great Clans? The powerful Awakened families who held enough strength to sway the tides of war? Why did they not come to aid the desperate, the dying, the defenseless?
The answer, when it finally revealed itself, was as devastating as it was simple: The Great Clans, with all their wealth and power, turned their gazes away. They did not view the common people as fellow humans, but as little more than cattle — a resource to exploit, profit from, and discard when spent. Only the fractured remnants of government and the mysterious House of Night still fought for humanity's survival.
That grim revelation broke something inside Makarov.
Yet even as his faith in the world crumbled, he never abandoned his duty. He was a soldier. And a soldier fights — not for gratitude, not for recognition, but because someone must stand between the defenseless and the devouring dark.
Even when despair gnawed at his spirit, even when all hope seemed lost, Makarov fought on.
Yet when he requested the chance to challenge a Second Nightmare to grow stronger and continue his battles, he was met not with support, but betrayal.
Deemed unstable, too scarred by his endless service, the government forcibly retired him. discarding him like a spent weapon.
Anger and helplessness seethed within him — but there was nothing he could do.
Until she appeared.
A woman shrouded in mystery, who approached him with the easy confidence of one who already knew everything about him. She offered no real name, only a call sign: Driver.
Their conversation was long and cautious. Makarov made it clear — he would not join any organization driven by malice or corruption. Driver smiled at that, as if expecting his distrust, and laid bare the truth of Chaos Ascendancy.
It was not an empire of criminals or tyrants. It was a brotherhood of the soldiers, misfits, and survivors, all of whom had lost families and futures to the endless, cruel war against the Dream Realm. It was an organization built by those abandoned by the world, and yet determined to fight still.
Several things struck Makarov as curious.
First, the secrecy. Only a precious few within the organization knew the true identities of all members. Everyone else operated under call signs, masking their pasts beneath names like whispered legends.
Makarov's new call sign would be Undertaker.
Second, the enigma at the organization's heart: the one who sits at the peak of this mighty pyramid was only known as Joker.
No more than five individuals knew Joker's true face — and even that knowledge was rendered meaningless by Joker's uncanny ability to change his appearance at will. Joker could become anyone, at any time, slipping through suspicion like mist through fingers.
There was also the strict hierarchy — a brutal, beautiful structure modeled after a deck of cards.
At the bottom were the Numbers, the foot soldiers.
Above them were the Jacks, who commanded the Numbers with seasoned authority.
Then came the Kings and Queens, sovereigns of power, commanding large divisions with ruthless efficiency.
At the summit stood the Aces — five elite operatives who oversaw the entire Ascendancy.
And above them all, untouchable and unknowable, was Joker.
The structure was elegant, efficient, and devastatingly effective — a hidden hand shaping the world according to its own vision, carving paths through the chaos where others merely stumbled.
Chaos Ascendancy was not a safe haven. It was a crucible, a place where discarded warriors were reforged into instruments of profound change — or burned to ash in the process.
There were but a few recruits, Makarov among them, standing before a set of colossal iron gates deep within the -4th subterranean level. The very heart of the organization pulsed with an air of the bizarreness, a place where logic seemed to falter.
Aboveground, the fortress was a marvel of surreal design: colossal walls enclosed a strange, artificial landscape — a forest, a lake, and a solitary mansion standing solemn amidst it all. Yet the beauty was deceiving; automated defenses, drones, and surveillance systems scoured every inch of the terrain without rest. Anything unauthorized — human or Abomination — would be ruthlessly obliterated before it could take another breath.
Yet, the true core of this enigmatic bastion lay beneath the forest, hidden even from the prying eyes of technology. An entire town, it seemed, had been carved into the earth — a vast city of ten levels, each assigned to a different purpose.
The lowest depths, according to rumor, were reserved for their elusive director. Whispers said it was almost impossible to reach him. Then again, this was the Chaos Ascendancy — an organization where the lines between reality and nightmare blurred. Joker could very well be anyone: the man who escorted Makarov here, the woman he passed on the stairs... Perhaps he was even a bird perched nearby. Or a fly buzzing unseen.
How utterly terrifying, Makarov mused darkly. To become anyone — anything.
As he pondered, lost in spiraling thoughts, the heavy gates suddenly shuddered and creaked open. mechanical voice echoed from unseen speakers, jarring him from his reverie.
"Undertaker, proceed along the designated path and await further instructions."
Steeling himself, Makarov stepped forward. The gates creaked open, revealing a corridor bathed in harsh, sterile white light. It was the kind of light one might expect in a morgue — or a laboratory where unspeakable experiments were conducted.
The deeper he ventured, the more oppressive the atmosphere became. Echoes of bestial screams tore through the silence, growing louder with every step. Makarov's instincts sharpened; whatever experiments occurred here were anything but humane.
Quickening his pace, he arrived after five long minutes at a single, unremarkable door. The emptiness of the corridors, the inhuman cries behind thick walls, and the sterile chill of the air made the simple door feel like a portal to another, darker world.
He waited, tension coiling within him, until the mechanical voice returned — its tone as cold and hollow as before.
"Open the door, Undertaker."
He obeyed.
Inside was a stark chamber, dominated by a solitary chair and a massive screen mounted on the far wall. Taking his seat, Makarov faced the screen, waiting.
Then, it flickered to life — and what appeared on it was something that stirred the deepest, most primal unease within him.
A faceless being stared back at him — a humanoid figure clad in a pristine formal suit, yet lacking any discernible features except for a twisted, smiling mouth. No eyes. No nose. Only a grin.
When it spoke, its voice was calm, almost jovial, and yet something about it made Makarov's skin crawl.
"Welcome to Chaos Ascendancy, Mr. Makarov. I am called Joker. I've been observing your work for some time, and I must say... I am impressed."
Despite the surreal horror of the encounter, Makarov remained composed. He was a soldier, after all. Fear could be acknowledged — but never allowed to rule.
His stoicism seemed to amuse the entity, for Joker let out a sharp, unhinged laugh that echoed around the empty room.
"Any questions before we proceed with your assignment?"
Makarov took a slow, steadying breath.
"Are you... Joker?"
A twisted grin widened across that single, disembodied mouth — if one could even call it a grin.
"You are perceptive, Undertaker. Perhaps I am Joker. Or perhaps I am something else entirely. That, however, is a question you will never see answered."
Makarov clenched his fists, grappling with a truth that seemed to slip further the closer he approached it. Still, he pressed on.
"What is your objective?"
The faceless figure chuckled, intertwining his gloved fingers.
"Tell me, Undertaker... What do you believe is the fate of our world? What future awaits? What role should the Ascendancy play? What is your view of the tides that shift around us?"
Despite the cryptic turn, Makarov answered honestly, without hesitation.
"The world is under siege by corrupted Abominations. I don't know what's best for your organization — but I know that humanity must prepare. More and more gates are appearing... and with them, new threats."
A satisfied tap-tap-tap echoed as Joker drummed his fingers on an unseen table.
"Indeed. You are correct. The tide rises, and we must either rise with it or be drowned. The Chain of Nightmares is beginning, Undertaker — a domino of catastrophes that will consume the world. Antarctica will be the first to fall, but not the last. Millions will die. Civilization will crumble under the weight of horrors unseen."
He paused, an almost gleeful chuckle escaping his twisted mouth.
"Millions shall perish. That is why we — Chaos Ascendancy — must act. We must research, gather, strengthen, and endure. For the survival of mankind itself."
The weight of his words was staggering. Makarov's heart pounded. The world — everything they knew — would end within decades? And the so-called noble clans continued to hide in the Dream Realm, leaving the world to burn?
His rage boiled beneath his stoic surface.
But Joker — always watching, always grinning — spoke gently:
"Anger, while natural, achieves nothing alone. We must be pragmatic."
With a flourish of his hand, the screen shifted, now displaying symbols — suits from a deck of cards.
"Now, let me explain how Chaos Ascendancy operates..."
Makarov sat still, a silent storm brewing within him, as the lecture continued.
In that moment, he understood why the organization's leader bore the title of Joker — not merely for the playing card motif, nor the mysterious hierarchy, but because he could laugh while speaking of the end of the world.
And in this grim future, perhaps only those mad enough to laugh could hope to survive.
He exhaled slowly, steadying himself. Don't judge a book by its cover, Makarov, he reminded himself grimly. Perhaps that was his flaw. His internal reflection was swiftly shattered as Joker's voice once again echoed across the sterile chamber.
"Our organization pursues many objectives," Joker began, voice calm yet carrying an undertone of cold amusement. "To accomplish them, it became necessary to forge multiple specialized departments. The structure of Chaos Ascendancy," he added, twirling a joker card idly between his gloved fingers, "is modeled after a deck of cards. Jacks, Kings, Numbers... and at the apex — myself, the Joker. Each branch distinct, separated by talent and specialization."
The faceless figure smiled — or gave the impression of it — as he continued.
"There are presently fifteen thousand personnel under Ascendancy's banner: ten thousand regular soldiers, five thousand Awakened operatives, and fifty Ascended elites. Within this force, eight departments form the backbone of our operations."
He allowed a brief pause, granting Makarov a moment to absorb the scale of the machinery he was now a part of, before speaking again.
"First — the Administrative Department. It consists of five individuals only — the 'Aces.' Never inquire about their identities. Never question their orders. Their words are absolute."
"Second — Creed. In our pursuit of pragmatism and power, we must not lose our humanity. Some of the experiments we undertake... they teeter upon the edge of moral extinction. Creed ensures that we remember what it means to be human — even if we must stain our hands."
"Third — the Internal Security Department. Internal Affairs monitors all personnel. They root out traitors, enforce the Creed, and ensure that ambition, greed, or foreign influence does not corrode our core."
"Fourth — the Intelligence Bureau. They collect information — on gates, on Abominations, on the Legacy Clans skulking in the Dream Realm, on hostile states and rival organizations. Knowledge is the lifeblood of survival."
"Fifth — the Sorcery Department. A school and research center combined, it instructs those with the aptitude in wielding the powers of the Sorceries of Dream Realm — teaching it for war, strategy, and utility."
"Sixth — the Department of External Affairs. Their role is twofold: maintain alliances, ensuring that our so-called friends honor their treaties, and penetrate enemy organizations from within — extracting intelligence, artifacts, and influence. Our seers lend them sight beyond the veil."
"Seventh — the Scientific Department. The second largest of all. Their charge: research, experimentation, and brutal innovation upon Nightmare Creatures. Every scrap of knowledge pried from the enemy is another weapon forged for mankind's survival."
"And lastly — the Phantom Company," Joker said, his voice dropping slightly, as if in reverence. "The elite of the elite. Drawn from the finest operatives across the globe, these units are deployed against threats that exceed normal capabilities. Mobile, lethal, untraceable. Their battlefield is anywhere chaos rises. And, Undertaker... you will become one of them."
The Faceless one leaned back, the ever-present, unnerving smile curling across that bizarre visage.
"There are... other divisions," he admitted, voice lighter now, "but these eight are the pillars of our foundation. In time, more will arise. Chaos Ascendancy is still growing, after all."
There was a final click — a signal that the briefing was at its end.
"This concludes today's orientation," Joker declared with cold amusement. "You are dismissed."
Makarov, still processing the cascade of revelations, gave a curt nod and turned to leave. His boots echoed against the sterile floor, each step measured and deliberate. Just as he reached the threshold, Joker's voice — impossibly close and yet distant — called out once more.
"You are a good man, Undertaker," Joker said. "I expect... extraordinary things from you."
And then the screen blinked out, the ghost of Joker's grin lingering in the void, leaving Makarov alone in a hollow, silent room.
He stood there for a brief moment, overwhelmed by the weight of the knowledge he had just been given. But then — like a blade sharpening on whetstone — his expression hardened, cold discipline settling into place. Without hesitation, he turned and marched out of the facility, his resolve steeled for the battles yet to come.