*Mind Control is the manipulation of feelings, behaviors and psychology without the person's acknowledgement. It leads to controlling the brain of the person, what they are thinking, their emotion and their beliefs often through coercive and deceptive tactics, to compromise their autonomy. It is a way to brainwash the person's mind and destroy their critical thinking to dominate their ideology or a group.
The bulb above hissed faintly, its glow stuttering, casting phantom shapes across the chamber walls. Chief Ilsle Richter's shadow loomed monstrously as she paced forward, her heels clicking like a metronome of inevitability. She drew closer until Gonda could smell the faint, sterile perfume of her presence—sharp as steel, cold as snow on marble.
Her voice, steady as an executioner's blade, broke the silence.
"So, Gonda Subuichi," she began, her tone calm yet laced with latent venom, "once you bore the insignia of SSCBF. Once you were Captain Voreyevsky's shadow, his partner in the field. Yet here you sit, stripped of your laurels, repurposed as an informant—a scavenger, feeding crumbs of truth to whoever dares purchase them. The Four Flowers: Petals of Dandelion, Crimson Lotus, Black Rose, and the Red-and-White Chrysanthemums—you've whispered their secrets, guided SSCBF to their lairs, offered up traitors and mercenaries alike. And more—"
She circled him like a lioness testing the perimeter of her prey, her platinum hair catching the sickly light with every turn. Her hands clasped loosely behind her back, yet the coiled restraint in her shoulders betrayed violence waiting to unfurl.
"As for Amigu-Rumi and the Sinner," she continued, her lips curling into something too deliberate to be a smile, "you aided them, didn't you? Hand-fed them knowledge to fracture their enemies. And Crimson Lotus—ah, Madam Di-Xian's agents—you sang their songs, helped them to cull corruption from the veins of society, like a gardener pruning diseased roses."
She leaned closer, her pale eyes narrowing, voice dipping to a silken whisper laced with threat. "So, tell me, Gonda—what do you know about SSCBF?"
Her gaze locked upon him, unblinking, predatory. Her irises gleamed like shards of winter ice, the stare of a woman who measured lives as easily as one counted coins.
Gonda chuckled, a hollow, rasping sound, flecks of spit catching his lip as he lifted his chin defiantly. His eyes burned with a feral light as they clashed with hers, unwavering.
"Why would I?" he sneered, his words sharp, his breath ragged. "You SCP—you're nothing but the High Chaebols' obedient mutts! You blind the people with your orchestrated façades, your manipulated media! And it was you—" his voice rose into a roar, his neck veins bulging, "—you who butchered President Song Luoyang!"
The echo of his accusation struck the chamber like a gunshot.
Richter's composure cracked for an instant, her jaw tightening, her gloved hand clenching. With a suddenness like lightning, her fist shot forward, striking his face with bone-rattling force. The sound was sickening—cartilage crunching, a spray of crimson spittle scattering across the floor.
Gonda's head snapped sideways, the chair groaning under the strain of his bound body. Before he could recover, Richter's hand shot up, her fingers twisting viciously into his white hair, wrenching his head back until his throat was bare to her. She leaned in close, her breath ghosting hot against his bloodied cheek, her eyes blazing like twin infernos of contempt.
"Careful, Subuichi," she hissed, her voice trembling with barely bridled wrath. "Your tongue may be the sharpest blade in this room—but even blades may be broken."
Her grip lingered a moment longer, tugging at his scalp until tears of pain pricked his eyes. Then, with calculated disdain, she released him, allowing his head to slump forward like a marionette with cut strings.
Without another glance, she pivoted on her heel, her coat flaring slightly as she strode into the shadows at the far end of the chamber. Her voice carried back, cool once more, stripped of heat but sharpened into authority.
"Putri Adnyani," she called.
From the darkness, another figure emerged—Putri, her stance relaxed yet her eyes gleaming with the cruel artistry of one who thrived in unseen wars of the psyche.
Richter did not slow as she passed her. "Take care of him. Keep him alive. He must continue to bleed words… slowly."
Putri inclined her head with a smirk tugging at her lips, her tone both respectful and amused. "Of course, Chief. I shall unpick his mind like a weaver plucking threads from a tapestry. Fear and silence will be his bread until he begs for rot."
As Richter's silhouette vanished into the dark, Gonda lifted his battered face, blood dribbling from his split lip. His voice cracked but rose nonetheless, a desperate defiance flaring within him.
"Chief Richter! The truth will out—sooner or later!"
But she did not turn, did not grant him the courtesy of a response. Only the sound of her heels receding into silence remained, like a clock counting down to inevitable ruin.
The Research & Development Division of SSCBF gleamed with clinical sterility, its corridors humming with the low thrum of machines that seemed half alive. Glass walls partitioned one laboratory from the next, each containing glistening apparatuses, skeletal exo-suit frames, and luminous screens crawling with genetic data. The air itself smelled faintly of ozone and sterilised steel, like the future distilled into antiseptic purity.
Within the central chamber, Dr. Abrar—a man with eyes fever-bright and hair perpetually dishevelled as if genius itself had ruffled it—stood over a reclining test subject. The agent, strapped to the ergonomic chair, was Elias Krohn, codename Vanguard, a young operative whose body bore scars from years of combat. Electrodes laced his temples, a thin stream of pale-blue fluid seeping into his veins via an intravenous channel.
Dr. Abrar adjusted the console, his hands trembling with both fatigue and exhilaration. As the programme initiated, Elias's breathing slowed, his muscles spasming faintly before stabilising. Then, with a sudden jolt, the agent's eyes snapped open, the pupils shimmering faintly with bioluminescent light. His heart rate steadied, brainwaves spiked to unprecedented clarity, and the biometric screens lit up like constellations.
Abrar's lips parted, his face radiant with awe. He half-whispered, half-shouted:
"By the Creator—success! Neural enhancement stabilised, synaptic response doubled, muscle density improved without cellular collapse!" His voice cracked with elation. "No rejection, no haemorrhage—nothing! At last, the theory breathes!"
Beside him, Nurse Anne Parker, a woman of pragmatic poise with eyes often hardened by realism, gasped aloud, her hands instinctively covering her mouth. Her voice wavered between disbelief and admiration:
"Doctor… it actually worked! His vitals are not only stable—they're flourishing. Elias is stronger, sharper—like an entirely re-forged weapon!"
Abrar laughed, a wild, unrestrained sound echoing against the sterile walls. He turned, pacing in a small circle like a man too full of lightning to stand still. "Years of trial and calamity, Anne—of seeing men broken on these very tables—and at last, a living proof! Do you see? The body can be perfected; the mind can be sculpted!"
At that very moment, the glass door hissed open, and Lan Qian entered, her presence calm yet curious. She tilted her head slightly, noting the fevered glow in Abrar's eyes.
"Dr. Abrar," she said softly, "you seem… extraordinarily elated. What has happened?"
He turned to her with the enthusiasm of a child unveiling a miracle, his gaze incandescent.
"Lan Qian, behold! The experiment has triumphed! Not a single tear in tissue, not a single mind fractured. For once, no blood, no injury—only progress. Finally, the old phantom of failure loosens its grip." He inhaled sharply, then arched a brow. "But tell me, Miss Data Analysis, what draws you from your tower of numbers to my crucible of flesh and steel?"
Lan Qian blinked at his metaphor, then smiled faintly, clasping her hands before her in a gesture of polite composure.
"Oh, nothing dramatic. I've been sent to deliver a summons. The President, the Chief, and the others are eager to hear of your progress. Chief Wen-Li herself requested that I fetch you."
Abrar stilled, his manic energy tempered by the weight of duty. He gave a short chuckle, running a hand through his unruly hair.
"Ah, I see. The sovereigns of justice demand their jester's performance." He looked up at her, his tone tinged with dry humour. "So what does our indomitable Chief say? Is she sharpening her questions like a surgeon sharpens her scalpel?"
"She is eager, Doctor," Lan Qian replied, her voice measured but warm. "She wishes to see not only your results but your conviction. They are all waiting in the President's office."
"Very well then," Abrar said at last, a small, crooked smile curving across his lips. "Tell Chief I am on my way. Let the council witness what fire has been coaxed from frail flesh."
Lan Qian inclined her head politely and excused herself, her footsteps fading into the hum of the division.
As silence reclaimed the chamber, Nurse Anne turned back to Abrar, her brows furrowed with the scepticism of someone who had seen brilliance undone by its own ambition.
"Doctor… are you certain this will hold? That it won't unravel? You speak of triumph, but this—" she gestured to Elias, whose glowing eyes now flickered with restless energy—"this could collapse into calamity."
Abrar's smile faltered, shadows creeping across his expression. He placed a hand upon the console, his eyes narrowing as though gazing into the abyss of possibility.
"I hope it will hold, Anne," he said quietly, almost to himself. "But this path is perilous, sensitive beyond measure. One misstep, one careless adjustment, and the body becomes a battlefield—the mind, a grave. Death lurks beside discovery. Yet if we are cautious, precise, deliberate—then nothing shall go amiss."
Anne drew a breath, her voice subdued but firm. "Understood, Doctor."
For a moment, the light above them flickered, as though the lab itself had overheard his warning.
The President's Office was less an office and more a sanctum of authority: walls sheathed in dark mahogany, a vast obsidian desk gleaming beneath chandeliers of crystal light, and a panoramic window that flooded the chamber with daylight, softened by rain veiling the city beyond. Seated at the head, President Zhang Wei radiated an austere calm, his posture that of a sovereign surveying his domain. Beside him lounged his son, Zhang Ji, the CEO of the SSCBF, whose youthful arrogance curled in his half-smile like smoke curling from a candle.
Gathered in solemn array stood Chief Wen-Li, Commander Krieg, Lieutenant Nightingale, Lan Qian, and the captains—Robert Voreyevsky, Lingaong Xuein, Xuemin, and Feng Shaoyun. Their eyes, sharpened by years of field and fury, now settled upon Dr. Abrar as though he were both conjurer and heretic on trial.
At the centre of the chamber, the bioengineered subject—Elias "Vanguard" Krohn—stood upright, his posture unnervingly perfect, his luminous eyes betraying the transformation wrought by Abrar's experiment.
Dr. Abrar clasped his hands behind his back, inhaled slowly, and began, his voice resonant though edged with nerves:
"Ladies and gentlemen of the council, before you stands the culmination of years of endeavour. Elias Krohn, once fractured by battle, now reborn by means of genetic bioengineering. His neural pathways have been reinforced with stabilised synaptic fibres, his muscular structure harmonised with cellular augmentation. Observe: heightened reflexes, enhanced cognitive clarity, and resilience far beyond human baseline. What was once frailty has been transmuted into strength."
He gestured towards Elias, who lifted a metal chair effortlessly with one hand, then set it down with the precision of a craftsman. The room rustled faintly—gasps muffled, scepticism simmering.
President Zhang Wei leaned forward, his expression inscrutable, his voice grave.
"Dr. Abrar, these results are remarkable—yet tell me, what assurance have we that this… metamorphosis does not jeopardise the agent's humanity? That strength does not become monstrosity?"
Abrar inclined his head, his tone reverent.
"Mr. President, the essence of humanity lies not in frailty, but in choice. The enhancements do not dictate will—they sharpen the instrument through which will acts. Elias remains himself, only less fettered by weakness. Monstrosity arises not from power, but from corruption of intent. And that, gentlemen, lies not in my laboratory, but in the hearts of men."
Zhang Ji let out a soft chuckle, his voice slicing into the chamber with insouciant disdain.
"So, Doctor, you play god with the clay of mankind, and then recite philosophy to absolve yourself. Very poetic. Yet forgive me—what you call enhancement, others might call a gilded leash."
The remark drew a thin smile to his lips, while Abrar's own faltered for an instant, nerves flickering in his tightened jaw. Still, he remained outwardly composed, bowing his head slightly as if to acknowledge the barb without surrendering to it.
Across the room, Robert's fists clenched at his sides, his eyes blazing. That arrogant pup… I'll bash his skull against that polished desk. The thought coursed through him with such force that his jaw trembled. At once, Lingaong Xuein, ever the tether to his storm, laid a hand gently upon his wrist. Her touch was cool, her whisper softer still:
"Captain, don't. He isn't worth your temper."
Robert exhaled through his nose, his glare dimming though the fury still smouldered in his chest.
Commander Krieg's voice broke the taut silence, brusque and pragmatic:
"Doctor, what of the battlefield? Theory is well and good, but how will these augmentations fare under the gun, the blade, the attrition of war?"
Abrar pivoted to face him, straightening as though steadied by the question's gravity.
"Commander, the augmentation was devised for war. Vanguard's reflexes are triple the baseline response; his skeletal density resists concussive trauma at levels once thought fatal. He will not only survive the battlefield—he will redefine it. Yet, as with any blade, caution must temper use. Sharpen a sword too finely, and it snaps."
Chief Wen-Li, who until then had watched with hawk-like intensity, allowed herself the ghost of a smile. Her voice, calm but suffused with an approving warmth, cut through the charged atmosphere.
"Dr. Abrar, you have accomplished what many deemed impossible. To create strength without sacrificing the man—it is no small victory. For that, you have my respect."
Abrar bowed his head slightly, his expression suffused with restrained pride. But then, as if compelled by conscience, his tone darkened, warning threading through his words like a low storm rumble.
"And yet, I must remind you all—as I reminded Nurse Anne only hours ago—this triumph walks a razor's edge. The process is delicate, perilous. A single error, a sliver of arrogance, and the same forces that elevate may annihilate. Death is no stranger in this laboratory. If we proceed with vigilance, we tread towards progress. If we falter, we risk catastrophe."
A heavy silence hung, as though the chamber itself were weighing his words.
Nightingale tilted her head, her expression sombre. "So, you hand us a blade, Doctor—and warn us that it may cut its wielder deeper than its foe."
Feng Shaoyun exhaled, his hand brushing his chin. "A triumph, yes—but one whose glory is braided with peril."
Lan Qian, standing quietly at the periphery, felt a shiver trace her spine. "A miracle balanced on the abyss," she murmured to herself.
Even President Zhang Wei's stoicism wavered for a breath, his gaze fixed upon Elias Krohn—the soldier who now stood as both promise and portent.
And Zhang Ji, though still smirking, said nothing further—perhaps because even mockery could not wholly dismiss the tremor of awe coiling beneath his cynicism.
The chamber shifted into an arena of scrutiny as Elias "Vanguard" Krohn stepped forward into the cleared centre of the President's office. The air thickened with expectancy, the silence taut as a bowstring.
At a nod from Dr. Abrar, two steel constructs—training drones shaped like angular sentinels—whirred to life. Their eyes glowed crimson, their limbs bristling with blunted weapons designed to bruise, not kill.
Vanguard did not flinch. His breath came slow, measured, his frame poised like a predator coiled in patience. Then, with a sudden crack of movement, the drones lunged.
What followed was less combat than choreography: Vanguard's body moved with preternatural grace, his limbs flowing like water, yet striking with the certainty of hammer on anvil. A baton swung for his head; he dipped beneath it and countered with an open palm that sent the drone reeling back as though struck by thunder. The second advanced, its arm jabbing with relentless precision—yet Elias parried each thrust with reflexes too sharp to follow, his strikes a blur of controlled violence.
Gasps rippled across the chamber. Nightingale's lips parted in silent astonishment. Feng Shaoyun leaned forward, her eyes wide, following each motion as though trying to capture the essence of speed itself. Robert, arms folded, let slip a rare smirk, though beneath it burned an unspoken thought: This is both marvel and menace.
The duel ended as swiftly as it began. Vanguard seized the last drone by its metal throat, hoisted it aloft with one hand, and slammed it into the ground. Sparks erupted, the machine shuddering before lying still—vanquished.
Silence reclaimed the room. Elias straightened, his chest barely heaving, his eyes calm as if nothing extraordinary had transpired.
Commander Krieg exhaled slowly, a grunt of grudging approval escaping him.
"By the gods, he moves like a storm given flesh."
Wen-Li allowed the faintest curve to her lips, though her gaze lingered with both admiration and unease. "A storm, yes—but storms do not choose where they break."
Dr. Abrar, his face alight with fervour, spread his arms as if presenting a divine relic.
"Gentlemen, ladies—Vanguard is proof. The human frame, perfected. A living testament that our vision was not folly."
And yet, in the quiet corner, Lan Qian felt her skin prickle, her whisper barely audible even to herself:
"Perfection so close to peril—it's like staring at the sun."
The council of eyes fell back upon Vanguard, who stood in silence—a soldier transfigured, a blade sharpened to brilliance, yet carrying within him the dreadful possibility of cutting the hand that wielded him.
The chamber had scarcely emptied before Chief Wen-Li, Captain Robert, and Commander Krieg remained behind, the air still vibrating with the echo of Vanguard's display.
Wen-Li, arms folded, leaned against the edge of the mahogany table, her gaze fixed on the floor as though the polished wood might yield answers. "What we saw was extraordinary," she said, her tone even yet edged with gravity. "But extraordinary and dangerous often share the same bed."
Robert paced like a caged wolf, his jaw taut, fists clenching and unclenching. "Dangerous? He is a bloody weapon in human skin. I've fought alongside men, machines, monsters—none moved like that. Today it was drones. Tomorrow—what if it is us?" His voice rose, thick with disdain, though his eyes betrayed the flicker of reluctant awe.
Krieg, who had remained silent until now, exhaled heavily, his bulk settling into a chair that creaked under his weight. "Weapons win wars, Robert. Do not forget—our enemies sharpen their knives daily. If we cling to hesitation, we'll be gutted before we raise a shield." His eyes, hard as tempered steel, shifted to Wen-Li. "Vanguard is salvation. To spurn him is folly."
Wen-Li lifted her head, her gaze steady, her voice tempered with quiet authority. "Salvation can become scourge, Commander. A storm unleashed cannot be tethered. If Vanguard is our sword, who ensures he never turns upon the hand that wields him?"
For a moment, silence claimed them. Robert stopped pacing, meeting her eyes with a grim nod. "She's right. Pandora's box, Krieg. Once opened, it never closes. And this—" he gestured to the arena floor where sparks still smouldered from broken drones—"this is a box we may not have the strength to shut."
Krieg grunted, his lips curling in disdain, yet his silence betrayed that doubt gnawed even at him. Wen-Li's final words hung heavy in the room, as inexorable as fate:
"Salvation and damnation often arrive in the same guise. The difference lies only in who holds the reins."
The Silvershade Archipelago, once a playground of opulence, now bore the aura of faded grandeur—golf greens overgrown with invasive weeds, fairways cracked by salt winds, and broken villas looming in the distance like mausoleums of forgotten wealth. Yet amid this ruin, a pristine private course had been meticulously maintained, reserved for those who could still command power.
Upon this field, Gavriel swung his club with effortless poise, his stance precise as though sculpted from marble. The ball arced high, glistening against the fractured twilight, and landed with immaculate accuracy upon the green, rolling unerringly into position.
Arindam Chatterjee gave a low whistle, adjusting his cufflinks with an arched brow. "Impeccable, Gavriel. One would think you'd been bred for this very sport."
Maheshvar Rao, lean and sharp-eyed, gave a curt clap, muttering, "Precision like that belongs to men who plan wars, not games."
Edward Cartwright, with his aristocratic drawl, raised his glass of chilled brandy as if in a toast. "A shot worthy of Caesar himself."
Diego Cervantes, ever more animated, laughed aloud. "Madre de Dios, Gavriel—you make us look like amateurs."
Gavriel only smirked, tilting his head slightly, his eyes gleaming with the smug serenity of a predator at leisure. "Gentlemen," he replied, voice smooth as silk over steel, "the game is not won by strength, but by control."
At that moment, a guard approached discreetly, bowing his head before whispering into Gavriel's ear. Gavriel's lips curled into a thin, mirthless chuckle that slithered into the air like smoke.
Maheshvar narrowed his gaze, suspicion sharpening his tone. "What amuses you so, Gavriel?"
Turning to face them, Gavriel's smirk widened, the glint in his eyes both sardonic and sinister. "Word reaches us of Dr. Abrar's success. His project of bioengineering agents—of reshaping their physical and mental faculties into something... beyond human."
Edward leaned forward with interest, swirling his drink. "Fascinating."
Gavriel's voice dropped lower, laden with menace, as he spread his hands as if unveiling a treasure. "And these agents, gentlemen, will not remain their masters' soldiers for long. No—they shall be ours."
Diego tilted his head, curiosity mingled with greed. "And how, may I ask, will you leash such hounds?"
Gavriel stepped closer, his presence eclipsing the broken sunlight. "Through the mind," he said softly, savouring the word. "Mind control is the manipulation of feelings, behaviours, and psychology without one's knowledge. It bends the brain—compelling thought, warping emotion, extinguishing belief—through coercion and deceit. It dismantles autonomy, poisons critical thinking, and chains the will until it belongs not to the self, but to the master. It is brainwashing—subtle, inexorable, inescapable."
He paused, letting his words coil around them like serpents. Then, with deliberate calm, he added, "And the key is already inside them. The Sentinel Helix, fused to their bodies, tethered to their very nerves. By that helix we shall worm into their souls. We will turn their loyalty into illusion, their obedience into instinct. With each breath they take, they shall unknowingly serve us. Unknowingly Dr. Abrar did his work for us without knowing and now it is our turn to make those agents into monsters"
He also added as his tone darkened, becoming almost liturgical, as though reciting scripture of corruption. "Imagine it—every strike they deliver, every trigger they pull, every heartbeat quickening in their engineered chests—not for SSCBF, not for Abrar, not for Wen-Li. But for us. By such dominion, we do not merely build an army. We dismantle free will itself, and by doing so, we shall bend the axis of the world."
Arindam, Maheshvar, Edward, and Diego exchanged glances—expressions curdling into devilish grins, the delight of conspirators staring upon a vision of dominion. Their laughter rose, dark and resonant, mingling with the sea-wind that swept the broken archipelago.
And there Gavriel stood—smiling faintly, his club resting against his shoulder—like Mephistopheles unveiling paradise, when in truth he offered only chains.
In the dim quietude of her office, Chief Wen-Li sat at her mahogany desk, the LED light spilling an amber white glow across heaps of dossiers and surveillance transcripts. Her pen, once swift, now dragged languidly across the page; her posture slouched ever so slightly, betraying the exhaustion coiled beneath her disciplined exterior. A faint sigh escaped her lips, as she pinched the bridge of her nose and leaned back in her chair, shoulders loosening for the briefest of moments.
Her gaze drifted sideways—toward the television mounted on the wall. She hesitated, lips pursing, then with a weary flick of her hand reached for the remote. The screen blinked alive, its glow filling the room with cold, flickering light.
The broadcast erupted with scenes of calamity: Obsidian Peak aflame beneath a bruised sky, black plumes twisting like serpents into the night. Figures clad in grotesque regalia—The Sinner—marched amidst the chaos, their banners aflutter in the sulphuric wind. Civilians scattered in blind panic; armoured vehicles smouldered, their carcasses testament to the ferocity of the assault. The reporter's voice quavered through the static: "Breaking news—the insurgent faction known as the Sinner has unleashed full-scale anarchy at Obsidian Peak…"
Wen-Li's eyes narrowed to slits, her face hardening into an impassive mask, though her hand tightened upon the desk's edge until her knuckles paled. Yet in the faintest corner of the screen, her mouth twitched downwards—a flicker of grief swiftly swallowed by steel.
She reached across the desk and pressed the call button, her tone sharp, clipped, resonant with command:
"Commander. Captain of the Celestial Unit. Dr. Abrar. Report to my office—immediately."
The intercom clicked dead, leaving only the muffled wail of sirens from the television. Wen-Li remained still, her silhouette half-swathed in shadow. For a fleeting second, her expression softened into something almost chibi-like—her brows furrowed adorably small, lips pressed in a pout of frustration, as if silently chastising the universe for throwing yet another conflagration upon her weary shoulders.
Under her breath, she murmured, "The mountain bleeds, and still the wolves circle… Obsidian Peak may yet be our crucible."
Her reflection on the darkened glass of the window seemed to nod back at her—a commander who bore the calm of night, and the quiet ache of a thousand storms weathered.
At the Black Castle, the chamber was drenched in violet lamplight, shadows flickering across obsidian walls as Lady Sin reclined upon her throne-like chair, a chalice of crimson wine poised between her fingertips. Around her, the Sinner council—Zoyah, Bai-yu, Adela, Venom, Cabernet, Bianca—huddled before a suspended holoscreen showing the chaos erupting at Obsidian Peak. The broadcast bled with fire, smoke, and screams, the city's veins running molten red.
Adela leaned forward, eyes narrowing, her tone sharp as a blade.
"Is someone among us orchestrating this madness—and hanging our name upon the gallows for it?"
"I think so…" murmured Bai-yu, her fan snapping open with a hiss, eyes glimmering like cold jade.
"But who?!" snarled Venom, his serpentine tongue clicking against his teeth as his posture coiled, almost feral.
Cabernet, languid and half-dreaming in posture, exhaled a soft laugh, her voice rich and dangerous.
"Whoever it is, darling, they play with shadows far too carelessly. Fire burns, but smoke suffocates—and their smoke reeks of amateur theatre."
Bianca crossed her legs, one heel tapping against the stone floor with practised disdain.
"If someone wishes to mimic our signature, then they'll soon learn that forged art never endures. True sin cannot be counterfeited—it is carved into the marrow."
Lady Sin rose at last, her silken gown unfurling behind her like a living shadow. A smirk ghosted her lips as she glided across the chamber.
"None of us went there. If we did,"—her voice curled like a whip—"Obsidian Peak would have already crumbled into dust."
She raised her right hand, extending two fingers with serpentine grace.
"Besides, there are two groups of Sinner: the first is mine—the organisation, my design, with ranks and law even in chaos. The second…" her smirk widened, "is the rabble of Tier Sinner—creatures who answer to none, outlaws crowned by notoriety, each a calamity unto themselves."
"Tier Sinner?" Adela echoed, brows lifting, her voice half-fascinated, half-dreading.
"Yes," Lady Sin's tone sharpened into pedagogy. "Tier Sinner are ranked anomalies, criminals, monsters in human skin—or not human at all. Their legend grows by the ruin they leave behind."
At the SSCBF headquarters, Wen-Li's jaw was set like tempered steel as the holoscreen blazed with images of Obsidian Peak. She rose, her presence filling the chamber like a sudden storm.
"Commander Krieg," her voice struck like a whip of authority, "you and the Celestial Unit will deploy to Obsidian Peak. Arrest the Sinner. If they resist, you are authorised to use excessive force. The city must not drown further in their carnage."
Commander Krieg saluted with precision, his voice booming.
"As you command, Chief!"
Captain Lingaong Xuemin folded her arms, eyes narrowing.
"We march into the maw of hell itself—but better us than the civilians. We'll bring them back in chains, Chief, or not at all."
Wen-Li's gaze slid to Dr. Abrar. "Dr. Abrar, is your agent ready?"
The doctor's spectacles gleamed beneath the overhead light, his lips curling into the faintest smile.
"Yes, Chief. He stands ready. The fruits of our labour are at your disposal."
Her lips arched into a smirk.
"Good. I trust your miracle will not wither when placed beneath the flame."
Abrar inclined his head. "A miracle, Chief, is only as strong as its believers. Yet remember—it is as volatile as fire. Mishandled, it consumes both friend and foe."
A hush followed. They all nodded, then filed out, boots echoing in the sterile corridor. Wen-Li remained behind, her reflection looming across the glass wall of her office. She exhaled deeply, the faintest trace of fatigue haunting her eyes, before muttering to herself:
"Obsidian Peak… if this is their stage, then let us bring the curtain down."
Obsidian Peak rose like a wounded god from the smog, neon bleeding across fractured cliffs. Ash-laden winds howled. Streets cracked beneath panic, civilians scattering like sparks before the inferno.
Amidst the chaos, the Tier Sinner descended like plagues:
Dhalmora, pale as bone, her shattered halo dripping fragments of light. Victims clutched their heads, screaming their own names until they dissolved into silence—forgotten by themselves.
Charnel V, a cybernetic executioner, hoisted a captive before a buzzing lens, streaming agony to the city's billboards. "Smile," he crooned, "you're already dead."
Ash-Sark, mech-armour glowing molten, stomped through steel and stone. His subsonic growls sent men seizing on the ground. "Cities do not fall to me," his voice reverberated, "they melt."
Mireya the Scourged Saint raised plague vials in trembling hands. "I pray for you, child," she whispered to a shrieking woman, "this is salvation."
Noctis Bell strummed a broken lute, one haunting note sending glass and eardrums shattering alike. "Hear the bells," he smirked, "and hear your requiem."
Yuexin-9, drones swarming like locusts, crooned lullabies through fractured speakers. "Do not fear. Sleep forever with me."
Gravemother Solene, veiled in mourning, shuffled forward as dead children clawed from the soil at her feet. "My little ones," she crooned, "play with them, play until they are quiet."
Above them all stood their leader: a man in an immaculate gentleman's suit, his face concealed beneath a white porcelain tragedy mask. He raised his cane like a sceptre.
"Burn the Peak," his voice sang like theatre, smooth yet venomous. "Tonight, Nin-Ran-Gi shall watch the stars drown in ash."
At the SCP headquarters, Chief Richter sat in her chamber of chrome and glass, penning silent notes as moonlight kissed her platinum hair. Her malice smile was faint, deliberate. At the door's hiss, she lifted her gaze.
"Come."
Captain Shira entered, her salute crisp.
"The report, Chief. Chief Wen-Li has dispatched Commander Krieg and the Celestial Unit to Obsidian Peak."
Richter's lips curled into a crescent smile.
"Where the Tier Sinner sow their theatre of ruin, correct?"
"Yes."
Richter tapped her nails against the desk, each click sharp as a guillotine.
"And with them, she unveils her precious experiment. How fitting—the Peak becomes not only a battleground, but a proving ground."
Shira bowed her head. "As you say, Chief." She withdrew, her footsteps fading.
Richter leaned back, her gaze turning to the shadows.
"Run to your crucible, Wen-Li," she murmured, eyes glinting like knives. "I shall watch as your faith turns either to iron—or to ash."
The night bled crimson across the poisoned skies of Obsidian Peak, the air trembling with the echo of distant detonations and the metallic scent of ash. Floodlights from the SSCBF convoy cut through the choking smog, their beams slicing over shattered overpasses and the skeletal silhouettes of half-collapsed towers. The Celestial Unit rode within armoured jeeps and all-terrain SUVs—engines growling like caged beasts—as they descended into the inferno.
Inside the lead vehicle, Commander Krieg sat at the front, his gloved hands resting atop his rifle. His expression was that of a weathered statue—etched with duty, tempered by war. Beside him, the prototype soldier, Vanguard, stared ahead in silent focus, the faint glow of his ocular implants reflecting the red light from the dashboard.
In the backseat, Captain Lingaong Xuemin leaned forward, his tone sharp and grim.
"Obsidian Peak's gone feral," he muttered. "Tier Sinner are slaughtering indiscriminately. Civilians are being herded like cattle for sport."
Feng Shaoyun, brushing ash from her hair, scowled beneath her visor. "The news feed showed melting streets. That wasn't chaos—it was artistry in carnage. Someone's choreographing this madness."
Krieg's gravelled voice cut through the tension.
"Keep your focus. This isn't just an engagement—it's a message. Someone wants the SSCBF to bleed."
Gu Zhaoyun, sharp-eyed and sardonic even under pressure, gave a faint smirk.
"Then let's bleed louder. The city's watching—we can't falter before those self-proclaimed monsters."
Before Krieg could respond, the shriek of incoming ordnance tore through the air—a mechanical scream that split the night. Gu Zhaoyun's head jerked up, her pupils dilating.
"Missile! Watch out!" she shouted, her voice shattering the cockpit calm.
In a single heartbeat, everything erupted.
The missile struck the lead jeep with the force of a thunderclap, engulfing it in a storm of flame and shrapnel. The explosion painted the darkness in orange and gold, debris raining like meteors across the ravaged highway. Krieg threw open his door, diving into the dirt as the shockwave rolled over them. Xuemin dragged Shaoyun behind a concrete divider, his arm shielding her from the blast as burning fragments scattered like fireflies.
The concussive roar gave way to the crackle of fire and the groan of twisting metal. Smoke billowed upward—dense, acrid, and alive with embers.
Krieg pushed himself up, coughing, his uniform singed but his stance unbroken.
"Is everybody alright?!" he bellowed, voice echoing across the shattered asphalt.
Xuemin rose first, brushing off soot as his eyes darted across the team.
"Shaoyun, Zhaoyun, Linyu, Ping, Shaoyong, Qu—sound off!"
Each responded in turn, some limping, others bloodied but alive. Vanguard emerged last, stepping from the wreckage like a revenant—his armour scorched, one shoulder plate dented, yet his gaze unflinching. His synthetic muscles hissed as they reset, faint plumes of vapour curling off him like ghostly breath.
Then came the sound—measured, deliberate footsteps, echoing through the stillness. The kind of sound that didn't just announce presence—it commanded it.
From the smoke, silhouettes materialised: seven of them, each distinct in shape and menace, with their leader stepping forth like a conductor before an orchestra of ruin. He was tall, dressed immaculately in a black gentleman's suit dusted with ash, a white porcelain tragedy mask concealing his face. In his right hand, a silver-tipped cane tapped the ground with rhythmic precision.
The Celestial Unit drew their weapons in unison. The air thickened. The ash hung motionless.
Then, the masked man inclined his head in mock civility, one hand resting against his chest as he gave a theatrical bow.
"Welcome, dear officers of the SSCBF," he said in a voice like velvet stretched over glass—smooth, resonant, but edged with malice. "How splendid of you to join us. We were beginning to think justice had forgotten this mountain."
Feng Shaoyun clenched her rifle, eyes narrowing. "You've got a strange definition of splendour."
The man's mask tilted, as though smiling. "Ah, but splendour, my dear, is subjective. For some, it's peace. For others…"—he gestured languidly at the burning cityscape behind him—"…it's poetry in destruction."
Commander Krieg raised his weapon, the scope aligning with the porcelain face. His voice was a low growl, vibrating with restrained fury.
"You're not poets—you're butchers. And tonight, your verse ends here."
The masked leader chuckled softly, spreading his arms.
"Then let the curtain rise, Commander Krieg. Let us see whose tragedy this will be."
As he spoke, the Tier Sinner fanned out behind him, their powers flaring in waves of impossible energy—the air trembling with heat, sound, and death. Vanguard stepped forward, his eyes igniting like twin suns as his combat systems locked on. The two forces stared across the ruin-streaked highway—a line drawn between salvation and damnation.
Then, with a flash of movement and a roar that drowned the storm, the battle for Obsidian Peak began.
The President's Office of the SSCBF Headquarters was an edifice of quiet menace — a sanctum of glass, steel, and power masquerading as order. Vast windows overlooked the smog-stained skyline of Nin-Ran-Gi, the world fractured light refracted upon the marble floor like the shards of a broken crown. The air was perfumed faintly with old cigars and ozone from the data conduits embedded in the walls.
At the far end of the chamber stood President Zhang Wei, an aged man of iron posture and unrelenting presence. His silver hair, combed back with meticulous precision, glimmered beneath the amber desk lamp. His gaze—cold, crystalline, and sharp enough to flay illusions—was fixed upon the holographic projection before him: Vanguard, captured mid-strike during the earlier field test.
Across from him lounged Zhang Ji, his son and the C.E.O. of the SSCBF. Unlike his father's austere composure, Ji's charm was serpentine—his smile too poised, his gestures too rehearsed. He swirled a glass of crimson liquor idly, the motion languid yet deliberate, as if savouring both the drink and the conversation it precluded.
For a moment, neither spoke—the silence between them was a cathedral of unspoken ambition.
Then Zhang Wei's voice broke through—low, calm, but resonant with authority.
"So," he murmured, fingers steepled beneath his chin, "Dr. Abrar's creation breathes, walks, and obeys. Our little Prometheus has delivered fire to the obedient."
Zhang Ji chuckled, setting the glass down with an audible clink.
"Fire, yes," he drawled, "but one that dances to our wind. Vanguard is magnificent—a soldier without hesitation, without conscience. The perfect vassal."
The elder Zhang's thin lips curved in something too controlled to be called a smile. "Until he realises he burns brighter than his masters."
Ji leaned forward, the amber light catching the faint scar at his jawline. "That's where our mind synchronisation protocol enters, father. The Sentinel Helix embedded in his neural spine isn't just a conduit—it's a leash. One pulse from our network, and his will becomes a symphony of our choosing."
Zhang Wei rose slowly, his shadow lengthening across the floor like a dark tide. "You speak of control, my son, as if it were a toy. But control is a religion—it requires faith and sacrifice." He turned towards the window, looking out over the sprawling city whose lights flickered beneath the night fog. "When the High Chaebols see what we have wrought, they will kneel not in gratitude, but in necessity."
Zhang Ji's grin sharpened. "And the SSCBF, dear father, will be their temple of obedience. Every agent, every operative—converted from human volatility to programmable loyalty. No hesitation. No rebellion. Just precision."
"Like puppets strung upon the threads of progress," murmured Zhang Wei, his tone both reverent and venomous. "The world won't even notice when freedom becomes a luxury good."
Zhang Ji rose from his chair, walking toward the holographic image of Vanguard. The blue light danced across his face, illuminating his eyes—cold, calculating, fevered with ambition.
"Soon," he said softly, "these enhanced agents will not serve the people. They will serve us. The Chaebols will believe themselves in control, but we will be the puppeteers behind their shadows."
His father turned to him, eyes glinting like molten steel beneath frost. "You speak as though you've already dethroned the gods."
Zhang Ji smirked, brushing invisible dust from his cuff. "No, father. I merely intend to remind them who built their thrones."
For a moment, the elder Zhang studied him in silence—his son, his mirror, and perhaps his undoing. Then he exhaled softly, a sigh that carried both pride and foreboding.
"Just remember, Ji," he said, voice dipped in quiet gravity, "those who weave strings often forget that strings can strangle."
Zhang Ji met his gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching into a half-smile.
"Then we shall wear silk gloves, father."
Their laughter—refined, hollow, and quietly monstrous—echoed through the glass chamber as the holographic Vanguard continued its motionless salute, the perfect image of obedience beneath the watchful eyes of his unseen masters.
The scene cut sharply—as though reality itself had flinched—switching from the sterile, serpentine calm of the President's office to the roaring inferno of Obsidian Peak.
The night here was not dark; it was alive—a seething tapestry of molten neon and electric ash, where every explosion painted the rain in strokes of fire and phosphor. The city's skeletal towers, once proud, now burned like torches in a pyre of civilisation's decay.
Through the smoke and chaos, the Celestial Unit advanced—ghosts of discipline amid an orchestra of madness. Commander Krieg led the vanguard, his greatcoat whipping behind him like a tattered banner. His eyes—pale, wolfish, and burning with military fervour—glinted against the stormlight.
"Move in formation!" he barked, voice cutting through the detonations like a whip of iron. "Keep eyes sharp—those Sinners are not mere flesh, they're symphonies of lunacy!"
The ground trembled—a mechanical growl rising from beneath the cracked asphalt. Ash-Sark, the living furnace, emerged from a veil of fire, his body a colossus of scorched metal. He spoke in guttural frequencies that shook the very marrow, glass fracturing in invisible resonance.
Feng Shaoyun grimaced, covering her ears. "Bloody hell—he's distorting the sound waves!"
Gu Zhaoyun rolled aside, her pistols blazing like twin comets. "Then let's distort his face!" she quipped, her expression fierce yet playfully defiant—her chibi-like animated exaggeration briefly showing a vein popping in comedic frustration before she regained her deadly grace.
Commander Krieg leapt forward, his mechanical arm igniting with a plasma bayonet, cleaving through a collapsing streetlamp that fell like a guillotine. Sparks rained like starlight upon his armour.
From the shadows above, Dhalmora appeared—her fractured halo flickering with spectral light, eyes like two pale moons.
"Do you remember your name, soldier?" she whispered, voice dripping like honeyed poison.
For a heartbeat, Krieg's vision fractured—memories flickering like broken film reels—but Vanguard intercepted, his motion impossibly fluid, striking her mid-incantation with a strike that shattered the air itself.
Dhalmora spun mid-air, crashing through a neon sign that screamed SIN IS SALVATION.
Vanguard stood, unflinching, steam rising from his cybernetic limbs. His expression—neutral, serene—held no trace of emotion, only purpose.
"Commander," he said, his voice a harmonic blend of human tone and machine precision, "targets neutralised. Requesting next directive."
Krieg smirked grimly, a bead of sweat gliding down his temple. "Gods above, you're terrifying."
But the reprieve was short-lived.
A sudden, haunting melody rippled through the smoke—the song of Noctis Bell. His violin screeched a single note, sharp enough to pierce sanity itself. Vibrations shattered windshields, made the neon signs flicker like dying hearts.
Xuemin shouted, "Cover your ears! Don't let the rhythm catch you!"
Gu Zhaoyun, crouching behind a flaming car, yelled, "I swear if I survive this, I'm suing whoever made this soundtrack!"—her chibi form appearing again for an instant, puffed cheeks and twitching brow before reality snapped her back into grim action.
Feng Shaoyun extended her arm, summoning a drone sphere from her wristband—it expanded into a mirror shield of translucent plasma. "Deploying sonic dampeners!" she yelled. The air hummed, the world slowed, and the shrill death note dissolved into white silence.
Then came Gravemother Solene, limping forward with her entourage of pale, eyeless children—bodies twitching with ghostlight. Her voice rasped like silk over a tombstone.
"You kill, and I grieve. But I grieve louder."
Vanguard's eyes flickered—his combat protocols blooming in luminous patterns across his neural frame. "Permission to engage full synchronisation mode, Commander."
Krieg clenched his jaw. "Granted! Make it bloody poetic!"
And it was.
Vanguard moved like divine geometry incarnate—his body a blur of precision and violence, cutting through the undead like a surgeon dissecting nightmares. Each strike left an afterimage—a ghost of motion too perfect to belong to mortal anatomy.
Xuemin watched, both awed and unnerved. "He's fighting like… like he already knows the choreography of death."
Gu Zhaoyun gulped, reloading her pistols. "Or like death knows him."
In the distance, atop the broken spire of a collapsed temple, the Leader of the Tier Sinner stood—his porcelain Tragedy Mask gleaming under the fractured moonlight. His coat fluttered with theatrical grace as he slow-clapped, mocking applause echoing through the ruin.
"Bravo, my brave lambs," he drawled, voice deep and serpentine. "You fight with the conviction of martyrs and the choreography of puppets. But tell me…"—he tilted his head—"…do you even know who holds your strings?"
Commander Krieg raised his rifle, eyes narrowing. "Keep talking, clown. I like knowing which bastard I'm going to bury."
The masked man's laughter was soft, almost musical, carried away by the storm. "Bury me? Oh no, Commander. Tonight, we bury the truth."
He snapped his fingers—explosions cascaded across the street like falling stars. The battle renewed in a crescendo of chaos and fire.
And somewhere far away, in the pristine calm of SSCBF headquarters, the holographic projection of the same battlefield shimmered in the hands of Zhang Ji—his smirk unbroken, his finger hovering over the neural control switch.
"Dance, Vanguard," he murmured, almost tenderly. "Dance for your gods."
The screen flickered—
—cut to black.
At the Black Castle, where shadows slithered across marble like serpents, Lady Sin reclined on her throne—its armrests carved with the faces of angels in torment.
Before her stood her lieutenants: Adela, Venom, and Bai-Yu, each with the poise of killers who knew beauty in violence.
"My Lady… who is their leader, then?" asked Adela, her voice trembling with both intrigue and unease.
Lady Sin's lips curled into a smirk of dark knowing, her violet eyes glinting like shards of amethyst under the chandelier's ghostly light.
"Their leader," she murmured, rising from her seat with the grace of a serpent uncoiling, "was once one of ours. A high-ranking operative of the SSCBF."
Venom's composure faltered—her pupils dilated in disbelief. "High-ranking operative?!"
"Yes," Lady Sin purred, twirling a strand of silver hair around her finger. "He has seen ruin—manufactured it, even. He was the hammer of their justice… until justice itself devoured him. Now he is the nightmare they once unleashed."
"What's his name, My Lady?" asked Bai-Yu, her voice a whisper trembling through the air like the pluck of a violin string.
Lady Sin's smirk widened; her tone was a silken whisper, edged with the weight of revelation.
"His name is Velgrave… Former General Velgrave Prystowsky."
A surge of wind tore through the battleground, scattering ash and embers like dying souls.
Commander Krieg, breathing heavily, ripped the porcelain Tragedy Mask from the fallen figure's face—only to stagger back in disbelief.
The firelight caught the man's features—half-human, half-wraith. Skin pale as bone china, veins glowing faintly beneath, eyes hollowed yet burning with eerie lucidity.
Krieg's voice cracked with shock. "Y-You… Velgrave?!"
Velgrave raised his head slowly, a villainous smirk curling across his skeletal visage. His voice was a deep, resonant murmur—equal parts silk and iron.
"So… the loyal dog remembers his master."
"You were dead," Krieg spat, his fists trembling, "buried with the others after the Halcyon Uprising!"
Velgrave chuckled, low and terrible. "Death is merely retirement with paperwork, Commander." He spread his arms, the air rippling with black fog that devoured the neon light. "And I have been promoted."
Krieg's jaw tightened, the reflection of fire flickering in his eyes. "You've become the very thing you swore to destroy."
Velgrave tilted his head. "And you—still kneel to the thing that made me."
Suddenly, from behind the flames, Vanguard stepped forward—his eyes flickering erratically between blue and crimson.
Dr. Abrar's creation—once a marvel of engineering and flesh—now trembled like a malfunctioning god.
"Vanguard," Krieg barked, "stand down!"
But something inside the cyborg had fractured. His breath quickened, veins pulsing beneath the skin like molten circuits. Then his pupils spiralled—the whites of his eyes vanishing into veins of red.
Ping Lianhua gasped. "Commander… something's wrong with him!"
Vanguard's voice glitched—layered, distorted. "Directive—confirm… eliminate… threats…" His movements turned mechanical, jerky, too precise.
Xuemin stepped forward. "Vanguard! It's us!"
No response—only the cold whine of his arm cannon charging up.
Gu Zhaoyun shouted, "He's aiming at us!" as the ground exploded inches from her boots, the shockwave throwing her and Feng Shaoyun backward.
Krieg's expression twisted into fury. "They've triggered a remote override—mind control!"
"Mind control?!" Ping Lianhua's voice quivered, hands raised in instinctive defence.
Vanguard advanced toward her, blade unsheathed, his shadow stretching over her trembling frame. Her eyes widened—caught between disbelief and fear.
Then—
a crimson flash cleaved the smoke.
Velgrave moved like death itself—one clean motion, a slash too fast for the human eye.
Vanguard froze mid-strike, the light in his eyes dimming, then collapsed to his knees—sparks sputtering from his chest cavity.
Silence fell. Even the storm paused to grieve.
Ping Lianhua stared, pale and breathless. "He… saved me…"
Krieg exhaled, his tone half gratitude, half exhaustion. "Velgrave… why?"
Velgrave stood over Vanguard's corpse, wiping his blade clean with surgical detachment. "A man should not be chained twice—first by duty, then by circuitry."
As he turned away, the fog around him pulsed like a living shroud. "End this farce," he ordered to his followers.
The Tier Sinners ceased their assault, lowering their weapons.
Krieg called out, his tone raw. "Velgrave—wait!"
But the former general did not turn. "You'll find your answers where your leash begins," he said softly, voice fading into the storm. "Look to the hand that feeds your obedience."
He and his Sinners vanished into the mist, leaving only silence and the crackling of dying flames.
Xuemin approached Krieg, still in disbelief. "Commander… Why did Vanguard turn on us? He was one of ours!"
Krieg's jaw clenched—his fist trembling, knuckles whitening as rain sizzled upon the metal of his gauntlet.
"There's only one answer," he said coldly. "And it lies within the hell that built him."
The wind howled like laughter through the ruins—to the fractured moon, watching like an indifferent god.
The rain still clung to their uniforms when the Celestial Unit arrived at the SSCBF headquarters, their boots echoing like hollow drums against the marble floor.
Every step carried the weight of failure, of horror—and of something unspeakably wrong.
The automatic doors parted with a hiss, revealing Commander Krieg, soaked to the bone, his jaw clenched and eyes dark as stormclouds. Behind him, on the stretcher draped in the organisation's banner, lay the lifeless body of Vanguard—the once-brilliant fusion of man and machine now reduced to silent ruin.
Sparks still fizzled faintly from the fractured ports along his spine, like dying fireflies.
Krieg's composure fractured. His voice tore through the corridor like a whipcrack:
"Dr. Abrar! Get here now!"
The cry reverberated through the vast atrium. Scientists, analysts, and officers froze mid-step, heads turning in disbelief. The sound carried the timbre of accusation, of grief sharpened into rage.
Moments later, Chief Wen-Li, Lieutenant Nightingale, Lan Qian, Captain Robert Voreyevsky, and Captain Lingaong Xuein hurried down the corridor, their faces taut with alarm. The scene that greeted them turned their blood cold.
Robert's fists tightened at his sides; his jaw worked soundlessly as he stared at Vanguard's inert shell.
Xuein pressed her gloved hand to her mouth, the colour draining from her face. "Xuemin… what happened?"
Her brother, Lingaong Xuemin, his eyes hollow from exhaustion, took a slow breath.
"At Obsidian Peak," he began, his voice hoarse, "we faced the Tier Sinners. Chaos everywhere—corpses, ash, cities burning from the inside out. We fought through it, but then… their leader appeared."
He swallowed hard, meeting his sister's gaze.
"It was Velgrave. Former General Velgrave Prystowsky."
The name hung in the air like a curse.
Robert's eyes widened in disbelief. "Velgrave? That's impossible—he was declared dead 20 years ago!"
Lan Qian staggered back a step, her hand trembling against her communicator. "Then who… did we bury?"
Nightingale's lips parted, eyes narrowing in restrained horror. "That man taught half our tactics division. If he's alive…"
Krieg stepped forward, his voice iron-edged and cold. "Not only alive, but commanding the Tier Sinner himself. He's become something monstrous—yet he saved one of ours. Ping Lianhua."
Wen-Li's gaze shifted sharply to Ping, who stood at the rear of the group, pale and trembling, her eyes wet with confusion and guilt.
"He saved you?" Wen-Li asked quietly, though her tone carried the weight of command.
Ping nodded faintly. "He did… he—he killed Vanguard before he could… kill me."
Wen-Li's expression hardened, her jaw tightening in quiet turmoil. She turned just as Dr. Abrar burst into the scene, his lab coat trailing behind him.
"What happened? Why are you shouting my name like—" His words died on his tongue as his eyes fell upon Vanguard's body. "No… no, that's not possible…"
Krieg rounded on him, eyes blazing. "Not possible?!" he roared, stepping so close that the doctor instinctively retreated. "Your creation turned on us! He nearly slaughtered his own unit! He was a goddamned weapon out of control!"
Dr. Abrar's face twisted between guilt and disbelief. "I—I warned you it was unstable! I told everyone this project carried risk—extreme neural volatility! But I was cautious, every system was clean—this shouldn't have happened!"
"Shouldn't have happened?" Krieg's voice thundered, his gloved fist slamming into the wall beside Abrar's head, leaving a dent in the metal. "He was about to kill Ping Lianhua! We were one command away from dying by your so-called miracle!"
"Enough!" Wen-Li's voice sliced through the tension like a blade.
Her eyes, sharp as glass, fixed both men in place. "This is not the time for self-destruction! We will find out what happened—but not here, not like this."
Krieg's chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, but he stepped back, lowering his arm.
"Commander Krieg," Wen-Li continued, her voice low but unyielding, "stand down. I'll not have chaos in my command room. Dr. Abrar, you will be taken for questioning until we understand precisely what went wrong with Vanguard."
Two officers stepped forward at her signal.
Abrar's face went pale. "Chief, please—I didn't do it! You have to believe me! I never activated any remote protocol!"
His protests echoed through the hallway as the officers led him away, his voice breaking with desperation.
"Chief! I didn't do it!"
Silence lingered for a moment after he was gone—only the hum of the fluorescent lights filling the void.
Wen-Li exhaled softly, the tension etched in the corners of her mouth. She turned to Nightingale, her tone quieter but still deliberate.
"Tell me, Nightingale… who was Velgrave Prystowsky?"
Nightingale hesitated, her expression darkening.
"He was one of the founders of the Celestial Command Initiative. A soldier born of war and secrets. A man who saw too much—and refused to die quietly."
Her eyes flicked toward the stretcher, where Vanguard's blank eyes stared into nothing.
"Now, it seems… his ghost has returned to reclaim what's left of our humanity."
Wen-Li said nothing, only turned toward the window where the storm raged over Nin-Ran-Gi's skyline. Her reflection stared back at her—haunted, resolute, and quietly furious.
The lightning outside flickered across her face like fractured glass, and she whispered under her breath:
"Then perhaps ghosts are not what we should fear… but the hands that resurrect them."
The interrogation chamber was a mausoleum of glass and steel—lit by a sterile pallor that bleached the colour from every soul who entered. The hum of the overhead lights was ceaseless, oppressive; even the air seemed to buzz with quiet judgment.
At the centre of the room sat Dr. Abrar, his wrists cuffed to the table—though the gesture seemed more symbolic than necessary. His face was drawn and pallid, his spectacles slightly askew from the earlier commotion. He looked more like a scholar wronged by fate than a criminal, yet the weight of accusation pressed upon him like a leaden crown.
Across from him stood Captain Robert Voreyevsky, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the polished floor, and Captain Lingaong Xuein, poised beside him with her arms crossed, her expression composed but her eyes unreadable.
Robert's voice cracked through the silence first—gravelly, restrained, yet simmering with fury beneath the veneer of discipline.
"Doctor, you're aware that one of your creations nearly tore apart his own unit? Your experiment killed Vanguard—and nearly cost us a squadron. You claim to have predicted everything, yet you've unleashed chaos into our ranks."
Abrar inhaled sharply, his trembling fingers tightening around the steel edge of the table.
"I was aware of the instability, yes," he confessed, voice quivering but sincere. "But it wasn't meant to activate. Every neural pathway was secured; every safeguard was intact. Something—or someone—interfered. The system was tampered with. I swear it was never my intention—"
Xuein cut him off, her tone cool as arctic glass. "Intentions do not absolve results, Doctor. The field doesn't care for your assurances. The bodies of soldiers don't rise again because you didn't mean to kill them."
Her words struck him like stones, but there was no malice in her eyes—only duty, heavy and precise.
Abrar looked between them, his voice cracking under the strain. "You have to believe me! I followed every regulation, every protocol—"
"Protocols?" Robert barked a humourless laugh. "You built a god in a cage, and then you're surprised when it bites the hand that feeds it?"
His fist slammed against the table; the metallic echo made the glass walls shudder.
Meanwhile, behind the mirrored wall of one-way glass, Chief Wen-Li stood with her arms folded behind her back, eyes narrowed, watching every twitch of the exchange. The pale reflection of her own face haunted the glass—unmoving, statuesque, but her mind was a storm beneath that calm veneer.
Beside her, the cold baritone of President Zhang Wei filled the viewing chamber. He stood immaculate as ever—his tailored obsidian suit uncreased, his expression carved from granite.
"Doctor Abrar has committed a crime," Zhang Wei said, his tone devoid of emotion. "His negligence has cost the life of an officer and jeopardised the integrity of the SSCBF. He will be detained indefinitely—barred and stripped of his credentials."
Wen-Li turned her head slightly, eyes flashing with restrained disbelief.
"Mr. President, with due respect," she began, her voice steady though her pulse raced beneath her collar, "we still don't know what happened. If we analyse Vanguard's neural frame, his remains might reveal the truth—some interference, external command input—something unnatural. If we simply discard Abrar, we may never uncover the real threat."
Zhang Wei's eyes shifted toward her, cold and unyielding, his voice dripping with calculated finality.
"Chief Wen-Li, we are not in the business of chasing phantoms. Rules exist for a reason. If one of us, no matter rank or renown, commits a crime that harms our own—the penalty must be absolute. Compassion breeds weakness, and weakness breeds ruin."
The words landed like the toll of a funeral bell. Wen-Li's expression faltered, the faintest tremor crossing her lips. She turned back toward the glass, staring at Dr. Abrar as if seeing him through fog. Her reflection seemed to stare back at her—a woman divided between the soldier she must be and the human she still is.
Her hands tightened behind her back until her knuckles whitened. Follow the order, her mind whispered, echoing the rigid training of her command. Follow, obey, endure.
Yet another voice—softer, buried deep in her chest—murmured beneath it.
If we punish truth, what then separates us from tyranny?
A flicker of conflict passed through her eyes—like lightning behind distant clouds. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a fleeting moment, the Chief of the SSCBF looked less like a commander and more like a woman on the brink of rebellion.
Zhang Wei, noticing her silence, turned toward the exit. "Prepare the report, Chief. The tribunal will formalise the decision at dawn."
As the door closed behind him, Wen-Li stood motionless, her gaze locked on the interrogation chamber. Dr. Abrar sat there beneath the white light, surrounded by suspicion and silence—his shoulders hunched, his eyes empty but defiant.
Wen-Li's whisper barely reached her own ears:
"I am bound by the rules of men... but truth—truth answers to no one."
The flickering reflection of her face warped on the mirrored glass, and somewhere in the depths of her conscience, a decision was beginning to take shape—dangerous, irreversible, and utterly her own.