The soft hum of a coffee machine and the clinking of porcelain filled the air of DuskHaven, a quaint café nestled in the quieter corners of Sylvenia. Sunlight spilled in from the tall windows, dancing on the rustic wooden floors. Inside, Ivan was his usual theatrical self — spinning a tray on one hand while taking an elderly customer's order with a wink.
"Double espresso with a dash of cinnamon," he recited dramatically. "Coming right up, my lady. You deserve nothing less than royalty in a cup." The woman blushed.
Kyrell, in contrast, worked silently behind the counter. His deep dark blue hair shadowed his eyes as he prepared drinks with mechanical grace. He didn't need the spotlight — the quiet efficiency was his signature.
The café's television, perched in a corner above the shelves of imported teas, had been showing a heated soccer match. Cheers and groans echoed from the screen — until suddenly, the broadcast was interrupted.
"We interrupt this program with breaking news."
"…A gruesome discovery this morning in the outskirts of the Westborough district—""The victim has been identified as the leader of the notorious bully gang known as the Hollow Fangs…""…no weapons used, no DNA or footprints at the scene…""…forensic experts suggest the killer delivered fatal blows with precision and force far beyond that of an ordinary individual.""…military? Assassin? Or something even more dangerous…?"
Ivan's cheerful expression dimmed. "Brutal…" he murmured, shaking his head as he turned off the steamer. "People are getting darker by the day…"
The elderly customer gave a nervous glance toward the window. "And that happened in this neighborhood?"
Kyrell didn't look up, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. His icy blue eyes, always unreadable, flicked briefly to the television mounted on the wall before returning to the notebook in front of him. He was sketching—again. No one dared interrupt him when he was in that quiet zone. Not Ivan. Not the regulars. No one.
It was mid-afternoon when a figure walked through the doors of the café, just as Ivan finished restocking the pastries. The neighborhood eateries had closed for the break, leaving DuskHaven the only quiet corner of life on an otherwise sleepy block.
The man was young—Messy blond hair, sharp golden eyes, dressed in an easy-going button-up shirt and faded jeans. But despite the casual look, there was a presence to him.
He looked like any other passerby looking for a caffeine fix… but he walked with the alertness of someone used to watching, not just wandering.
"Welcome to DuskHaven!"Ivan greeted with his usual flair. "What's your poison? Latte, mocha, a secret menu item that may or may not exist?"
The guy cracked a small smile. "Uh… just a black coffee. No frills."
Ivan raised an eyebrow, amused by the no-nonsense tone. "Coming right up. You new around here?"
"Sort of. Visiting family. Thought I'd grab something warm "
Kyrell's eyes flicked up at that. Their gazes met.
For a brief moment, something shifted in the air—like the pause before a storm.
The young man's brow furrowed. There was something strangely familiar about this man with the icy gaze.
"Take any seat. My buddy will whip that up."
As Ivan prattled on about beans imported from the Golden Isles, the guy's gaze wandered — to the man behind the counter. Kyrell hadn't said a word, but he moved with quiet precision. Cold. Collected. Detached.
Ivan slid the black coffee across the counter with a practiced ease. "Here you go. Strong enough to knock sense into the dead," he joked.
The young guy offered a faint smile and took the cup. His gaze lingered on Kyrell for another heartbeat before he moved toward an empty table, purposefully choosing the one across from where Kyrell sat.
He didn't try to start a conversation. Not yet. Just watched—subtle, observant.
Kyrell hadn't spoken a single word since that guy entered. His gaze was back on the notebook, but he wasn't sketching anymore. A flick of tension settled in his jaw. He could feel the stranger watching him.
Ivan, ever the friendly spark in a cold room, dropped by the guy's table a few minutes later. "Let me guess—student, writer, or a part-timer?"
The guy chuckled. "I could be any of the three."
Ivan grinned. "Fair. This café does attract the mysterious ones."
The guy's golden eyes flicked toward Kyrell. "He's always like that?"
Ivan glanced over. "Yeah. Quiet. Keeps to himself. Brilliant mind though—when he actually talks."
The young man leaned back in his chair. "He seems… different."
Ivan raised a brow. "That a good different or a dangerous one?"
"…Not sure yet." answered the guy with a smile.
An hour had passed by...yet, the new customer was here, wandering his eyes to and fro.
"Another black coffee?" Ivan asked, balancing two mugs on his tray like a stage performer.
"I think one is enough," the man replied, setting his empty cup down and letting out a quiet sigh. "You guys always this… slow in the afternoons?"
"Only when the universe decides to let us breathe," Ivan said, glancing around the nearly empty café. "Between the morning rush and the late-night loons, we get a moment to pretend we're just normal people."
Kyrell slid a freshly baked tart into the display case. "Speak for yourself."
"You wound me, partner," Ivan said dramatically. "I bring joy to this café. Sunshine. Sass. Everything a broody guy like you needs."
Kyrell didn't respond. He merely lifted his gaze toward that guy, cool and unreadable, before going back to arranging the tray.
The man chuckled under his breath. "You two got an interesting vibe. Feels like you've known each other for a while."
Ivan glanced at Kyrell, then back to the guy with a lazy grin. "Long enough to know his grumpy silence is his version of affection."
"I can speak for myself," Kyrell muttered, eyes still on the pastries.
"I was starting to think I'd have to perform a whole musical just to get a word out of you."Ivan said mockingly.
"You talk too much,"Kyrell snorted, but there was no venom in it.
"You're Kyrell, right?" asked the guy after a beat, glancing at the name badge Kyrell had on his apron.
"Yes." Kyrell answered bluntly without even looking at the guy.
"And you work here?"
"I own the place"
"Where you from?"
"Far."
The young man blinked. "...Right."
Ivan laughed from the side. "You see what I mean?"
"You ask too many questions for someone who's ordered a black coffee." Kyrell said without blinking.
"Well, I'm just trying to get to know the place and the people better." the guy said offering a soft smile.
Kyrell didn't respond.
Despite the oddness, something about Kyrell tugged at that guy — something unplaceable. Like he knew him… or was meant to.
He stood up. "Thanks. Good place you've got here."
"Come back anytime!" Ivan said cheerfully.
He glanced back before stepping out. His eyes lingered on Kyrell, still standing behind the counter, his expression unreadable.
Who are you?
A buzz interrupted his thoughts. He picked up the call and turned away down the street.
"Yeah. I'm in the sector now. I'll check in later."
Back inside, the café returned to calm.
Ivan leaned against the counter, arms crossed. His smile had faded. "That kid… he's a cop."
Kyrell didn't stop cleaning the milk steamer. "Mackiah Carwyn. Twenty-two. Criminal Intelligence Division of Sylvenia. Special Investigation Unit."
Ivan's brows rose. "Damn. You're still just as sharp."
"Even a kid can find out that much...He accidentally flashed his ID when he reached for his wallet. Sloppy.", Kyrell replied flatly.
Ivan gave a low whistle. "Pretty good actor. He'd do better in drama school than chasing criminals."
Kyrell didn't respond. Instead, he stared out the glass door.
"For someone that young to get into the most confidential sector… He lacks experience," Kyrell murmured, "but not intelligence."
Ivan studied him. "You think he's here for a reason?"
"Probably due to the murder that took place in our neighborhood. Ifmy hunch is right…" Kyrell muttered, "that kid will return."
In the Underworld-Virellan...
A marble chamber beneath the surface of the sea fortress known as Dreadspire flickered with torchlight. Nerik Virelock, draped in ocean-black robes with silver embroidery resembling shark teeth, stood beside a massive map table. His pale eyes scanned the gathered faces — lieutenants, rogue clan leaders, and exiled merchants.
Across from him stood Caelon Stravok, the brutal and cunning tiger of Vahnera Claws. His every move radiated intimidation.
"This is the time," Nerik spoke, his voice low and gravelly. "With Zeus gone… the throne is vulnerable."
"His son disappeared. The Aetherion is without a head," Caelon added. "But we strike smart, not soon."
As murmurs broke out among the groups, a gust of cold wind slammed the chamber doors open.
From the shadows stepped Aurek Skalvarn, the ghostly leader of Dracoryn Vanta, clad in a long cloak that rippled like smoke.
"You won't need to strike," he said.
Everyone turned to him.
"Because something… no—someone—has already moved against Aetherion Kronos."
Silence fell. And then chaos began to brew.
Aurek's voice echoed across the marble chamber, chilling and resolute:
"Someone has already moved against Aetherion Kronos."
The room froze.
Caelon's brows furrowed, sharp like the blades he carried. "What do you mean moved?"
Aurek stepped forward slowly, the long folds of his cloak sweeping like shadows across the stone floor. "One of Zeus's outer trading vaults—located along the Meridos Route—was burned to ash three nights ago. His name wasn't on the ledger, but the contents? Confidential cargo. High-level weapons. Tech shipments. All gone."
Gasps and murmurs rippled across the gathering.
Nerik's voice cut through them. "You're sure it wasn't a random raid?"
Aurek turned to him, pale eyes glowing like frost. "There are only three factions with the clearance to even know that vault existed. And one of them is in this room."
The chamber went dead silent.
A flicker of wariness flashed across Caelon's face. "You think it was one of us?"
"I think someone wants a war," Aurek replied calmly. "And they're starting by gutting Zeus's reach while the Aetherion bleeds quietly."
Nerik moved closer to the map. "This changes everything. If someone's already struck… then the rumors might be true."
Caelon growled. "You mean the one about Zeus being killed?"
"No," Aurek said. "Worse."
The room tensed again.
"The Silver Serpents have gone dark."
A stunned silence followed.
Caelon's fists clenched. "They never go dark. Not unless—"
"—Leviathan pulls them back," Nerik finished, his voice dark with suspicion.
Everyone exchanged wary glances.
The Silver Serpents — Zeus's most feared, most secret army — didn't disappear unless it was part of something bigger. If they'd gone silent, it meant either a command from their leader… or something had forced them into the shadows.
Nerik glanced toward Aurek, the only one who ever understood Zeus's long games. "You think this is all part of his plan?"
Aurek didn't answer at first. He just looked at the flickering candlelight on the war table. Then he muttered:
"I think the game was never about the throne we see."
"What does that mean?" Caelon demanded.
Aurek's eyes flicked up. "It means… while we play chess, Zeus may be playing something else."
A long pause.
Then Nerik said grimly, "If the Serpents are silent… and someone's already making moves… we need to act. Fast."
"We need to find out who dared to strike first," Caelon added.
Aurek's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Or perhaps, we need to find out why they let us think we could."
Caelon and Nerik glanced at each other and a thought hit them like a ton of bricks.
"It's...it's the Joker,"Caelon muttered grimly, throwing a report on the table. "This massacre—it's his work."
Nerik nodded slowly, folding his arms."Only he would be so bold. So… silent."
"What did you say?" asked a shocked Aurek.
Caelon didn't flinch."Who else would do such a thing with no trace?"
"It has his signature," Nerik said. "No witnesses. Brutal precision. No traces. It's exactly how he used to operate… before he vanished."
Caelon added, "Only he would strike Zeus, not for territory — but for the thrill of chaos. For the message."
Aurek's face was unreadable, but the glint in his eyes wasn't fury — it was dread.
"No," he muttered. "That monster's been missing for years. We were sure Zeus had either buried him… or used him and disposed of him."
"He's back and the only good thing about it is that...he's on our side," Caelon said flatly.
"And this time," Nerik added, "he doesn't want to play small games."
Aurek stepped back from the war table, the atmosphere in the room thickening.
The Joker — an unhinged former enforcer of Aetherion Kronos. Brilliant, ruthless, and born for destruction. If he had truly returned…
Then this wasn't just rebellion. It was war.
Aurek turned to the silent room, his voice cold and commanding:
"Summon every able general. Every trained hand. I don't care if they're loyal to you or scared of you. You will raise your armies."
His gaze swept across the table, daring any of them to argue.
Nerik nodded, already drawing a parchment. "I'll send word to my sea posts. Virellan's waters will be sealed."
Caelon cracked his knuckles. "Vahnera's Claws were getting dull anyway."
Aurek turned his back, heading toward the exit of the war hall.
"Prepare yourselves," he said. "The age of silence is over."
"Then prepare your men," Nerik growled. "Every gang and clan opposed to Aetherion Kronos must be armed. Ready. We strike before he does.
As the war table cleared, Caelon remained behind, staring at the flickering shadows cast by the oil-lit chandelier above.
"Bring me Soren," he ordered one of his cloaked guards.
Within moments, a tall figure dressed in sleek armor stepped forward, a silver crest of a claw imprinted on his chest.
"You summoned me, My Lord?"
Caelon didn't turn.
"Send word to Halovex Global."
Soren blinked, briefly surprised. "The… Judiciary?"
"In the eyes of fools, they're just a corporation. But we know better."
Caelon finally turned, his amber eyes glinting.
"They're Virellan's eyes, ears, and mouthpiece. If Joker's in play, if Kronos stirs — we'll need Halovex's lines open. Warn them… the winds are changing."
Soren gave a tight nod and disappeared into the shadows.
In the Outerworld-Sylvenia
Flashes from dozens of cameras painted the walls of the velvet-draped press hall in bursts of white and silver.
The emblem of Halovex Global stood behind a polished podium, where a graceful woman in her late forties stood poised. The world knew her as Evelyn Eirwen, widow of Halovex's late CEO — but more importantly now, mother of the heir.
"We are heartbroken by the loss of my husband," Evelyn spoke, her voice calm but steeled. "But Halovex will not fall into instability."
Cameras clicked wildly. Reporters leaned forward, pens trembling.
"The next CEO of Halovex Global," she said, "will be his only son — Alric Eirwen."
Gasps, followed by a tsunami of murmurs and rising chatter.
"Wait — Alric? He's never shown his face—""The hidden prince? They kept him hidden all these years?"
"Can someone so… inexperienced run Halovex?"
Beside Evelyn, stood her boyfriend, dressed in a charcoal-grey suit, kept his jaw tight and his lips curved in a politician's smile. But his eyes flickered — calculating and furious.
Across the city, within a high-rise apartment draped in quiet solitude…
Alric sat on his bedroom floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up. His phone lay on the rug before him — the press conference still streaming.
He watched his mother announce his name to the world. Watched as the vultures disguised as media roared with curiosity and doubt.
He didn't smile. He didn't blink. He whispered.
"She did it anyway…"
The moment her final words echoed, Alric's honey eyes dimmed.
He stood, snatched the phone off the floor, and hurled it across the room. It cracked against the bookshelf.
"He'll come at me again…" he muttered, his voice trembling but not weak. "Now that I'm visible… now that the crown's on me— I'm not going to be spared."
In a flash, he moved — grabbing a duffel bag, shoving in documents, clothes, and a locked case from under his bed.
"I need to get out. ASAP."