The city of Karveth never truly slept. Smoke rose from iron chimneys, shadows stretched long over cracked cobblestones, and whispers of crime moved like rats in the alleys. This was the Obsidian Fangs' territory—an empire built on fear and blood.
At the heart of the city stood their stronghold, a fortress of obsidian stone and jagged spires, its gates marked with fangs carved into black iron. Within its halls, two figures sat in heavy chairs, discussing rumors.
One was broad-shouldered, his face scarred, his eyes sharp as blades. His aura radiated authority, heavy enough to silence men without words. This was Lord Kazimir Drovos, the leader of the Obsidian Fangs.
Beside him stood his commander, a woman clad in black leather armor, her silver hair falling in a braid to her waist. Her gaze was cold, unyielding—like a dagger pressed against the throat of the world. She was Commander Selvara Thane, his right hand, his sword.
"The boy," Kazimir rumbled, his deep voice echoing through the chamber, "the Kurogane whelp at the academy. I hear he is nothing. Weak."
Selvara's lips curled faintly. "So the rumors say. Another spoiled child from a great family. Irrelevant."
But before the words could fade, a voice drifted from above.
Smooth. Arrogant. Amused.
"Talking about me, are we?"
Both heads snapped upward.
There he was.
John Merciless.
Upside down, standing on the ceiling as if it were the floor, one hand resting casually in his pocket, the other on the black slime sword at his hip. The white mask hid his face, its black markings twisting in the torchlight, his presence like a weight pressing down on the chamber.
He tilted his head lazily, voice distorted and deepened by the mask.
"Though I should warn you… we shouldn't meet eye to eye. After all…" He spread his free hand, arrogant as a monarch addressing insects. "…we are not on the same level."
The fortress groaned.
Outside, horns blew. Crystals embedded in the walls pulsed crimson.
Selvara smirked, blade sliding free of its sheath. "You dare stand above us?"
John chuckled low, a dark and mocking sound. "Above you? My dear, I was born above you."
At her signal, the floor beneath him trembled. Circuits glowed along the walls, and suddenly the entire city stirred.
From every alley, from every rooftop, from every shadow—they came. Thousands. Two thousand strong, the full might of the Obsidian Fangs. Mercenaries, mages, beast-tamers, assassins—all answering the call. The streets shook beneath their presence.
Kazimir leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "You've walked into your grave, masked fool. Every faction under my command now surrounds you. You cannot hide. You cannot run."
John's laughter filled the chamber. Slow, rising, deep.
"…Hide? Run?"
He leapt down lightly, landing between Kazimir and Selvara, the black slime sword gleaming with liquid hunger. His aura rolled outward, thick and suffocating.
"No, no, no. You misunderstand. I came here to be entertained."
Then he moved.
Like a phantom, he blurred. One moment in front, the next behind Selvara, his blade slicing down with blinding speed—stopping just shy of her neck, the air sizzling where it cut.
She froze, a bead of cold sweat trailing down her cheek.
He whispered into her ear, voice like silk dipped in poison.
"…If I wanted, you'd be gone already."
Then he vanished again, reappearing perched on Kazimir's throne, lounging as if it were his own.
Kazimir snarled, fists clenching. "You—!"
But John raised a finger, wagging it mockingly. "Shhh. Don't embarrass yourself in front of your men."
Outside, the clash of circuits began—soldiers charging, mages igniting, assassins darting into shadows. The entire city was alive with war, and all of it aimed at him.
And he laughed.
Hours passed—or perhaps only minutes, time drowned beneath the chaos. John danced through it all. He toyed with assassins, letting their blades graze his suit only for it to regenerate. He baited beast-tamers into summoning creatures, then vanished into smoke only to reappear behind them, blade at their throats. He struck with precision but never fatally, carving humiliation rather than death.
To him, it was a game.
But eventually, Selvara called out, her voice sharp. "You are cornered, Merciless! Every street, every roof, every alley belongs to us! Two thousand of our strongest move against you—you cannot run, you cannot hide, you cannot win!"
The city seemed to close in around him.
And John stopped.
For the first time, he stood still. His masked face tilted downward, the silence pressing heavy.
Then—he laughed.
Low at first, then rising. A dark, manic sound that echoed through the fortress, through the streets, rattling even the most hardened soldiers.
"Cornered?" His voice boomed, twisted with amusement. "You think me cornered? You think numbers matter?"
He raised his head, the white mask catching the moonlight.
"You think destruction can be measured in thousands?"
He spread his arms wide, the black slime sword pulsing like a living thing.
"Fools. Witness me."
The air crackled. Circuits blazed along his body. His left eye ignited crimson, veins of black spiraling outward. He thrust one hand skyward, the other gripping his sword.
"NOVA."
Light bloomed.
Not flame. Not lightning. Something far worse.
A sphere of pure white energy swelled above him, growing, devouring the night. Ten feet. Twenty. Thirty. Until it hung monstrous, dwarfing towers, casting half the city in searing brilliance.
Every soldier froze, breath stolen by the sheer pressure. The world seemed to hold its breath.
And then—silence.
Deafening. Absolute.
The sphere collapsed inward, folding into itself until it could hold no more. And then—
The explosion.
Light consumed everything. Streets melted into rivers of fire. Towers crumbled like sand. The shockwave ripped through walls, bodies, circuits alike. For a moment, Karveth ceased to exist.
And when the brilliance faded, half the city was gone.
In its place, a crater stretched—five inches at its edges, twenty meters in diameter, a thousand feet deep. Rubble smoldered. Smoke choked the night.
Silence followed.
Nothing moved.
No one breathed.
And John Merciless stood at the center of it all, his mask tilted toward the heavens, his laughter echoing like a death knell.
The next morning, Arata Kurogane sat at his desk in Practical Studies, chin resting on his palm, expression one of mild boredom.
Kaede Honjou stood at the front, explaining circuit synchronization with a calm smile. Students yawned, scribbled, or fumbled with their notes.
Arata's eyelids drooped, his posture slouched, his aura utterly ordinary.
Inside, though, his thoughts whispered.
Half a city erased, and here I sit, invisible again. Perfect.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
This game is only getting started.