A crimson dusk draped itself over the city of London as the mission ended.
The portal had opened without warning—a Sentinel-class rupture, deep and seething with chaos. Demons poured into the quiet suburbs, causing panic among civilians. But it didn't take long for England's elite unit, The Order of Light, to respond. Draven Ashford stood at its helm—calm, ruthless, and already battle-worn by greatness.
Now, as the bodies of the last Fiends disintegrated into ash behind him, Draven sheathed his blade with a smooth, final motion. His squad stood silent around him, injured but victorious. They had done what they always did—cleansed the darkness.
"Status?" he asked flatly.
"All clear, Commander," one of his teammates answered. "No civilian deaths. Minimal injuries."
Draven gave a nod and turned away. The fight, for him, was over before it even began.
Later that evening, Draven returned—not to his office at the GSSA Headquarters—but to the Ashford family palace. The towering gates parted for him with reverence. Guards straightened as he passed. Servants bowed. His boots echoed through the royal corridor as he stepped into the grand sitting room.
King Allistair looked up from a stack of parchment. He was tall, greying, dignified—every bit the warrior-king he once was. Beside him sat Queen Evellyn, radiant as ever in her golden royal robe.
"Welcome home, Draven," she smiled warmly.
"You returned earlier than expected," the king added.
"The breach was small," Draven replied, removing his gloves. "It barely lasted an hour."
"You've made us proud, again," Queen Evellyn said, rising to her feet. She crossed over and cupped his face in her hands. "You've grown into a true beacon for our people… the chosen one.
" Draven didn't respond. He simply gave a brief nod, his expression unreadable.
Evellyn laughed softly, brushing his hair aside. "You never accept praise, do you?"
"I've heard it enough," he replied with a slight smirk. "I already know."
The moment passed, and he turned to leave. But as he walked toward his private chambers, something unexpected tugged at his thoughts.
A memory. A face. A flash of fire.
Ronan…
He stopped briefly at the foot of the stairs, staring into the distance as if the air itself had whispered the name.
Why am I thinking about him now? He wondered. What's he even doing these days?
But he quickly shook the thought away.
Whatever. I don't care.
Draven climbed the staircase and disappeared into the upper halls, his crimson cloak trailing behind him—England's most revered warrior, bathed in fame and solitude.
Night had settled quietly over Japan. The stars above Tokyo shimmered like scattered silver dust, and the world, for once, was calm.
Lucan Elias lay in bed, eyes open, staring at the wooden ceiling of his apartment. His dog, Elucan, rested at his feet, gently breathing. The room was silent—yet his mind blazed with thought.
Why does everything feel so… easy?
He turned onto his side, his amber eyes flickering with a faint glow.
Since I joined GSSA… every mission… every opponent. It's like they were made to fall before me. I've never really been pushed. Not truly. Not to my limit.
The thought lingered like a storm cloud.
I need a real challenge. Something… bigger. Something dangerous. I want to feel that rush again—the kind that makes your blood burn, the kind that reminds you you're alive.
He closed his eyes for a moment. Right now, all of this… it feels empty.
Scene: The Chosen Twin – Draven Ashford
Across the seas, within the fortified kingdom of England, another boy stared into the night—but not with longing. With control.
Draven Ashford, the prodigy of light, stood at the edge of the royal training grounds behind the palace. Alone, beneath the glow of enchanted lanterns, he raised his hand—and the air responded.
A sharp spear of pure light formed in his grasp, shaped by sheer will. He spun it once before letting it dissolve into radiant particles. Then came a gleaming longsword. Then a bow. Then a spinning circular blade that hovered around him like a guardian spirit.
Luminara. That was the name he gave his magic—the light of divinity itself.
He had honed it to perfection. Not just for battle, but for command. For destruction. For glory.
His enemies barely lasted seconds.
He was only sixteen… the same age as the brother he hadn't seen in years. But Draven was no ordinary boy. He was the golden weapon of England—the prince cloaked in brilliance. The one the people hailed as the chosen heir of light.
As he stood there, bathed in the soft glow of his own power, Draven's expression remained unreadable.
He didn't train for fame. He didn't train for love. He trained because power was all he had left to hold on to.
If you're still out there, Ronan… wherever you are… He clenched his fist, and the light flickered with intensity. Don't fall too far behind.
Scene: The Emptiness Behind the Glory
Mission after mission, Draven carved his name deeper into England's history as the youngest and most elite Warden the kingdom had ever seen. Whether with his team—the famed Order of Light—or alone on solo operations, the results were always the same: victory. Clean, efficient, and merciless.
But lately… it had all started to feel the same.
On this day, their team had just wrapped up yet another mission—an incursion in Northern York. A Sentinel-class portal, a horde of ravenous Fiends, citizens evacuated, the enemy destroyed. Flawless. Like always.
The sun dipped low as they walked away from the wreckage. Draven stood slightly apart from the others, his expression calm, but his golden eyes… distant.
"Draven," came a soft voice.
It was Mira, one of his teammates. With rose-colored hair tied into a loose bun and a sharp Seeker's gaze, she stepped beside him and gently placed a hand on his arm. "you've been quiet… quieter than usual. Is everything alright?"
He blinked, barely turning his head. "Yeah," he said with a small smile. "I'm fine."
Alen, the only other guy on the squad, nudged him playfully. "You sure? 'Cause you've been looking like someone who lost a duel he didn't even fight."
The third girl, Lyra, raised an eyebrow. "No offense, Captain, but you're spacing out more than usual." Draven exhaled, brushing a hand through his hair. "Alright, alright… maybe I've been a little distant." He glanced at all four of them—his team, his family in battle. "Tell me, have I ever taken you guys out? Like, properly?" They exchanged confused glances.
"Out? Like, for fun?" Mira asked.
"Yeah. Like a real dinner. No demon guts, no alarms, no blood on our boots." Talia, the quietest of the group with icy-blue eyes and an assassin's silence, shrugged. "No. Never." Draven nodded. "Then it's time. I'm taking all of you out. Get dressed. I'm paying."
Later That Night – A Private Lounge in Central England
The group sat around a polished obsidian table, candles flickering above them, soft music in the background. The food was great, the mood even better… for everyone except Draven.
He stared blankly at his glass, barely touching the food.
"You're doing it again," Mira said suddenly.
He looked up, startled. "You're not here," she added, her voice gentle.
Lyra leaned forward. "You've been leading us perfectly, but when it's just us… you vanish. Where do you go, Draven?"
He gave a small laugh, but it was hollow. "I don't even know anymore."
Alen crossed his arms. "You've crushed more missions than anyone your age. You're the kingdom's golden weapon. What else are you chasing?"
Draven went quiet. Then, softly, he muttered, "Something real."
They didn't push him further. But in his mind, the emptiness echoed louder. I've defeated everything… but it doesn't feel like victory. I want something that matters. Someone who can challenge me. Someone… like him? A name floated into his thoughts—one he hadn't spoken in years:
Ronan. Where are you now, brother