In the far corner of the Veil World…
Beyond the ruined cities and collapsing skies…
Lies a place where evil is not whispered, but worshipped.
A faction built not on unity, but control.
A place where power matters more than life.
And failure is just a slower death.
---
Twelve figures sat around a black marble table, their faces hidden by shadow—hoods, masks, or darkness itself.
None moved. None breathed loudly.
They waited, all eyes on the one who stood.
His figure loomed over the center of the table, arms folded behind his back.
The flickering red light behind him cast sharp lines across the floor, but left his expression entirely veiled.
> "We are out of time," he said at last. His voice was deep, deliberate. "Our forces have collapsed along three frontlines. Sector 5 is gone. Sector 8... no survivors. Their weapon—the White Howl—has already entered second form."
Murmurs broke the silence, but no one dared speak fully.
> "If we don't act now," he continued, "this war ends before we reach the Veil Core."
A clawed hand tapped the table.
> "Then you propose we use him?"
A pause.
Then a whisper, like wind brushing over dry bone:
> "We promised we wouldn't awaken him again."
The standing man turned slightly, his eyes invisible beneath his hood.
> "And yet here you all are. Silent. Which means you've already agreed."
> "We didn't agree," a female voice snapped from the far side. "We surrendered."
> "Same thing," he replied coldly.
He turned toward the wall behind him.
A massive monitor flickered to life—only static and the word: Operation: Wiping.
> "Unseal his chamber."
---
Somewhere beneath the war room…
A hallway, long and silent.
Nothing but blackness—until the first light ignited.
Click.
Two thin white strips lit up along the edges of the corridor.
Then the next pair.
Click. Click.
Step by step, the hallway came alive.
One light at a time, stretching toward a distant circular chamber at the end.
And there—
He sat.
---
In perfect stillness.
Kneeling in the traditional Japanese seiza position, back straight, hands resting calmly on his thighs.
A single katana lay in front of him, sheathed in a flawless black scabbard wrapped in pale gray silk. The blade looked untouched—almost ceremonial—but there was something off. Something alive.
The moment the final light clicked on above him—
> He opened his eyes.
Flickering. Grey, but unreadable.
Not warm.
Not angry.
Just… empty.
The light above him flickered.
Once.
Twice.
And then—
Darkness.
---
> Again...
They only wake me when they're desperate.
When they're losing.
When they've run out of monsters and need to borrow mine.
He didn't move.
Not yet.
Because the moment he did…
> People die.
No more games. No more missions.
Only wiping.
---
The voice echoed into his chamber through hidden speakers.
> "Subject 0-17. Codename: KAIRO."
"This is High Command."
"You are hereby authorized for combat release."
"Objective: Break the enemy front. No survivors."
No emotion in the voice.
Just a command.
Just war.
---
Kairo slowly leaned forward.
He took the katana in both hands.
The moment his fingers touched it, the air shimmered—like the space around him couldn't contain what lived inside the blade.
> "Understood," he whispered.
The blade pulsed once, still sheathed.
The floor beneath him cracked.
The chamber's lights shattered—one by one—until he was alone in the dark again.