"Every war starts with a lie. And every lie starts with silence."
— The Author
The Mark No One Sees
The burning skyline of Nethral City cast long shadows across the glass-and-obsidian towers of Hunter Academy. Beneath the crimson clouds swirling like torn silk, Syra Kaelion stood alone, facing the digital projection of her late-night combat evaluation. The arena still echoed with residual energy from her last duel, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. Blood trickled down from a shallow cut on her lip, but she ignored it. Pain didn't bother her. Not anymore.
It had been ten days since the mission at Vault IX—a supposed scavenger hunt that turned into a massacre. Since then, things had felt…off.
She was being watched.
Not by the instructors. Not by the Academy's surveillance drones. Something else—someone else. And every night, when her dreams turned black, he was there.
A figure clad in black and gold. A mask without a face. A voice without a mouth.
"You are the cipher," he would whisper. "The lock and the key."
Syra didn't understand it, but she felt it. Her body still tingled from where the mark had burned onto her left shoulder—a crescent symbol nested inside seven broken stars.
She hadn't told Riven. Or Korr. Or anyone. Whatever this mark was, it wasn't from Earth. Or Hell. Or anywhere she could name.
And worst of all—her instincts told her it wasn't from this timeline.
The Mission Nobody Wanted
"Syra Kaelion," Instructor Veyr's voice buzzed from her comm-link. "Report to Terminal Bay 7. You're being reassigned."
Syra blinked and turned toward the hallway. "Bay 7? That's off-world clearance."
"Correct. You're leaving in ten. Pack for conflict."
Conflict. Not training. Not recon.
She grabbed her jacket, tightened her combat gloves, and jogged through the sterile corridors of the Academy, where walls pulsed with neural-light and ancient scripture etched in steel. She reached the terminal to find Riven already waiting—leaning against a crate with his demon eye glowing like a smoldering coal.
"You took your time," he said, flicking a coin in the air.
"I was getting ready to die," she shot back.
"That's the spirit." He smirked, then tilted his head toward their final teammate. "Korr's not saying anything. Which means it's real bad."
The massive warrior beside him nodded silently. The plasma axe strapped to his back gleamed ominously under the neon lights.
"What's the op?" Syra asked.
"Voidspire," Riven said. "Riftline ruins. Two hunter squads went silent. No SOS. Just… dead comms."
Syra's pulse quickened. Voidspire. That name rang ancient. Pre-Collapse.
Instructor Veyr's hologram blinked into view again.
"New intel suggests the Oblivion Sons have resurfaced. Possibly searching for a Vault Key."
Her blood froze. A key? No. It was too early. The mark on her shoulder itched as if it had heard the word and wanted to speak.
"You're not to engage unless engaged," Veyr continued. "But if they make a move, you act. Understood?"
All three nodded.
"Good luck. You'll need it."
The Spire of Echoes
The drop-ship sliced through the clouds like a dagger through paper. Below, the Riftline writhed—a gash in the Earth where the borders between realms had frayed beyond repair.
They landed silently.
Voidspire loomed like a haunted cathedral, antennas bent, sigils etched into the charred stone. The team moved as shadows—quiet, precise, lethal.
Inside, the air was thick. Not just with dust or rot.
With memory.
Old blood stained the floor in patterns that made no sense. Some of the symbols glowed faintly when Syra passed them, reacting to her presence.
Riven touched one with his clawed fingers. "These weren't made by humans," he muttered.
"No," Syra whispered. "They weren't."
Then came the first corpse.
Charred. Mouth wide in a scream. No visible wounds. Just terror.
They pressed deeper, light fading as if swallowed by the walls themselves.
Then a sound—scraping.
A shape stumbled from the darkness. Twisted. Part-human, part-machine. Helltech grafts twitching from its back. Glowing eyes. Not alive. Not dead.
"Contact!" Riven roared.
The room exploded into chaos.
Korr surged forward, his axe singing. Riven unleashed torrents of flame. Syra danced between the monsters, blade flashing silver and red.
But there were too many. Dozens.
And every one of them… was waiting for her.
The First Villain Group: The Sons of Oblivion
As the hybrids fell, a new presence emerged.
A slow, steady clap echoed through the vault. From the shadows stepped a figure in a deep crimson coat. Horns like molten iron curled from his scalp, and his face was painted in bone-ash.
"Impressive," he said. "The Kaelion girl lives up to the myth."
Syra leveled her blade. "Who are you?"
The man smiled. "I am Veylock. Seeker of Keys. And founder of the new era."
Behind him stood five more figures—each cloaked, each radiating a sickening power.
"We are the Sons of Oblivion," he said. "And you, child, are what we've been searching for."
Korr stepped forward, but Syra raised her hand. "What do you want?"
"Not yet," Veylock said. "The story isn't ready. But know this—your blood carries the code. And sooner or later, we will crack it."
He snapped his fingers.
A detonation rocked the vault. Fire, stone, and shadow swallowed everything.
When Syra woke, she was alone. The others had been scattered in the blast. Her body ached. Her blade was cracked. And the mark on her shoulder burned like a second heart.
The Author Watches
High above, in the rift between moments, a figure watched through fractured glass.
His coat shimmered black and gold. The twin weapons at his side—silent.
Author: "The first domino has fallen."
He walked across time like stepping through puddles.
"They don't need the key. They need her."
Behind the mask, his eyes didn't blink. Didn't weep. But they remembered.
And they waited.
END OF CHAPTER 3
Next Chapter: "The Burnt Monastery" — Where Syra seeks the truth buried in fire, and learns that not all ghosts stay dead.