Footsteps.
Measured. Echoing through the marble halls like the ticking of a god's clock.
A man walks forward — tall, wearing a black jacket lined with white trim, the hem brushing his boots. His hair glints gold under the pale light, streaked with shadows of war. A scar runs from his left eye to his chin, a mark too clean to be accidental.
Every corridor he passes gleams.
The walls are made of polished white stone, etched with the sigils of codes. Light pools in precise lines along the floor — no dust, no imperfection, no sound except his steps.
Ahead, massive doors open with a hiss of pressure.
[Underground Court]
It is a cathedral of judgment.
The ceiling stretches impossibly high, domed with mirrored glass and lines of golden circuitry that shimmer like constellations.
Spread out in perfect symmetry — a vast circular hall tiered like an amphitheater. Every surface shone, every angle sharp enough to draw blood from a glance.At its heart: one single circle of light.That's where Arash stood. Or rather — knelt, hands bound, the faint hum of suppression cuffs in his ears.
Around him, six raised platforms circled the hall, each distinct in design — not equal in height, not aligned. The higher the platform, the higher the authority.
His eyes swept across the council of the six. Each occupied their own elevated pedestal, forming a jagged circle around the central floor, the neutral ground between them glowing faintly with runes, humming with quiet authority.
"It should be good courtesy for the proposer to arrive first,Bell." says the judge
"My steps are heavier today.So are my words.You do you."
[White Arsenal]
The first pair stepped on the platform, impossible to ignore. The smaller figure moved with quiet authority, black hair slicked back, sharp eyes scanning the platform, glasses perched on their face, every gesture precise and deliberate. Intricate tattoos traced their arms and neck—a fox and a rabbit entwined.Raising his hand as response.
On his right is tall, muscular, with a bleached crew-cut, broad shoulders and a presence like a living wall. Each step radiated raw strength, silent but undeniably threatening, the perfect shield and enforcer for the one who truly led.
[Red Razor]
From across the platform came a sharp, commanding presence. A tall figure with long black hair, fangs slightly exposed like a bat, moved forward with deliberate authority. He wore a full crimson uniform, polished and immaculate, without any additional attire, the color glowing under the dim light. Across his shoulder was draped the pelt of a white bobcat, worn like a mantle, a symbol of status and ferocity. His brown skin contrasted sharply with the red of his uniform, making him seem almost otherworldly.Settled into position with calm dominance, the bobcat mantle shifting slightly as he leaned back, surveying the platform with the measured scrutiny of someone who had seen every possible outcome—and found them all entertaining.
Behind him, three others in matching crimson uniforms lounged casually, leaning against the edges of their pedestals or resting one hand on a chair. Their movements were slow, confident, almost mocking—a subtle assertion that their leader commanded, and they followed with ease.
[The Crows]
Bell stood with two shadows in tow — eyes stripped of soul, every stare fixed on Arash below.
"Viewing us with half eyes," Bell muttered, gesturing toward the two vacant platforms still unlit.
"Our voices are enough, Bell," came a calm response from across the chamber.
"We still respect the Six Roots."
Bell's gaze flicked upward, a faint scoff escaping him."You honor the title — not me.."
He took a step forward, voice low but sharp enough to carry through the room.
"Your flaws lie in graves we dug.Your ghosts burn in fires we lit.Every mess you leave — ceased to exist...remember that well."
A pause followed, thick and deliberate — then laughter rolled across the chamber, rich and unhurried.The Red leader clapped twice, grinning down from his platform.
"Can we get started, my guy? Bell — the stage is yours."
From the opposite side, a deep voice carried through the grand court.
[Sole Council]
"We, the Sole Council, seek the voice of today's proposal.Bell — Father of the Crows. Proceed."
Bell's expression didn't change. He lowered his head slightly, eyes flicking toward the chained man below.
"Wolfgang," he began, tone calm but iron in weight."The rules may not be written in this court… but the culture is."He stepped closer to the railing."You don't touch the Cleaners."
-END OF CHAPTER-