In a dark alley beside an abandoned warehouse, three men stood huddled together, the faint glow of their cigarettes cutting through the night fog.
"Hey," one of them muttered, exhaling a puff of smoke, "you think they'll finally give us that bonus tomorrow?"
"Bonus?" the second one snorted. "We're lucky if they pay us at all."
"Yeah," the third laughed quietly. "We do all the dirty work, and they—"
He never finished his sentence.
His head fell cleanly from his shoulders, rolling across the grimy concrete as the other two froze in place — eyes wide, cigarettes slipping from trembling fingers.
Behind them stood a man cloaked in black leather, his hood drawn low. A dark, obsidian mask covered his face, marked with the faint etching of a dragon. The sword in his hand dripped crimson onto the cracked pavement.
Before the other two could run, a cold blur flashed through the alley — and they fell, lifeless, before they even realized they had been cut.
The man in black stepped forward. His boots echoed softly against the wet ground as he approached the warehouse door. The building looked derelict from the outside, rusted panels and broken lights disguising the presence he felt within.
He could hear them — at least twenty heartbeats.
He stood before the metal doors and adjusted his stance. In a single motion, his sword swept horizontally.
Slash.
A glowing arc of energy carved through steel like paper, slicing open an entrance large enough to walk through.
Inside, dozens of armed men turned at once. Some drew blades, others shouldered rifles. A tall man stood atop a shipping container, a cigarette hanging from his lips.
"Let's see who's got the guts to make a mess in my place!" he shouted. "We'll show him who we—"
He froze as the intruder stepped into the light.
His steady footsteps echoed through the hall. His sword hung at his side, blood still fresh on the blade.
The man on the container paled. His voice cracked.
"Kni… Knight of Oblivion? What the hell is he doing here?!"
Panic spread like wildfire.
"Kill him!" the man screamed. "Everyone, kill him now!"
But most of them didn't move. The name alone — Knight of Oblivion — was enough to drain the fight from their bones. Only the desperate ones charged forward.
Bullets and blades came from every direction. The Knight moved through them like wind — ducking, weaving, cutting. Every swing was clean and precise. Bodies fell before they could even scream.
He turned toward the container, but the leader had vanished.
The Knight's glowing eyes scanned the chaos until he caught sight of him—fleeing, scrambling toward the back exit like a rat.
With a faint shimmer, blue light flickered in the Knight's gaze. His figure blurred. In the next breath, he stood in front of the escaping man.
The boss skidded to a halt, falling backward, scrambling on hands and knees. His blade clattered uselessly to the ground.
"P-please! Don't kill me! Spare me… I'll give you anything, just—"
The Knight's voice was low, each word dripping with cold finality.
"Where are they?"
"The… the basement! They're in the base—"
Steel sang. The man's head hit the floor before he could finish.
"Where are they?" the Knight spoke, his voice calm but laced with frost.
"The… the base—"
Before the man could finish, his head rolled to the ground.
Silence followed — cold, suffocating silence.
After taking care of the leader, the Knight turned toward the remaining survivors. Fear painted their faces pale; their weapons trembled in their hands. They weren't thinking of fighting anymore — only of surviving.
The Knight straightened his back, his black coat whispering as he moved. His blade gleamed under the flickering warehouse lights, still wet with blood. Just as he prepared to advance, the entrance burst open.
Four figures stepped in, clad in the same black attire — but unlike him, their masks bore no dragon crest. Instead, a silver dragon emblem was etched onto their right shoulders.
Without a word, they fanned out and advanced, cutting down the terrified men with surgical precision. The gunfire and screams lasted less than two minutes before fading into eerie quiet.
One of them sheathed his blade and reported in a low, steady voice, "Sir, the ones outside have been taken care of."
The Knight nodded once, sheathing his sword. "Find the basement."
The four split up, combing through the warehouse. Within minutes, a shout came from near the back exit.
"Sir! Over here!"
The Knight approached. Behind a heavy container, a reinforced door stood half-hidden beneath grime and rust. As the soldier opened it, a wave of energy rolled out — thick, suffocating, and ancient. Even the Knight stepped back slightly.
He stared into the dark stairwell. "I'll go alone."
Without waiting for a response, he descended.
The stairs spiraled downward, the faint hum of red light growing stronger with each step. The air felt heavier, charged with something unnatural.
The room sprawled wide before him — silent, cavernous, and shrouded in near-complete darkness. The far corners swallowed all light, and only the faint crimson radiance in the center broke through the void.
His gaze followed it — to the source of that light.
On the far end of the room, a man sat with casual arrogance on a long leather sofa. A low table stretched before him, and resting against it was a pristine blade — its silver edge gleaming faintly even in the dimness.
The man's face was hidden beneath the shadows, but his white suit stood out starkly against the darkness. One leg was crossed lazily over the other, his posture that of someone waiting — not for a meeting, but for a game to begin.
As the Knight of Oblivion stepped forward, the man tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into a slow, knowing smile.
"Well," he said, his tone smooth and amused, "what a joyous occasion this is — for the Knight of Oblivion himself to grace me with his presence."
His voice echoed softly through the chamber — refined, almost polite — but beneath that civility lay an unmistakable current of mockery.
The Knight stopped a few paces away, silent, unreadable behind his obsidian mask.
The Knight said nothing.
"Cold, as they say," the man in white murmured with amusement.
"I am not here to fight you," the Knight said, his tone calm, unreadable. "Just hand them over, and we can walk away."
"Of course," the man said, that smile never leaving his face. "It's too early for us to fight, isn't it? We both serve as the first swords of our masters. Our battle would be quite… entertaining. You can have all of them. I'm here just for one."
The Knight's hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword.
"I don't think I can do that," he said evenly. "My mission is to take all of them back."
A sudden surge of blue energy erupted from him, flooding the basement like a wave, its pressure cracking the walls.
The man in white answered in kind, crimson light bursting from his form, the two auras clashing midair like opposing storms. His blade lifted lazily to his shoulder as he spoke again.
"You're misunderstanding something here," he said, his tone still calm despite the suffocating tension. "I'm not here to take someone from the people you're trying to save. I need someone else. I was just waiting here… to meet you."
The Knight didn't lower his blade. "If that's the case, then we can continue this later."
Both men slowly withdrew their energies, the tension fading but not forgotten.
The man in white gave a small, approving nod. "Fair enough."
He turned, walking toward a shadowed corridor. Just before leaving, he spoke again — his voice echoing softly through the underground hall.
"When we meet again, let's have a battle to the death."
His footsteps faded. The crimson light vanished.
The Knight stood alone, the basement returning to silence — save for the low hum of the red glow and his steady breath behind the mask.