---
The morning sun filtered weakly through the tall windows of the Ashbourne manor's study, casting long shadows across the shelves lined with leather-bound tomes. The air smelled faintly of oak polish, old paper, and the smoke curling from the low fire in the hearth.
Draven Ashbourne sat at the broad mahogany desk, his fingers tapping against a folder of reports. The silence of the night before still clung to him, though now the war he fought was one of patience and information, not blades.
Gideon, the ever-composed butler, stood nearby with his hands folded neatly behind his back.
"They've yet to find any clear link," Draven muttered, his gaze fixed on the folder. "Not between UNSCAD and the founding families… nor between the organization and the fire that night. Every trail we follow…" His hand tightened briefly. "…leads to dead ends."
"A carefully woven deception," Gideon replied, inclining his head. "Whoever orchestrated this has erased their footprints well."
Draven leaned back, his eyes resting on the Ashbourne crest painted high on the wall. "The fire wasn't chance. My parents' deaths weren't chance. UNSCAD's shadows hide the truth, but not forever."
"Then the task remains, sir," Gideon said softly. "Pull at the threads until their web collapses."
Draven closed the folder with quiet finality. "The police will make their arrests. The press will feed. But men like these—" his hand brushed the names in the file "—they always crawl back. Power never dies so easily."
"That," Gideon said, "is why they fear you. And why they will come."
Draven's lips curved into a razor-thin line. "Then let them come."
The words had barely left his mouth when the study doors burst open.
"Draven!"
His younger sister, Nora Ashbourne, stormed into the room. Her silken gown brushed the polished floor, her eyes—sharp and burning—locking onto him.
"You haven't spent a single day with me in two months!" she snapped, fists clenched. "Two months, Draven! You bury yourself in this… business, these secrets, and you don't even tell me what you do in your spare time."
The weight in the study shifted. Gideon respectfully lowered his gaze, granting the siblings the illusion of privacy.
For a moment, Draven simply studied her, silent. Then his mask softened, his voice warmer than it ever was with anyone else.
"You're right, Nora."
She blinked, caught off guard.
"I've been consumed with this fight. Too much." He closed the folder, setting it aside. "This weekend, then—we'll go to the beach house. The whole weekend. Just us."
Nora's frustration melted into surprise, then a flicker of joy. But she crossed her arms, feigning stubbornness. "Just the two of us? That sounds boring. I'll invite some friends along—if that's alright."
Draven chuckled faintly. "Do as you like."
She leaned closer, her tone playful but earnest. "And you should invite someone too. Make a friend, Draven. Live a little. You're not a ghost."
Her words echoed deeper than she knew. Draven exhaled, pulling out his phone. Scrolling through, he stopped at a number he'd only recently taken.
He dialed.
"Benji," he said once the line clicked. His tone carried rare ease. "I'm heading to the beach house this weekend. My sister insists it won't be fun without company. Interested?"
Benjamin's laugh came bright through the speaker. "A weekend by the sea? Count me in."
"Good." Draven hung up, sliding the phone away.
"See? That wasn't so hard," Nora said, smiling now. She swept out of the study with a satisfied air.
Gideon gave a polite bow. "I'll see to the arrangements, Master Draven." He too departed, leaving the young heir alone.
The silence settled—until his phone buzzed again.
The number was hidden.
Draven hesitated, then answered.
A voice, smooth and sharp, slid through the line.
"Well, well… Raven. It's been a long time."
The name struck harder than any blade. Few dared call him that anymore.
Draven's breath stilled. "…Scepter."
And memory surged like fire.
---
Flashback — The Trial
He had just claimed the impossible: the youngest SS-rank mercenary. A feat that shook the guilds, that split whispers across kingdoms. And so the world tested him.
It was The Holy Protector himself—keeper of the Holy Land, one of the three greatest SSS-rank mercenaries alive—who arranged it. With a single message, he summoned the Abyssal Order. His request was simple, but heavy with intent:
"Bring me the Raven. I will like my pupil be face against him."
The courtyard brimmed with tension. Torches burned high, it was a private event, only the protector and the Abyssal order around to watch.
The Protector's hand dropped.
"Begin."
Scepter lunged first, his blade cutting the air with raw, youthful ferocity. Raven's dagger met it in an instant, sparks bursting as metal shrieked. The ground trembled under their clash.
They circled, measured, two predators sensing each other's weight. Raven was sharp motion, compact efficiency, no wasted effort. Scepter was force, power surging through every strike, reckless but terrifyingly fast.
Scepter dropped his sword, hefting a greatsword in both hands. He swung in arcs wide enough to cleave stone. Raven rolled low, answering with a short sword, countering upward with surgical precision.
Steel rang against steel.
The duel shifted—blades discarded, new weapons drawn. Scepter's knives hissed through the air, silver streaks under firelight. Raven's wrist snapped, a hidden crossbow flaring. Bolts tore into the knives mid-flight, shattering steel in midair.
Close again—this time fists and bone.
Raven struck with cold precision, blows angled at ribs, joints, throat. Scepter answered with raw, hammering strength, fists like boulders smashing through guard. Elbows cracked against shoulders, knees slammed into ribs. Raven swept him down, but Scepter rolled back to his feet with a grin, blood already slicking his lip.
Dust hung thick, their breathing harsh.
Then came the next shift—dual blades flashing in Scepter's hands, a spear spinning in Raven's. The courtyard blazed with sparks, twin swords slashing unpredictably while the spear thrust and twisted, forcing him back.
The rhythm turned again. Scepter's chain-scythe hissed like a serpent, ripping through the air. Raven ducked beneath its bite, closing the distance with a dagger angled for the throat. Only instinct saved Scepter, jerking back as steel scraped skin.
Every clash was balanced. Every victory undone by the next exchange. When Raven forced him against the wall, Scepter reversed the momentum in a brutal grapple. When Scepter's scythe lashed close, Raven's elbow crushed into his ribs, breaking free.
Then—the Protector raised his hand.
"Enough."
Both froze, blades still thirsting. Slowly, reluctantly, they lowered their weapons.
Scepter smirked, crimson streaking his jaw. "Not bad… Raven."
The Raven said nothing, only sliding his dagger away with quiet finality.
The Protector's gaze burned in the silence.
"Equal. I guess you too are a match."
---
Back to the Present
Draven blinked, the study returning to him. The fire cracked softly, his phone heavy in his grip.
His voice came colder now. "…What do you want?"
Scepter chuckled darkly. "A duel. Nothing more. Just you and me—again."
Draven's jaw tightened. "I'm not in that business anymore and, I don't fight for sport."
On the other end, Scepter's laughter lingered, mocking yet familiar.
"We'll see about that."
The line went dead.
Draven lowered the phone, staring at the black screen. His reflection stared back at him, silent, as the weight of the past pressed down once more.