Chapter 13
"I want to join your cause because I believe in karma. Forgiveness is overrated," Leon replied, his voice firm despite his position on the floor.
Shadow leaned in, his gaze piercing. "Then tell me, Leon—why did you become a doctor? Doctors save lives, but you speak only of ending them."
"I became a doctor to save my mother," Leon said, his voice dropping an octave as his head bowed. "She had a chronic illness, and I was determined to find a cure... but that's too late now. She's gone."
Shadow reached down, hooking two fingers under Leon's jaw and forcing him to look up. "One last thing. If you possessed the power I have, what would you do with it?"
"Justice," Leon replied, his eyes burning with a raw, undeniable conviction. "I would punish those who deserve it. I would cast judgment on those who find pleasure in harming others—the greedy, the deceitful, the vile, and the corrupted. I will be their nemesis, their karma, and their punishment. Please... let me join you."
Shadow stood silent for a moment. Using his telepathy, he swept through Leon's mind; there was no deception, only a scorched earth where a home used to be.
"Well then, I'll—" Shadow started, but he was cut off by a sharp, rhythmic beeping from Alpha's tablet. "What's wrong?"
"Someone just broke into the temporary base," Alpha reported, his fingers flying across the screen. "There are three of them, all in black. They're wearing high-tech masks; the cameras can't get a facial lock."
"It's them!" Leon stood up in a blind rage, ready to bolt. "The ones who set the fire!"
Shadow caught him by the shoulder, his grip immovable. "Hold on, angry bird. Someone else will handle this. After all, that is my apartment." He turned his eyes toward Nemesis. "You're up. Try not to blow up the building."
Nemesis bowed low. "Thank you for the opportunity, my lord." With a silent flicker, he teleported away, leaving Leon staring at the empty space in absolute shock. It was the first time he had seen a human simply vanish.
Nemesis reappeared in the center of the first-floor living room. He didn't hide. Instead, he sat calmly on the couch, shrouded in the dim light, and waited. Above him, he could hear the muffled thuds of the intruders ransacking the top floor.
After several minutes, the three men descended the stairs, frustrated at finding the place empty. As they reached the front door to make their exit, a wall of pitch-black Cosmic Aramid surged from the floor, sealing the doorway shut.
"Where do you think you're going?" Nemesis asked from the shadows.
He remained seated, his posture relaxed, but his eyes were empty—void of any mercy or emotion.
When Shadow had ascended, he passed his collective abilities down to his Knights—including the newer gifts he had acquired from the battle. Now, Nemesis stood as a vessel of those terrifying powers.
One of the assassins reacted first, flicking a concealed blade with lethal precision toward Nemesis's throat. The steel stopped dead in mid-air, trembling against an invisible wall. Nemesis hadn't moved a muscle; he simply held the weapon in place with Telekinesis.
"What's going on?" one of the men hissed, stepping back in disbelief.
Nemesis stood up and began a slow, deliberate walk toward them. Another assassin fired a specialized smoke canister at the Knight's feet. It exploded in a thick, green cloud of neurotoxic gas. The intruders stood still, their high-tech masks filtering the air, waiting for the body to hit the floor. Instead, Nemesis emerged from the fog completely unfazed—his Poison Resistance was absolute.
"What is this guy? Even the toxin doesn't touch him!"
Desperate, the three assassins drew their blades and launched a coordinated strike. Nemesis materialized a long Aramid blade in his palm. The men were professional killers, but they were facing a literal god of swordplay. With heightened senses and inhuman strength, Nemesis moved like a blur, parrying all three strikes simultaneously before delivering a crushing counter-blow that shattered their steel and sent them crashing into the wall.
The injured assassins slumped against the brick, staring at the monstrosity looming over them.
"Please! Spare us!" one pleaded, his voice cracking. "We'll tell you who sent us!"
"Shut up, you fool!" another snapped, clutching his broken ribs. "We are ninjas of the Black House. We never surrender, even if it costs us our lives."
"Oh, I see," Nemesis said, a cold smile touching his lips. He teleported instantly, appearing inches from the defiant ninja's face. His eyes erupted in a purple glow, releasing a dark, suffocating energy that paralyzed their hearts with primal fear. He gripped the man's face in his hand. "Now," he whispered in a voice like grinding stones, "tell me who sent you."
The assassin, his bravado instantly vanishing as he peed himself in terror, stammered out the truth. "It's... it's George McCall! The CEO of George Industries! He sent us to kill his nephew! We were only doing what we were told!"
The third assassin, thinking Nemesis was distracted, snatched a hand-crossbow and fired a bolt at the Knight's head. Without even looking, Nemesis caught the arrow mid-flight, his reflexes operating on a plane beyond human comprehension.
Still holding the leader by the face, Nemesis pointed a single finger at the shooter. A tiny spark of purple flame, no larger than a drop of water, flickered at his fingertip before darting forward. It struck the assassin's chest and expanded instantly, leaving a massive, charred hole where his heart should have been.
The two survivors began to wail, begging for mercy. Nemesis looked down at them, his gaze hollow. "When your victims plead for their lives... do you forgive?"
The room went silent. Finally, one stammered, "We promise... we'll change! Just one chance to prove it!"
Nemesis stood over them with pure disdain. "Forgiveness isn't kindness," he muttered in an emotionless tone. "Justice must be served. If an action lacks consequences, that action is bound to repeat itself." He took a short pause, the air around him growing cold. "I am Nemesis. I am the unseen justice and the inevitable consequence. And today, your actions have reached their end."
He grabbed both men by their collars and vanished. A second later, they were thousands of feet above the city council building, suspended in the freezing clouds. Nemesis let go. He watched with a detached stillness as they plummeted toward the concrete below before teleporting back to the permanent base.
"It's done, my lord," Nemesis announced, materializing in the center of the room with the silence of a ghost.
Leon jumped, startled by the sudden appearance. "What did you do? Where are they?"
"I took out the trash," Nemesis responded, his voice devoid of warmth.
Before Leon could press for details, Shadow stepped forward, his presence commanding the room. He looked Leon directly in the eyes. "Tell me, Leon. Are you still interested in joining our league?"
The Knights exchanged surprised glances. Usually, the path to becoming a Knight involved grueling trials of resolve and combat. They didn't yet realize that Shadow's evolution had granted him the ability to peel back the layers of the human mind; he had already seen Leon's truth.
"Yes," Leon answered without a second's hesitation. "More than anything."
Shadow smiled—a rare, thin expression. He reached out, placing a firm hand on Leon's shoulder. "Henceforth, the name you shall answer to is Wrath. I am granting you ten percent of my collective abilities. Do not fail me, Wrath."
A surge of dark, neon-purple energy erupted from Shadow's hand, flowing into Leon like liquid fire. Wrath's eyes flared the same neon hue, and he gasped as the power flooded every fiber of his being. The sheer intensity of the essence forced him to his knees. It was a level of power he hadn't believed a human could possess.
"My lord," Wrath muttered, his voice thick with newfound adoration and purpose.
"Now go," Shadow commanded, turning to leave. "Do as you please. Let us see your judgment in action."
"I won't fail you," Wrath vowed. In a blur of speed that rivaled the wind, he vanished from their sight.
Beta turned to Shadow, her brow furrowed. "Was it right to grant him such power without testing his conviction first, my lord?"
"I tested your convictions through trials because I had no other way to be certain of your hearts," Shadow explained calmly. "But now that I can read the mind directly, it is a far more guaranteed method than combat. It was quite obvious his decision was made long ago."
"If you see it as fit, my lord, then we have no objections," Alpha responded, and the others nodded in silent agreement.
News of the dead assassins appearing at the City Council building reached George McCall like a thunderclap. Having heard nothing from his men the previous night, he had suspected the worst; now, the gruesome reality was confirmed.
Panic began to set in, but it was quickly replaced by a cold, desperate need for survival. He tripled his security, hiring five elite "S-Tier" assassins. George was certain that whoever had dropped his men from the sky would eventually come for his head.
He fortified his mansion,Two guards stood like iron statues at the main gates,Two more constantly patrolled the halls, inspecting every shadow and the final, most lethal guard never left George's side.
As night settled over the city, George sat in his opulent living room. He clutched a glass of whiskey, his eyes darting toward the darkened corners of the room. With all five elite killers surrounding him, he felt prepared. Or so he thought.
The atmosphere in the mansion shifted violently. Suddenly, the entire building began to shake as if caught in a localized earthquake. With a series of deafening cracks, every window and door slammed shut, sealed by an invisible, suffocating force. The grand front doors swung open into the night, yet nothing entered; then, as the assassins gripped their blades in a panic, the doors slammed shut again with bone-shattering force.
The lights began to flicker, strobing wildly before plunging the room into absolute darkness. When the power snapped back on a second later, the room was no longer empty.
Wrath—the man once known as Leon—was sitting directly across from his uncle. He leaned back comfortably in an armchair, swirling a glass of expensive wine. He raised the glass in a mock toast, a bright, chilling smile plastered on his face.
"Happy family reunion," he said smoothly.
The assassins were paralyzed with confusion. George was left speechless, his mind racing through a maze of impossible questions: How did he get in? What was that display of power? Is he even still human?
"How... how did you survive?" George finally managed to mutter.
"Well, I have a better question," Wrath replied, his smirk widening as he took a slow sip of the wine. "Why? Why did you kill your own brother and his family?"
George's fear briefly flickered into a triumphant sneer. "Got you. I expected you to drink that. I poisoned that bottle personally. Now, you're going to die all over again." He began to laugh hysterically, a sound born of desperation.
Wrath didn't choke. He didn't collapse. Instead, he tilted his head. "Do you truly believe poison can kill me?"
The laughter died in George's throat. "That cannot be... what... what are you?" panic finally seizing his heart. He screamed at his guards, "Kill him! Kill him now!"
But to his horror, the five elite assassins remained motionless. Then, as if on a delayed cue, their heads slid from their shoulders simultaneously. Their bodies slumped to the floor in a gruesome, synchronized heap.
"What... what is happening?!" George shrieked, backing away.
"Oh, they've been dead for a while," Wrath replied nonchalantly, taking another sip of the toxic wine. "I just held them in place."
The revelation sent a lethal chill down George's spine. Wrath had moved so fast that he had decapitated all five "S-Tier" killers the moment he appeared, using Telekinesis to keep their corpses standing so he could enjoy the look on his uncle's face. George's fortress had become a tomb, and his life now hung by a single, fraying thread.
George collapsed to his knees, his forehead pressing against the expensive carpet as he wept for his life. Wrath stood up slowly, looming over him with a gaze of pure disgust.
"Are you sorry because your life is on the line," Wrath asked quietly, "or are you sorry because you truly realize your mistakes?"
"I've realized them! I swear I'll change!" George cried out, his voice cracking with desperation.
In that moment, the words of Shadow echoed through Wrath's mind—the cold, hard truth about the nature of forgiveness. Wrath looked down at his uncle and spoke in a voice that sounded like shifting glaciers. "Forgiveness isn't mercy. It only creates the opportunity for history to repeat itself."
George lifted his head, his eyes wide with shock. "Huh?"
"My father forgave you over and over again," Wrath continued calmly. "And how did you repay him? You sent assassins to murder him and his family, then burned the house to erase the evidence. Is that not right?"
"I... I was stupid and selfish! Please, spare me! I can change!"
"Now," Wrath replied, "Karma will take its course."
With a flick of his fingers, five obsidian Aramid spikes erupted from the air. They pierced George's body with surgical precision: two through his hands, two through his legs, and one through the right side of his chest—intentionally avoiding the heart to prolong the agony. As George hung there, pinned and bleeding, Wrath watched the life slowly drain from his uncle's face.
"That was the blade," Wrath whispered. "And now... the flames."
He stretched out his hand, a tiny, flicking purple flame dancing on his palm. George couldn't speak, but his eyes screamed for a mercy that was never coming. Wrath snapped his fingers. The entire mansion erupted in a violent inferno, the purple heat disintegrating the building and everything inside. Not a trace of the uncle or the assassins remained.
Wrath teleported back to the permanent base just as the first police sirens began to wail in the distance.
The following day, Leon moved with the efficiency of a predator to reclaim his birthright. With George gone and no other heirs to contest him—as George had spent his life sabotaging others rather than building a family—Leon was the sole survivor.
He merged his father's resources with George's fashion and lifestyle empire, rebranding the entire conglomerate as Leon Industries. He provided the police with enough evidence to frame his uncle's legacy as one of corruption, while officially pinning the destruction of the mansion on the mysterious vigilante, Shadow.
Shadow remained unconcerned with the blame. His influence was growing at an exponential rate, and he was firmly in control from the darkness. However, as he watched his new Knight work, Shadow realized they were moving into a new era. They needed deeper strategies, more members, and a plan for the threats he knew were still watching from the multiverse.
Once the Knights had fully recovered, the sanctuary of the permanent base transformed into a grueling forge of discipline. They spent their days in a massive training hall that Shadow had reinforced with dense layers of Cosmic Aramid. The material was a necessity; only Aramid could absorb the searing heat of his purple flames and the concussive shockwaves of their sparring sessions without the building collapsing. Through this relentless practice, the Knights evolved from a collection of powerful individuals into a synchronized unit, learning to weave their unique abilities into unstoppable team maneuvers.
Outside their walls, however, the legend of Shadow was spiraling out of control. As his influence went global, a vacuum of authority was filled by those who saw him as a symbol. Three distinct factions rose to power, their actions so prominent they were often mistaken for the work of Shadow himself.
The first was the League of Shadows,A silent brotherhood of international assassins. Clad in black hoods and tactical masks, they specialized in the midnight purge of organized crime. They were led by a mysterious figure known as El Dorado, an elite warrior from another continent who commanded his men with military precision.
The second was the Black Angels,A radical group of zealots who bordered on a religious cult. They didn't just support Shadow; they worshipped him. To them, he was the harbinger of the apocalypse—the final judge whose arrival signaled the end of a corrupt world.
The last was the Punishers, The most formidable and ruthless of the three. To join, one had to be a master of a specific
discipline—wealth, intellect, or lethal combat. They viewed Shadow's words as absolute law and operated with an unrestricted cruelty that made even the Knights pause.
The frequency of their activities eventually forced Shadow's hand. He could not allow his name to be used for agendas he did not oversee. He tasked Alpha with uncovering the identities and motives of these leaders, seeking to understand if they were true allies or dangerous fanatics.
Shadow gathered the Knights to decide the fate of these followers. The room became a theater of debate as they weighed the risks
The Pro-Expansion Group: Beta, Delta, Chaos, and Wrath voted for a merger. They argued that the recent battle with Mr. Black proved they needed a massive army to defend against multiversal threats.
The Skeptics:Alpha, Gamma, and Nemesis urged caution. They feared that opening their gates would invite spies or lead to the "wrong hands" gaining access to Shadow's essence.
Shadow listened in silence, his eyes reflecting the neon-purple glow of his power. "We will invite them," he finally declared, his voice cutting through the tension. "But we will not simply give them our trust. Every member of these factions must pass a trial of resolve. If they wish to serve Karma, they must first survive it."
With the decision finalized, the Knights set out to organize a summit. The message was sent across all factions: "The Master is calling. Prepare for judgment."
The summons was delivered by Nemesis, who moved like a ghost across the globe. By the end of the same day, the three leaders were intercepted and teleported directly to a secluded, high-security chamber within the permanent base—a room designed specifically for this high-stakes audience.
The three figures stood in the dim light, representing the collective might of thousands
El Dorado (League of Shadows): A thirty-year-old former street gang leader and professional fighter. Having grown up as an orphan on the streets, he lived by a rigid code of cause and effect. He was a master of agility and athletic combat, turning the chaos of his youth into a disciplined army of assassins.
Glen (The Black Angels): A twenty-eight-year-old voodoo practitioner who claimed to communicate with the spirits of the dead. Years ago, she had prophesied the rise of a "Destroyer-Savior" who would bring ultimate judgment to the world. To her, Shadow was not just a man, but the physical manifestation of that prophecy.
Elliot (The Punishers): A thirty-two-year-old billionaire and former trained assassin. Long before Shadow's rise, Elliot had operated as a vigilante known as the "Black Cat." At twenty-two, he traded his mask for a boardroom suit, but upon witnessing Shadow's divine justice and mysterious abilities, he used his fortune to assemble an international network of elite geniuses and warriors to serve as Shadow's extended reach.
When Nemesis had appeared before them with the invitation, all three felt a paralyzing mixture of terror and ecstasy. They had quickly briefed their respective factions and prepared for a meeting that would change the course of history.
As they sat in their designated seats, the air in the room grew heavy and cold. The heavy doors at the end of the hall swung open, and a tall figure emerged. Shadow walked with a majestic, rhythmic stride, his presence draped in a suffocating dark aura. A tactical mask covered his lower face, but his eyes burned with a neon-purple intensity that seemed to pierce through their souls.
Following him like silent sentinels were Alpha and Beta. Their faces were masks of stone, their auras radiating a level of raw power that made the air hum.
As Shadow walked past the three leaders, their bodies moved of their own accord; they instinctively bowed, their heads ducked in a display of primal submission. Shadow ascended a small dais and sat upon a throne-like seat elevated at the far end of the room. Alpha and Beta took their positions directly across from the faction leaders, pinning them with stares that were entirely void of emotion.
The silence in the room was absolute. As Shadow's glowing gaze settled on them, the three leaders felt a tremor in their hearts. They realized they weren't just in the presence of a vigilante—they were in the presence of a god. Every action they had taken in his name had reached his table, and they knew that in this moment, their lives—and the fate of their factions—balanced on the edge of a blade.
Shadow broke the oppressive silence. His voice was a frigid draft that echoed against the chamber walls, vibrating with an authority that felt older than the stones themselves.
"Tell me," he began, his tone a razor-blade of cold precision. "Why have you used my name to fuel your movements? What is it you hope to achieve in the wake of my shadow?"
The three leaders moved to answer at once, their voices colliding in a frantic rush to explain. A single, sharp glare from Alpha cut through the noise, silencing them instantly. One by one, they were signaled to speak.
El Dorado was the first to rise. He moved with the fluid grace of a street-bred predator, but as he faced the throne, he bowed his head in a display of total fealty.
"Forgive us, my Lord," he began, his voice rasping with sincerity. "We are but shadows cast by your great deeds. I was an orphan of the gutters; I never knew the faces of those who brought me into this world. I saw the unbridled cruelty of man in the dark corners of the street. I formed a gang to prove that no sin goes unpunished, but my purpose truly ignited when I witnessed the Freeman massacre. I saw then that even the gilded cages of the rich cannot bar the entry of Karma. I created the League of Shadows to catch your eye, fueled by a singular desire: to serve the master of the night."
Shadow peered into the man's mind, sifting through the gritty memories of the streets. He found nothing but iron-clad sincerity. With a subtle nod, he signaled Beta, whose piercing gaze fell upon Glen.
Glen bowed low, her hands trembling slightly as she spoke. "I have been a priestess of the spirits for eight years. Long ago, the whispers of the dead gifted me a vision: a man clad in the purest obsidian, the incarnation of Karma itself, who would set the crooked world straight. I waited in the silence for years. Then came the Rashford Incident—an unexplainable slaughter—followed by the Freeman fall. I knew then that the savior of my visions had arrived. My life belongs to the prophecy. My life belongs to you."
Finally, Elliot stood. The billionaire carried himself with the poise of a king, yet he bowed as deeply as a commoner before the Shadow.
"My Lord, I was raised in the art of death. I mastered the blade, the fist, and the bullet, serving as an assassin for three years until the stench of the world's greed disgusted me. I became the 'Black Cat,' a phantom of justice on another continent. When my parents perished in the sky, I was forced to trade my mask for a suit to lead their empire. I thought my war was over until the Rashford mansion fell. You gave me a reason to fight again. I used my fortune to scout the globe for the extraordinary—the geniuses, the warriors, the elite—to build a squad in your image. I knew the Great Detective Leon Maximoff could not find you, so I made my movement loud enough that you would find me. My will is yours, my Lord."
Shadow sat in the silence that followed, his telepathy confirming the truth of every word. His aura was a suffocating weight; in his presence, a lie would have felt like trying to breathe underwater.
Suddenly, Shadow clapped his hands—a single, sharp crack that echoed like a gunshot.
The floor groaned as the seats of the three leaders slid forward, drawn by an unseen force toward the throne. Between them, a massive table of Cosmic Aramid surged up from the ground, its surface dark and indestructible. The very chairs they sat upon transformed, shifting into the same obsidian-like material.
They looked into Shadow's glowing purple eyes, and the air grew thin. The time for stories had ended. Shadow leaned forward, lacing his fingers together as his aura flared with a terrifying, divine intensity. They were no longer in a meeting; they were in a court.
"The time for words has passed," Shadow whispered, the purple fire in his eyes dancing with a cold light. "The judgment of the Shadow begins now."