The news spread before the sun even rose.
In the slums, rumors were always born of blood and fear. This time, they rose faster than usual, carried by trembling voices, shifty glances, and silences too heavy to ignore.
A warehouse had been cleared in a single night.
No explosions.
No visible battles.
No recognizable symbols.
Only mentally broken mercenaries, unable to sleep, all repeating the same thing.
"A black moon."
"A number."
"Zero."
At the royal palace, the alarm bells rang before noon.
In the Council Chamber, the atmosphere was tense. Scrolls piled up on the circular table: spy reports, inconsistent testimonies, magical records impossible to interpret.
An archmage with a silver beard pounded his fist.
"It's impossible. No known spell can cause such targeted fear without leaving a trace."
A councilwoman murmured, pale:
"Three survivors attempted suicide after their interrogation. Out of guilt… out of terror."
An icy silence fell.
The king, seated on his obsidian throne, had not yet spoken. His eyes were fixed on a single document.
A clumsy drawing, sketched by a survivor.
A black moon.
With a zero engraved in its center.
"Number Zero…" the king murmured.
The royal archivist feverishly turned the pages of a forbidden grimoire.
"Your Majesty… there is an old theory. A phantom organization. A myth once used to frighten corrupt nobles."
He hesitated.
"Blake Shadow."
Several members of the Council paled.
"This organization was supposedly destroyed centuries ago," protested a general. "No symbols, no identified leader."
The archivist slowly closed the book.
"Precisely. It was said that their leader had no rank. No name. No past."
He paused.
"He was called… Zero."
The king stood up.
His voice was calm. Too calm.
"Strengthen the borders. Double the surveillance of the guilds. Silence the rumors."
He turned his head slightly.
"And above all… don't look for Zero."
An advisor dared to ask:
"Why, Your Majesty?"
The king answered directly.
"Because if he has resurfaced… it means the kingdom has already been judged."
In the shadows of a distant alley, a survivor from the warehouse huddled against a wall, his hands covering his head.
He was still whispering, his voice breaking:
"He wasn't a man… he was a decision."
And somewhere, unseen, Blake Shadow advanced.
The kingdom had just understood something.
The shadow didn't strike to conquer.
It struck to remind everyone who controlled fear.