Chapter : 2 The Shadow Controller
"Aaahhh—"
Screams.
Screams tearing through the night.
The sound of blades cutting through flesh.
Of blood hitting the floor.
Of lives ending in a single breath.
The mansion was silent now. Bodies were everywhere. More than eighty corpses lay scattered across the ground like broken dolls thrown aside. Blood soaked the floors, the walls, the air itself. A heavy metallic scent hung thick, suffocating, impossible to ignore.
And in the middle of this massacre... someone walked.
His steps were slow, unhurried, as though he were strolling through a peaceful courtyard rather than a field of the dead. Each time his boot touched the floor, blood rippled beneath it in a dark, crimson splash.
He wore long black boots, fitted black trousers, and a snow-white shirt, now speckled with faint crimson dots. A long black coat trailed behind him, dragging lightly across the blood-slick marble.
On his left ear glinted shiny rhombus-shaped earring, glowing faintly in light cyan.
A black flute hung loosely from a cord at his wrist — swaying gently with each step.
His hair, long and cyan, flowed behind him like strands of mist caught in a quiet storm.
The wind slipped through the shattered windows, lifting those strands into the air as though the night itself adored him.
In his hand was a black sword.
Blood dripped from its tip, running along the red and cyan vein-like patterns carved along the blade, glowing faintly as though the sword itself were alive.
His fingers, slender and elegant, were wrapped in black gloves, gripping the hilt with a practiced ease — the ease of someone who had killed a thousand times before.
His face was hidden behind a white mask, leaving no hint of who — or what — he was.
The only sound was his quiet breathing...
and the steady, rhythmic drip of blood falling from the sword.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
He walked until he reached a plain wooden door — untouched, unremarkable, almost out of place in the carnage.
He lifted his hand.
Long, graceful fingers — gloved, cold — came to rest against the wood.
He did not push.
He merely...
touched it.
And the door creaked open on its own. A dark, black blast surged outward the moment the door opened. Resentment — thick, heavy, ancient — rushed out like a violent storm.
Yet he stood there, untouched.
The raging hatred tore at the walls, at the bodies, at the very air...
but it parted around him like smoke around stone.
To him, it was nothing more than a faint breeze on a quiet night.
Inside the room, resentment swirled violently, twisting like a living shadow.
He stepped forward, calmly, walking straight into the heart of that storm.
At the center stood a glass case — and within it, a scroll, resting upright in a simple holder.
He raised one hand.
Just the lightest tap of his finger—
CRACK.
The glass shattered soundlessly, fragments glittering in the air before dissolving into the haze.
The scroll did not fall. It remained perfectly still, untouched, waiting for him.
He took it.
Then, without a flash or sound, without any ripple in the resentment swirling around him—
he vanished.
Only the shattered remnants of the case remained, and the lingering scent of roses, soft and sweet, filling the room where death and hatred had once suffocated everything.
Rustling leaves.
Fireworks exploding in the sky.
Bells ringing.
Laughter echoing through the streets.
The night was alive with celebration — New Year's Eve.
Far from the lights and joy, in a darkness so deep it was almost a void, the masked figure stood alone, watching.
His eyes were calm behind the mask — silently observing the joy he did not share.
"Master... Master..."
A voice called out — deep, too deep — something inhuman.
A shadow-like creature approached, its form twisted and monstrous, nothing resembling a human. Its presence was wrong — a thing born of darkness, hunger, and despair.
The masked man did not turn.
His voice was quiet — calm, smooth, terrifying in its gentleness.
"I believe..."
"There is no reason for me to be disappointed... is there?"
Silence.
"Because you understand the outcome."
As he spoke, he slowly turned to face the creature behind him. His voice was gentle—gentle like a soft breeze brushing past a quiet river. Yet, beneath that gentleness, there was something else—something cold and merciless. A breeze that could soothe... or erase.
The creature felt it.
Even without raising his voice, the masked man's presence pressed down on the monster like a silent storm. The air grew heavy. The temperature dropped.
The monster trembled, its grotesque form shivering uncontrollably.
"Y-Yes... I—I am aware..." it stammered, its voice cracking like broken glass. "B-But—"
"Then I will take that as a job well done," the masked man replied softly. His tone remained warm—yet it carried a quiet finality sharper than any blade.
"No?"
"Of course... Yes... I—" the monster tried to explain.
"You may leave."
The words were spoken gently—but they ended everything. There was no room to continue. No room to breathe.
What else could the monster do but obey?
"Yes... Master..." it whispered, retreating backward, its form fading into the darkness.
Silence settled.
The masked man stepped lightly, rising to sit atop a tree branch that swayed in the night wind. He loosened the black flute at his waist and brought it to his lips.
A melody flowed.
But this time, it was no lullaby for the world. No gentle tune for drifting lanterns, nor a song meant to soothe hearts.
This melody was wrong—eerie, cold, and unsettling. The kind of sound that crawls beneath skin. The kind of tune that makes birds fall silent, and lights flicker out. A melody that could chase warmth from the bones of even the bravest listener.
It whispered of graves.
Of forgotten names.
Of laughter turned to screams.
The night itself seemed to listen—and shiver.
A lone figure moved within the courtyard—each swing of his sword precise, steady, and controlled. The blade cut through the air with a soft whisper, as if even the wind respected him enough not to resist.
Suddenly—fwsshh—
A dark shape flew across the sky and descended before him.
Not a human.
Not even close.
It was a shadow—an outline of a body with no face, no features, no strands of hair, no folds of clothing. Just a shifting black mass, its form barely holding together. Its voice, when it spoke, was unbearably hoarse—like rocks grinding against each other.
In its hand was a letter.
A letter faintly shimmering with a strange light.
The same kind of letter that Emperor Tian Jun had burned into nothingness.
The swordsman lowered his blade and looked directly at the shadow.
"...He sent it again?" he asked, his expression unreadable.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the shadow rasped.
The man took the letter with two fingers—unhurried, calm—and with a small gesture of his hand, signaled the shadow to leave. The dark figure bowed without words and drifted away, its form dissolving into the air like mist.
Now alone, the swordsman opened the envelope.
Inside was a single piece of parchment.
He pulled it free—and his eyes paused.
Written in clean, strong strokes was a name:
Arata Kurogami.
The Kurogami Clan—once known as the strongest clan to ever exist in history—lived in complete isolation, hidden away from the rest of the world.
For centuries, the Kurogami had ruled over shadows themselves. They did not borrow power from spirits, nor use forbidden dark magic.
Instead, they had forged their own secret techniques—methods passed down only through blood, practiced from the moment they first learned to stand. Their shadows were not companions, nor contracts.
They were servants.
Arata's eyes lingered on his name written on the parchment. His brows drew together—not with fear, but with irritation. It was a reaction that suggested familiarity... something unwelcome that had returned.
Arata, one of the most gifted talents of the clan, did not rely on the techniques of ancient masters or borrowed spells. Like every member of Kurogami blood, he walked a path carved only by his lineage.
He let out a quiet, tired sigh.
With a flick of his wrist, the letter dissolved—breaking apart into dim particles of light before vanishing completely.
His sword hovered in the air before him. Arata placed his hand on the hilt — just once — and the blade disintegrated into a fine black dust, scattering like smoke into the air.
Without changing his clothes, still wearing his training uniform, he began to walk out of the training hall.
Outside the great entrance of the Kurogami grounds, a procession waited.
A towering black horse stood at the forefront — muscles strong, coat shining like polished obsidian. On both sides, rows of Kurogami soldiers sat atop their own horses, each gripping a spear in their right hand, a sword sheathed at their waist. Their posture was disciplined, rigid, silent.
Then, from the shadowed entrance, a figure stepped forth.
Long black boots struck the ground with steady, calm steps.
He wore black trousers and a short red robe, curved upward at the front, falling longer behind him — like a flowing tail of flame.
A silver belt clasped the robe at his waist, and the sleeves were short, ending in black cuffs that emphasized the sharpness of his movements.
He had snow-white skin, smooth and cold like porcelain bathed in moonlight. His long black hair was untied, cascading down to his waist, the tips slightly curved as if shaped by the wind itself. His eyes were a deep, vivid red — demon eyes, framed by long dark lashes. Just one glance was enough to unsettle even the bravest.
He walked with the posture of someone born to command — straight-backed, silent, carrying a presence that could not be ignored. Power lingered in the air around him, like pressure before a storm. His appearance could not simply be called handsome; it was something beyond beauty, something ethereal and threatening at the same time.
He was none other than Arata Kurogami.
Without a word, he mounted his horse, flicked the reins, and shot forward — riding with the speed of a streak of lightning tearing across the sky. His soldiers mounted their horses as well, following behind him in perfect formation.
When he entered the city, he slowed for only a moment. The streets were crowded — festival banners fluttering, merchants shouting, people laughing. Noise filled the air like waves.
Then — he heard it.
"The Silent Killer."
A group of young men were whispering hurriedly at a street corner. Their voices trembled with fear and excitement.
They spoke of the massacre of the Feng family — more than eighty lives, wiped out in one night. And the one they accused... was the masked figure known throughout hidden realms as The Silent Killer.
Arata's eyes narrowed slightly.
Not surprise — not fear — just a quiet, unreadable acknowledgment.
He tugged the reins and rode away.
Before long, he was standing before the Royal Gate.
He dismounted, boots touching the stone with quiet confidence, and began walking forward. Two armored guards watched him — but did nothing. They bowed their heads immediately and stepped aside.
Arata ascended the long staircase. Torches flickered along the walls. More soldiers guarded the entrance — yet none stopped him.
He walked forward as though the palace itself recognized him.
He could enter Emperor Tian Jun's palace freely —
because everyone knew just how much the Emperor trusted Arata Kurogami.
Upon entering, Arata stepped into a vast hall. The ceiling stretched high above, supported by stone pillars carved into figures wearing hoods and masks — silent watchers frozen in ancient poses. Golden ornaments glimmered from every corner, catching the dim light and casting warm reflections across the polished floor.
A grand staircase led to a throne raised above all — a throne where countless decisions, victories, and executions had been declared. It belonged to the undefeated ruler of the strongest empire, Eruna, Emperor Tian Jun.
The hall was silent. No servants, no guards. Only one figure sat on the throne — head resting against his hand, eyes closed, golden robes cascading like flowing sunlight.
As Arata approached, Tian Jun slowly opened his eyes. His gaze sharpened, then softened into a faint, elegant smile.
This was the same hall where the gathering with the clan leaders had been held days prior — now eerily quiet.
Tian Jun sat still for a moment longer, then rubbed his eyes lightly and rose to his feet. He began descending the stairs, hands clasped behind his back, humming a tune under his breath. The melody was gentle — yet something about it sent a chill up the spine, like the calm before a storm. His long dark-brown hair swayed lightly as he walked.
Arata bowed his head slightly in greeting.
No words were exchanged at first.
Tian Jun stopped in front of him, close enough that Arata could see the subtle tiredness hidden beneath his composed expression.
Tian Jun's voice was the one to break the silence:
"You already understand why you were summoned here, don't you?"
Arata answered with a simple, steady "Yes."
Tian Jun nodded slowly. His eyes held a seriousness rarely seen.
"Then remember," he said quietly, "everything I'm about to say must remain between us. No one else is to know. You are the only one I can entrust with this."
He placed a hand on Arata's shoulder — not heavy, but firm.
"I hope," Tian Jun continued, his voice soft yet carrying the weight of command, "that you will not disappoint me. Right?"
"That's right. But he's not an easy one." Arata's voice was a low grit, his knuckles white against his sword hilt. "I have the clues, yes, but... I'm not sure we should risk the approach. We can't afford a single mistake."
"Of course, we can't take risks," Tian Jun replied, taking four measured steps that closed the distance between them. His gaze was sharp, devoid of the usual humor."He is the sole survivor of the 'Black Box', after all."
The words hit Arata like a physical blow. Survivor of the Black Box. An inexplicable, gut-deep mix of emotion churned inside him. His vision blurred, a faint, phantom sensation of cold metal and echoing screams washing over him—a memory that wasn't his, yet felt branded onto his soul.
"They are cruel," Arata finally replied, his teeth grinding so hard it hurt. The simple statement felt inadequate, a cruel joke. He lowered his voice, the calmness in his tone more chilling than any shout.
"'Monster' is not a worthy word for them. They are more ruthless, more vicious... more heartless than any demon. They're just a stone without any emotion."
"Right, Arata, my Shadow Controller," Tian Jun replied with a pitying, half-smile. "There's no one who could know their truth better than you."
Pain and blistering hatred flashed in Arata's eyes.
Tian Jun's smile widened, twisting into something casual yet unsettling. "The Sudaroxes are insane. Four Sudaroxes, always. There were four, there are four, and there will be four. That is the rule of the realms."
"Yes," Arata confirmed, the tension returning. "He is one of them. One died, the identity of another is lost in the Veil, and the last one is not a complete Sudaroxe. He's a..."
"A Suba," Tian Jun interrupted smoothly, finishing the sentence. "They are also considered rare, I suppose. But among our realms? He's little more than a laughingstock."
Arata grew visibly annoyed listening to Tian Jun ramble. Finally, he cut in, folding his arms across his chest. "Was I called here for a history lecture? If that's the case, I'm leaving."
Tian Jun let out a low, amused laugh. "No... I was merely—" he cleared his throat, tone sharpening, "—getting to the point. What do the clues say about his whereabouts? Where is he now?"
Arata mimicked Tian Jun's little throat-clear with zero shame before answering in a flat voice:
"The clue says the 'Hidden Face' is currently in the mortal realm."
By "Hidden Face," he clearly meant the Silent Killer — the masked man.
Tian Jun understood instantly, his eyes narrowing with a cold, unreadable look. Arata noticed the stare... and ignored it completely.
Tian Jun spoke his thoughts aloud, voice echoing through the hall.
"What is he doing in the mortal realm?"
"Mortal stuff," Arata replied casually.
Tian Jun stared at him — unblinking, expression blank — as if he were looking at a beautifully crafted statue that someone forgot to give a brain.
"...What does that even mean—"
"Don't know," Arata replied honestly, cutting him off again.
Tian Jun's eye twitched. Just slightly. Enough to betray irritation.
Arata remained perfectly calm. His face remained expressionless. To an outsider, their conversation would have seemed absurd — even comical. But Arata waited patiently for Tian Jun's reply.
Meanwhile, Tian Jun was fighting the very real urge to pluck Arata's head from his neck the same way people pluck flowers — gently, delicately — and then smash that head against the wall several times before placing it back where it belonged.
He inhaled deeply, pushed such gentle thoughts aside, and spoke seriously.
"I want you to go to the mortal world. Find him. Capture him. And bring him back here... alive. Got it?"
"Yes—"
"Now go." Tian Jun cut him off before he could finish.
"Yes, and farewell until we meet again, Your Emperoriosity."
Arata grinned, bowed dramatically, and darted out of the room, laughing.
Tian Jun was left momentarily speechless.
If anyone else behaved like that, Tian Jun would never have tolerated such disrespect. He would've punished them severely. But Arata was like an immature younger brother to him. Nothing Arata did ever truly bothered him.
Emperors weren't supposed to show favoritism — not toward a person, a thing, anything. An Emperor must remain neutral, unshaken, unbiased. That was why Tian Jun always restrained himself, always kept his emotions tightly hidden from others.