*Disclaimer: This chapter contain high violence and sensitive topics if you have the courage delves into it
The Black Castle loomed over a desolate expanse, its jagged spires reaching into the perpetual twilight like claws tearing at the heavens. The interior was as hauntingly beautiful as the exterior was foreboding, a labyrinth of shadow and splendour.
Deep within the castle, in the highest tower, lay Lady Sin’s chamber, a room that exuded dark elegance. The walls were carved obsidian, shimmering faintly in the flickering light of sconces. A single window overlooked the endless void beyond, the view framed by curtains of deep crimson velvet.
At the centre of the room, a magnificent black rose stood in full bloom within an ornate glass dome. Its petals seemed to absorb light, their edges gleaming faintly like liquid onyx. The rose exuded an almost imperceptible hum, resonating with the very air around it.
Lady Sin sat on a high-backed chair, its design resembling the twisted branches of a dead tree. Her posture was regal yet relaxed, her figure draped in a flowing gown of black silk that shimmered like a raven’s feather. Her face, pale and striking, bore an expression of serene menace. Her sharp eyes, a piercing amethyst, were fixed on the rose.
“It’s blooming faster,” she murmured, her voice smooth and cold. “The seals are weakening. The Fourteenth Members are playing their hand.”
the heavy double doors creaked open, and five figures entered, their footsteps echoing against the polished stone floor. The Sinners—elite operatives bound to Lady Sin’s will—each carried an air of lethal precision.
* Garofano Chounmeing: Her raven-black hair framed her sharp, confident features, her silver eyes gleaming with determination. She wore a long coat adorned with crimson accents, her movements fluid and calculated.
* Ashera: Cloaked in flowing black and grey, her height and commanding presence made her the most imposing of the group. Her gaze shifted constantly, flickering like light through broken glass, reflecting her ability, Eclipsed Veil.
* Syntara: Slender and feline, her armour hugged her lithe frame, her every movement exuding deadly grace. Her piercing voice carried a sharp edge, fitting her ability, Echoing Nightmare.
* Blaze: The fiery-haired enforcer radiated intensity, his muscular form clad in reinforced armour. His hands flexed restlessly, flames occasionally flickering across his fingertips. His ability, Inferno Surge, was evident in his smouldering presence.
* Xira: The smallest of the group, her serpentine movements and faintly glowing green eyes gave her an almost otherworldly aura. Her ability, Toxic Bloom, was evident in the faint mist that lingered around her.
The Sinners knelt before Lady Sin, their heads bowed in deference.
“My Lady,” Garofano began, her voice respectful but firm. “You summoned us?”
Lady Sin rose from her chair, her gown trailing behind her like liquid shadow. She approached the glass dome, her fingers brushing its surface. The black rose responded, its petals pulsing faintly.
“The time has come,” Lady Sin said, her voice carrying the weight of authority. “The Emperor’s spectre is stirring. Agent-90 must be dealt with before he disrupts the Fourteenth Members’ plans.”
Syntara tilted her head, her voice curious. “The spectre… he’s the one who dismantled The Conductor’s network?”
Lady Sin nodded, her eyes narrowing. “Yes. The Conductor was a pawn, a distraction. But Agent-90 is no mere nuisance. He is the Emperor’s chosen vessel, and that makes him dangerous. He knows too much—and if he learns more, he could unravel everything.”
Ashera stepped forward, her voice steady. “What are your orders, my Lady?”
Lady Sin turned to face them, her amethyst gaze piercing. “Hunt him. Drive him into the shadows. Break his mind, his body, his resolve. But do not kill him yet. I want him delivered to me alive. I wish to see the Emperor’s vessel kneel before me.”
Blaze smirked, flames flickering around his clenched fists. “Alive? You’re asking a lot, my Lady. He’s not exactly easy prey.”
Lady Sin’s expression remained calm, though her tone carried a subtle warning. “I trust you understand that failure is not an option, Blaze. This is no ordinary hunt. The shadows themselves will guide you, for they hunger for his presence.”
Xira’s voice was barely above a whisper, her tone almost reverent. “The shadows… they whisper his name.”
Lady Sin smiled faintly, her gaze returning to the rose. “Then the shadows will feast soon enough. Go. Bring me the spectre.”
The Sinners rose as one, their movements silent and synchronized. As they left the chamber, the black rose pulsed again, its petals seeming to unfurl further. Lady Sin returned to her chair, her fingers steepled beneath her chin.
“The Fourteenth’s symphony is nearing its crescendo,” she murmured to herself. “And the Emperor’s spectre will play his part, whether he wishes to or not.”
As the Sinners departed the Black Castle, their minds were united by a singular purpose: to bring down the spectre known as Agent-90.
The SDF hideout was bathed in the soft glow of dim overhead lights, the sound of rain pattering against the windows a constant companion. Agent-90 walked through the hallways with his usual silence, his black attire blending seamlessly into the shadows. His sharp blue eyes were focused, yet his thoughts were clouded by the vision of the Emperor and the ominous warnings of the Fourteenth Families.
As he approached Madam Di-Xian’s office, the faint hum of an old record player echoed through the halls. The melody was hauntingly beautiful, a reminder of the enigmatic nature of the woman who led them.
Agent-90 knocked once before entering.
Madam Di-Xian’s office was as much a reflection of her as it was a command centre. The room was adorned with rich tapestries, intricate carvings, and bookshelves that stretched to the ceiling. A single bonsai tree sat on her desk, its delicate branches casting intricate shadows in the warm light.
She looked up as he entered, her piercing gaze meeting his with an air of calm authority. Dressed in a flowing black robe with crimson accents, her every movement exuded precision.
“Agent-90,” she said, her tone even. “You’ve returned.”
He stepped forward, his voice steady. “The Conductor has been neutralized. Their network is dismantled, but the chaos in Yǔlíng was only a part of something larger.”
She leaned back in her chair, her fingers steepled. “Larger, you say? Explain.”
Agent-90 hesitated for a fraction of a second—a pause almost imperceptible, yet enough for Madam Di-Xian to notice. He was about to speak of the shadowy entities, the Emperor’s warning, and the Fourteenth Families, but something stopped him.
“It’s nothing definitive,” he said, his tone carefully measured. “The Conductor mentioned broader plans, but they were vague. I’ll need more time to investigate.”
Madam Di-Xian’s eyes narrowed slightly, her sharp intuition catching the subtle tension in his expression. “You’re holding something back, aren’t you?”
Agent-90’s face remained impassive, though his hands tightened slightly at his sides. “No. I’ve told you what matters.”
“Very well,” she replied, her tone neutral but laced with curiosity. “But I know you, Agent-90. If something is troubling you, it will surface sooner or later.”
Agent-90 changed the subject smoothly, his voice devoid of emotion. “Where are the others? Jun, Masud, Roy, Farhan, Alvi, and the SINNERs, Hella and Hecate?”
Madam Di-Xian leaned forward slightly, resting her hands on the desk. “After your last mission, they decided to unwind. They went out to eat at Shuǐzhì Chǔ—the seafood restaurant in Yǔlíng.”
She gestured to a neatly packed container on a side table. “They brought back food for us. It’s there if you’re hungry. After their meal, they returned and are now in deep sleep. I’ve made sure they’re well-rested.”
Agent-90 glanced briefly at the container but said nothing, his mind already moving to his next mission.
Madam Di-Xian continued, her tone calm but deliberate. “I should also inform you: while at the restaurant, they encountered Chief Wen-Li of the SSCBF.”
At the mention of Wen-Li’s name, Agent-90 froze mid-step. His head turned slightly, his sharp eyes fixing on Madam Di-Xian.
“She was at the restaurant?” he asked, his voice unusually quiet.
“Yes,” Madam Di-Xian said, watching him carefully. “They spoke briefly. And I’ve learned that she was targeted by SCP’s assassin, Luciano Ferro.”
Agent-90’s posture tensed almost imperceptibly. “Ferro?”
Madam Di-Xian nodded. “Yes. He attempted to assassinate her, but Agent Jun intervened. He saved her life, though Ferro managed to escape.”
Agent-90’s gaze turned to the window, the rain cascading down the glass like liquid silver. For a moment, his thoughts were a storm of calculation and emotion, though none of it showed on his face.
“She’s fortunate,” he said finally, his voice as cold and sharp as steel. “Ferro doesn’t miss often.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Madam Di-Xian agreed. “But I suspect this won’t be the last time SCP targets her—or us, for that matter.”
Agent-90 turned back to Madam Di-Xian, his expression unreadable. “If SCP’s assassins are involved, then this isn’t over. I’ll handle it.”
Madam Di-Xian nodded, her confidence in him unwavering. “I trust you will. But tread carefully, Agent-90. The web we’re caught in is larger and more intricate than we can yet see.”
He gave a slight nod before leaving the room, his thoughts once again turning to the warnings of the Emperor and the shadowy entities that seemed to lurk just beyond the veil of reality.
The debriefing room at the Federal Army Corporation (FAC) was cloaked in heavy silence, broken only by the faint hum of holographic projectors. Captain Wen-Liao stood at the centre, his arms crossed as he faced Commander Eleanor Vance and Lieutenant Jared Colt.
On the holographic display, the jagged symbols from the alien construct beneath the mountain pulsed faintly, their shifting forms exuding an almost hypnotic quality. The faint resonance of the bells they had encountered seemed to echo in Wen-Liao’s mind, a sound he could not escape.
“Captain,” Vance began, her tone measured but firm, “your report on the mountain chamber suggests this is no ordinary threat. A network of constructs, shadowy projections, and now this… resonance. What are we dealing with?”
Wen-Liao’s jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on the glowing symbols. “We’re dealing with something ancient, Commander. Not technology, but something older—primordial. These constructs weren’t made to advance society. They’re bindings. Locks.”
Colt interjected, his voice tinged with unease. “And we’ve disrupted those locks. The energy readings from the construct indicate that it wasn’t just transmitting—it was awakening something. Something tied to the symbols and the bells.”
“Awakening what?” Vance pressed, leaning forward.
“We don’t know yet,” Wen-Liao admitted, his voice low but steady. “But whatever it is, it’s not bound by our understanding of life or reality. It’s operating on principles we can’t define.”
Colt pulled up another holographic display, showing a global map with several marked locations. “The resonance isn’t localised to the mountain. We’re detecting faint, similar signals from other regions—deserts, deep oceans, even the Arctic. It’s as if there’s a global network of these constructs, all interconnected.”
“And if one activates, the others might follow,” Vance said, her tone darkening.
Wen-Liao nodded. “We’ve opened a door, Commander. Now we need to make sure nothing comes through.”
Vance stood, her sharp gaze fixed on Wen-Liao. “You’re proposing containment. But how do you contain something you don’t understand?”
“We focus on disruption,” Wen-Liao replied. “If the constructs are transmitting, we sever the connections. We prevent the network from synchronising.”
Colt hesitated. “That’s a temporary solution. If we don’t know what’s on the other side, we can’t be certain we’re stopping it. For all we know, severing the connection might hasten the process.”
“Then we buy time,” Wen-Liao said firmly. “Enough time to learn what we’re dealing with.”
As they spoke, a sharp alert rang out, and the holographic display shifted to show a new transmission. The signal matched the resonance of the bells, but this time, it carried something new—a voice.
The room fell silent as the transmission played. The voice was distorted, otherworldly, and its words were incomprehensible at first. Then, like a veil lifting, the message became clear:
“The seals weaken. The shadow stirs. The Fourteenth call, and the gates shall open.”
Colt paled. “It’s a warning… or a prophecy.”
Wen-Liao’s fists clenched. “Either way, it confirms what we feared. This isn’t over. It’s just beginning.”
Commander Vance stepped forward, her expression resolute. “Captain, I’m authorizing a global reconnaissance operation. You’ll lead the first team to investigate the nearest signal site. It’s located deep in the Arctic, near a research station that went dark three weeks ago.”
Wen-Liao nodded. “Understood, Commander. I’ll need my best team and immediate deployment.”
Back in his quarters, Wen-Liao reviewed the mission parameters, his thoughts heavy with the weight of responsibility. The resonance of the bells still lingered in his mind, a constant reminder of what was at stake.
As he prepared, his communicator buzzed. It was Lieutenant Colt.
“Captain,” Colt said, his tone grave, “I’ve been analyzing the voice from the transmission. There’s a pattern—hidden beneath the words. It matches the energy readings from the mountain. Whatever sent that message… it’s connected to the constructs.”
“And the Fourteenth?” Wen-Liao asked.
“They’re not just observers,” Colt replied. “They’re orchestrators.”
Wen-Liao’s jaw tightened. “Then we’ll tear their plans apart, one construct at a time.”
As the FAC’s transport prepared to leave for the Arctic, the skies above the base darkened unnaturally, and the faint sound of bells echoed faintly in the wind.
Wen-Liao stood at the loading ramp, his team assembling behind him. He glanced back at the horizon, his eyes narrowing.
“Whatever’s waiting for us,” he muttered, “we’ll meet it head-on.”
On 13th June 2042, the air in Madam Di-Xian’s office was thick with tension. The muted glow of her desk lamp cast elongated shadows across the room, where five agents—Jun, Farhan, Masud, Roy, and Agent-90—stood assembled. Beside Madam Di-Xian, Alvi stood poised, carrying a file thick with documents in one hand and a neatly folded newspaper in the other. Her sharp eyes darted between the agents as Madam Di-Xian leaned back in her chair, her fingers steepled thoughtfully.
Jun, ever the unfiltered one, broke the silence. “Madam, it seems like something’s troubling you. Is something wrong?”
Madam Di-Xian let out a sigh, her gaze heavy. “Read this,” she said, sliding the newspaper across the desk toward him.
Jun picked it up, his playful demeanour vanishing as he began to read aloud. The others leaned in, curiosity quickly giving way to disbelief.
‘In the Shadowmire Isles, in a village called Gazhutan Brudhan, 1,036,499 women and 22,349,700 girls aged 5-18 were brutally gang-raped by a mob. The police attempted to intervene but failed, as political and governmental incompetence shattered the trust of the people.’
The room fell into an oppressive silence as the gravity of the words settled over them.
Masud clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. Farhan looked down, his lips pressing into a thin line as though to prevent himself from cursing aloud. Jun’s usual light-hearted nature was nowhere to be found; his eyes, shadowed with fury, darted across the article again.
Agent-90 adjusted his spectacles, his deadly blue eyes colder than ever. “This is abhorrent,” he said, his voice like ice cracking under pressure.
Roy, however, was the most unsettling. His expression remained unnervingly calm, but behind his glasses, his eyes burned with a searing intensity that betrayed his fury. His voice, when he spoke, was low and deliberate. “This isn’t just a crime. It’s an atrocity.”
Madam Di-Xian, observing them closely, finally spoke. “Alvi has already decrypted the encrypted communications tied to the culprit.” Her gaze flickered to Alvi, who nodded.
Alvi stepped forward, placing the file on the desk. “The mob responsible is called Kala Dandakaranya,” she began, her voice steady. “It’s led by a man named Akku Agarwal, also known as ‘The Rapeman.’ He’s wealthy, ruthless, and dangerous—a sociopath who enjoys immunity thanks to his father’s influence and money.”
Madam Di-Xian’s eyes narrowed. “He’s infamous for escaping justice. His father uses his wealth and connections to protect him, prioritizing his reputation over the lives he’s destroyed.”
Agent-90’s gaze sharpened, his tone as cutting as broken glass. “A sociopath hiding behind his father’s purse strings? He is not like Yang Xiao Lang, I guess but this guy is another level.”
Roy’s calm facade cracked slightly, his fingers twitching as though itching to reach for his weapon. “Permission to handle this, Madam,” he said, his voice trembling with restrained fury.
Madam Di-Xian studied him for a moment before nodding. “You’ll have your chance, Roy. But stay focused. Emotions are powerful, but they can cloud judgment.”
Without another word, Roy turned on his heel and walked out of the office.
In the hallway, Hecate and Hella strolled casually, their conversation a mix of light-hearted banter and somber reflection.
“Working for Lady Sin felt like drowning in poison,” Hecate said, her tone neutral but tinged with bitterness. “Now we’re here, trying to save the world. It’s almost ironic.”
“At least we’re doing something that matters,” Hella replied, her voice more upbeat. “No more shadowy deals. Just… justice.”
As they walked, they noticed Roy striding down the opposite corridor, his steps purposeful and his expression thunderous.
“Should we follow him?” Hella asked, her curiosity piqued.
“No,” Hecate said, though her own gaze lingered. “He’s not in the mood for company.”
“Too bad,” Hella replied with a grin. “I’m following anyway.”
In the restroom, Roy splashed his face with cold water, the droplets glistening under the flickering fluorescent light. He leaned over the sink, gripping its edges tightly as he stared at his reflection. His face was a mask of restrained anguish, his calm expression betrayed by the fire in his eyes.
From his pocket, he pulled out a small locket. Inside was a picture of a little girl with bright eyes and a radiant smile, her hair tied back with a pink ribbon. He kissed the photo gently.
“Don’t worry, Natasha,” he murmured, his voice breaking slightly. “I’ll make them pay for what they did to you.”
A knock on the door startled him. He straightened, quickly pocketing the locket. “Who is it?” he barked.
The door creaked open, revealing Masud.
“Oh, Masud,” Roy said, his voice softening slightly.
Masud walked in, his expression concerned. “You alright?”
Roy gave a faint smile, though his eyes betrayed his hunger for vengeance. “I’m fine.”
Masud placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get your revenge, Roy. For Natasha. You’re not alone in this.”
Unbeknownst to the men, Hecate and Hella were peeking through the slightly ajar door. Hella leaned in closer, whispering, “What are they saying?”
Hecate rolled her eyes. “You’re going to get us caught.”
Before she could finish, Masud glanced back, his sharp eyes meeting theirs. “What do you two think you’re doing?”
Hella tried to stammer an excuse. “Uh, w-we were just—uh—passing by! Right, Hecate?”
Hecate smirked, unfazed. “Sure. Passing by and overhearing your secrets. What’s the big mission, Roy?”
Roy sighed, shaking his head. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
Hella’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “A mission? Dangerous? Exciting?”
Masud waved a hand dismissively. “Child’s play. Stay out of it, both of you.”
As the two girls exited the restroom, Hella turned to Hecate, grinning. “I bet it’s something huge.”
Hecate shrugged. “Whatever it is, they’ll need us eventually. They always do.”
The underground hangar stretched vast and cavernous, a metallic cathedral where machines hummed with latent power. Overhead lights flickered faintly, casting elongated shadows that danced across the walls like restless phantoms. The scent of jet fuel lingered in the cold air, mingling with the faint tang of damp steel.
The five agents—Jun, Farhan, Masud, Roy, and Agent-90—walked with purpose, their booted footsteps echoing against the polished floor. Before them stood their private plane, its sleek fuselage glinting faintly under the dim light. The craft’s sharp contours and dark coating gave it the appearance of a predator waiting to strike.
Alvi approached briskly, a folder in her hand, her movements precise and efficient. She wore her usual calm expression, though her sharp eyes betrayed the weight of what lay ahead.
“Agents,” Alvi said, holding out the folder. “This contains the latest intel on Akku Agarwal and the Kala Shaar Dal. Known hideouts, suspected alliances, and operational patterns.”
Jun took the folder, thumbing through it as Alvi continued.
“Akku has fortified his position in Shadowmire. His mobs operate like a hydra—cut one head, and another takes its place. But there’s a weakness: they centralize their communications through a single hub. Disabling it will cripple their coordination.”
Masud nodded. “Good. That’s our in.”
Alvi glanced at Roy, her voice softening slightly. “Roy, remember: this isn’t just about vengeance. It’s about justice—for everyone.”
Roy’s jaw tightened, but he gave a small nod.
At the base of the boarding ramp, their pilot, Yilmaz Yengin, stood waiting. A tall man with a weathered face and a mischievous smile, he exuded the easy confidence of someone who had faced countless dangers and emerged unscathed.
“Gentlemen,” Yilmaz greeted, his accent thick with a blend of Turkish and Russian influences. “And the one who never speaks,” he added, nodding toward Agent-90. “You’re in safe hands. Or as safe as the sky allows.”
Jun smirked. “Just get us there in one piece, Yilmaz.”
Yilmaz chuckled, his grin widening. “Always. Though I can’t promise a smooth ride—Shadowmire’s skies are as temperamental as my ex-wife.”
The agents exchanged amused glances before boarding the plane, their boots clanking against the ramp.
The interior of the plane was a testament to both luxury and functionality. Sleek leather seats lined the cabin, each equipped with a retractable monitor and a modular workstation. The walls were lined with discreet compartments, holding an arsenal of weapons and equipment. The ambient lighting was dim, casting a soft glow that created an atmosphere of quiet focus.
As the agents settled into their seats, they looked out through the reinforced windows. The upper chamber of the hangar began to open, revealing a night sky painted with stars and illuminated by a silvery moon.
Back on the hangar floor, Alvi stood with Hella and Hecate, watching the plane prepare for takeoff. Hecate stepped forward, holding something small in her hand.
“Masud,” she called, her voice steady but tinged with a hint of awkwardness.
Masud turned at the sound of his name. Hecate handed him a small rabbit keychain, its white fur soft and pristine.
“Keep it with you,” she said simply.
Masud smiled—a rare, genuine expression that softened his usually stern features. “Thank you, Hecate. I’ll keep it safe.”
Hella, always the mischief-maker, leaned closer to Hecate, smirking. “Aw, is the ice queen showing her soft side?”
Hecate rolled her eyes but said nothing, though her cheeks flushed faintly. Alvi, observing the exchange, gave a faint smile, her eyes briefly meeting Masud’s before glancing away.
The plane’s engines roared to life, the sound reverberating through the hangar. The three women waved as the aircraft ascended into the sky, the moonlight casting an ethereal glow on the scene before the chamber’s doors slid shut.
The agents wasted no time once the plane was airborne. Each of them worked methodically, preparing for the mission ahead:
* Jun reviewed the map of Shadowmire, marking potential entry points and escape routes.
* Farhan cleaned and calibrated his weapons, his movements swift and practiced.
* Masud analyzed the communication hub’s schematics, his brow furrowed in concentration.
* Agent-90 sat at his terminal, scanning encrypted messages for patterns that would reveal the mobs’ movements.
At the rear of the cabin, Roy sat apart from the others, his focus elsewhere. He held the locket in his hands, his thumb tracing the edges as he stared at the picture inside. The image of his younger sister, Natasha, stared back at him—a bright-eyed girl with curly hair and an infectious smile.
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Jun noticed Roy’s silence and approached, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” he said softly, his usual levity replaced with quiet concern. “We’ll get him, Roy. Akku and all his monsters—they’ll pay for what they’ve done.”
Roy nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “They took everything from her. From me. I won’t let them do it to anyone else.”
Agent-90, observing the interaction from his seat, glanced briefly at Roy. His voice, when it came, was as cold and precise as a scalpel. “Focus on the task. Don’t let emotions cloud your judgment. Monsters are best eliminated with precision, not rage.”
Roy met Agent-90’s icy gaze, a flicker of understanding passing between them. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Jun chuckled lightly, trying to lighten the mood. “You know, 90, you’d make a great motivational speaker—if you didn’t terrify everyone in the room.”
Agent-90 didn’t reply, turning his attention back to his terminal, but the faintest quirk of his lips suggested he’d heard.
The plane descended with a muted hum, its sleek frame slicing through the churning winds of the Shadowmire Isles. The landing gear touched down on the open grassland with a jarring thud, sending a ripple through the eerie silence that cloaked the land like a funeral shroud.
The agents disembarked one by one, their boots sinking into the damp, mossy ground. A biting wind swept across the plain, carrying with it an amalgamation of scents—salt from the nearby sea, decay from the ruins, and an unplaceable metallic tang that set the nerves on edge.
As they emerged, the vast expanse of the isles unveiled itself, a tapestry of sorrow and resilience painted in shades of ash and shadow. The grassland stretched toward jagged cliffs, their edges illuminated sporadically by lightning that tore through the heavy, swirling clouds above. The moon, veiled by the tempestuous sky, cast fleeting beams of silver light that danced across the bioluminescent flora dotting the landscape.
The ruins of Shadowmire’s central palace, once the bastion of Jai Atharva’s oppressive rule, loomed in the distance. Its fractured spires reached skyward like skeletal fingers, and the ajar gates, now rusted and corroded, seemed to sigh under the weight of history.
To the west, the execution plaza came into view—a grim expanse of bloodstained stone that bore silent witness to the atrocities committed during Atharva’s reign. The monument in its centre, inscribed with the words "Tyranny Falls, Justice Rises," stood stoically amidst the desolation, a stark reminder of the cost of rebellion.
The air was alive with contradictions: the mournful howls of the wind intertwined with the unnatural quiet that seemed to emanate from the ruins. The faint glow of mutated plants lent the land an unsettling beauty, like a cursed jewel glittering in the dark.
Farhan exhaled sharply, his breath visible in the frigid air. “This place…” he began, trailing off as his eyes swept the landscape.
Jun, ever the joker, muttered, “Charming, isn’t it? Just the sort of place you’d take someone on a first date.”
Farhan shot him a sidelong glance. “I’m not sure even the Night Stalkers would swipe right on this one.”
Masud stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the crumbled palace. “This land breathes of blood and ashes,” he said quietly. “Every stone here tells a story of anguish.”
Roy, standing slightly apart from the group, tightened his jaw. His spectacles reflected the faint glow of the bioluminescent flora, his expression a study in controlled fury. “And we’re here to ensure it doesn’t breathe for monsters like Akku.”
Agent-90, silent as ever, adjusted his gloves and glanced at the distant ruins. His icy blue eyes cut through the gloom like blades, assessing the terrain with detached precision. He spoke only three words, his tone colder than the wind: “Focus on the mission.”
The agents' attention was briefly drawn to the outskirts of the grassland, where flickering campfires dotted the horizon. Around them huddled clusters of survivors, their shadows dancing on the ruins like restless spirits.
Jun tilted his head. “They’re still here,” he said softly, more to himself than anyone else.
“Brave or desperate,” Masud replied. “Maybe both.”
Farhan knelt, brushing his hand over the glowing moss beneath him. “Nature always finds a way to reclaim what’s hers. It’s humans who struggle with the same.”
The wind carried faint murmurs from the survivors’ fires—whispers of resistance, fragments of courage pieced together from the shards of the past. It was a sound that mingled with the agents’ unspoken resolve.
Roy, his locket clutched in his pocket, took a step closer to the group. His voice was quiet but firm. “This place deserves peace. They deserve peace. And we’re going to give it to them.”
Masud placed a hand on Roy’s shoulder, his expression steady. “We will. Akku’s time ends here.”
Agent-90 turned, his gaze lingering briefly on Roy. His voice carried the weight of unyielding conviction. “No loose ends. No mercy. Monsters don’t deserve either.”
As the agents began their approach toward the central ruins, the Shadowmire Isles stood as both an obstacle and an ally. The land itself seemed to watch, its scars a testament to survival and its shadows a harbinger of vengeance.
The mission had begun, and the isles, with all their haunting beauty, would bear witness once more.
The plane touched down in the barren expanse of Nin-Ran-Gi, its engines whirring to a low hum before falling silent. The agents disembarked, their boots sinking into the damp earth, the silence around them broken only by the distant howl of the wind. Ahead lay Gazhutan Brudhan, a village frozen in time and despair, its name now synonymous with horror.
As they approached, the oppressive atmosphere enveloped them. The air was thick with humidity, and a cloying stench of decay hung in the breeze. The village stretched before them like a canvas of despair, its homes hollowed by grief, its streets haunted by invisible ghosts. Lanterns cast dim, flickering light, their glow swallowed by the darkness that seemed to rise from the ground itself.
Families shuffled silently through the streets, their eyes downcast. The weight of tragedy hung over them like a suffocating pall. Villagers who remained clutched faded photographs and broken mementos, their faces etched with lines of sorrow and fear. Children peered out cautiously from behind doors ajar, their wide eyes reflecting both innocence and terror.
As the agents strode purposefully into the heart of the village, their presence did not go unnoticed. Whispers flitted through the air, curiosity and trepidation blending in equal measure.
An elderly man stepped forward, his hunched frame supported by a weathered cane. His hair, white as ash, framed a face deeply lined with age and anguish. His voice, though frail, carried the weight of decades of suffering.
“Who are you?” he asked, his tone both wary and desperate. “And what brings you to this cursed place?”
The agents exchanged glances before Masud stepped forward, his voice steady and clear. “We are the ones you’ve been waiting for. We’ve come to end the reign of terror, to destroy the Kala Dandakaranya and their leader.”
The man’s weary eyes widened slightly, a flicker of hope breaking through his otherwise despondent expression. Behind him, villagers began to gather, their murmurs rising as they studied the newcomers.
“You mean…” the old man began, his voice trembling. “You’ve come to end this nightmare?”
Farhan stepped beside Masud, his tone resolute. “We’ve come to ensure justice, and to free this village from fear. Akku Agarwal and his monsters will pay for their crimes.”
As the plane had approached Gazhutan Brudhan earlier that evening, the agents had convened around the central table in the cabin. Farhan spread out the file Alvi had prepared, its contents grim but vital.
“Akku Agarwal,” Farhan began, his voice clipped as he read aloud. “Leader of the Kala Dandakaranya, also known as the Rapeman. He operates from a dilapidated mansion at the village’s edge, referred to by the locals as Kala Manzar Bhavan—‘The Black Vision Manor.’”
Jun whistled low. “Subtle name. Sounds like a cosy retreat.”
Farhan ignored him, continuing. “The mansion is heavily fortified—metal sheets reinforce the crumbling walls, and barbed wire circles the perimeter. Armed guards patrol constantly. No one enters or leaves without Akku’s consent.”
Masud leaned back, his jaw clenched. “It’s not just a hideout. It’s a fortress.”
Roy, staring at the locket in his hand, spoke without looking up. “It doesn’t matter. A fortress can still be torn down.”
Agent-90 adjusted his gloves, his icy blue gaze fixed on the schematics. “Precision and silence will dismantle their illusion of power. They’re predators—until they face a greater predator.”
The villagers’ murmurs grew louder, a mixture of hope and disbelief. An elderly woman clutched her shawl tightly, tears glistening in her eyes. “Please,” she whispered. “End this suffering. We have lost too much already.”
Before the agents could respond, a figure at the edge of the gathering slipped away, blending into the shadows. He moved swiftly and silently, his destination clear: the Kala Manzar Bhavan.
At the dilapidated mansion, the informant, Vishit Mandraon, entered the dimly lit hall where Akku Agarwal and his men gathered. The interior was as decrepit as the exterior—peeling wallpaper, broken furniture, and the faint stench of sweat and alcohol.
Akku sat in the centre, his presence oozing arrogance and malice. He was a heavyset man with slicked-back hair and a perpetual sneer. His fingers drummed lazily on the armrest of a battered chair as he listened to his men exchange crude jokes.
“Boss,” Vishit said, bowing slightly. “We’ve got a problem.”
Akku’s dark eyes narrowed. “Speak.”
“There are strangers in the village,” Vishit continued. “Five of them. They’re armed, organised. They say they’re here to destroy you.”
The room fell silent, tension thickening the air. Akku’s sneer twisted into a grin, cruel and predatory. “Is that so?”
One of his lieutenants, Suryant Laskari, leaned forward. “What do you want us to do, boss?”
Akku rose, his bulk seeming to loom larger in the flickering light. “Let them think they have the upper hand. Let them believe they’re saviours. And when they least expect it…” He gestured sharply, miming a throat being slit.
The other men laughed darkly, their voices echoing off the crumbling walls.
Akku began issuing orders, his voice cold and calculating:
* “Suryant, double the guards around the perimeter. No one gets in or out.”
* “Manikhilam and Madhujay, spread word among the villagers—create fear. Remind them what happens when they defy us.”
* “Amritin and Rakeshor, prepare the traps. If they come for us, we’ll make their saviour complex their tombstone.”
He turned to Vishit, his grin widening. “And you… keep an eye on those heroes. Lead them into our hands if you can. But if they see through you, don’t bother coming back.”
Vishit nodded nervously, slipping out of the room as Akku’s laughter filled the air—a sound as jagged and cruel as broken glass.
The agents gathered with the villagers in the old shrine at the heart of Gazhutan Brudhan. The air was heavy with unease, the dim lanterns casting long shadows that danced across the cracked stone walls. The villagers sat or stood in small clusters, their faces etched with fear and weariness. Women held their children close, their eyes brimming with quiet desperation.
Masud stepped forward, his voice firm yet calm. “We’re not just here to take down Akku Agarwal and his mob. We’re here to give you back your village, your homes, and your lives. But we can’t do it alone.”
An uneasy murmur rippled through the crowd. One of the younger men, his frame gaunt but his eyes defiant, spoke up. “What can we do? They have guns. We have… nothing.”
“You have your courage,” Farhan interjected, his voice sharp as a blade. “And that’s more than they’ll ever have. We’ll lead the fight, but we need your help to strike where it hurts most.”
Jun gestured toward the women and girls who had endured unspeakable horrors. “You’ve seen what they’ve done. To your sisters. To your daughters. To your wives. To your mother. And still, you’re standing. If that isn’t strength, I don’t know what is.”
A middle-aged woman, her face lined with grief and fury, stepped forward. Her name was Saritha, and her voice carried the weight of a broken heart.
“They took my daughter,” she said, her voice trembling but resolute. “I won’t let them take anything else.”
Her words lit a spark in the crowd. Other women began to murmur their agreement, their voices growing louder.
“Justice must be done,” one said.
“For our children,” another added.
Roy, who had remained silent, stepped forward, holding his locket in one hand. His voice was low but filled with a smouldering rage. “We fight because they think they can take everything from us. We fight because they think they own us. But tonight, we show them they’re wrong.”
Agent-90 spread a map of the village across the shrine’s altar. His voice was calm, deliberate, and commanding. “Kala Manzar Bhavan is their stronghold. It’s fortified, but not impenetrable. Their strength lies in intimidation. If we disrupt their chain of command and isolate their men, they’ll falter.”
Masud pointed to the outskirts of the village. “We’ll split into two groups. One will draw their attention, creating a diversion near the fields. The other will infiltrate the mansion and neutralize their leadership.”
Farhan added, “We need volunteers to help cut off their escape routes. We’ll provide weapons and coordinate movements, but the element of surprise is key.”
The villagers exchanged nervous glances, but Saritha stepped forward again. “You’ll have our help. Whatever you need.”
As the plans began to take shape, a sharp sound shattered the air. The unmistakable crash of glass splintering against stone echoed through the shrine. The villagers froze, their murmurs silenced.
The agents rushed outside, their weapons drawn, scanning the darkened streets. In the middle of the square lay a brick, wrapped in paper and tied with a frayed piece of string.
Jun crouched to pick it up, unwrapping the paper carefully. He unfolded the letter, and the agents leaned in to read the scrawled words.
The message, written in jagged, uneven handwriting, read:
“Justice is an illusion. Obey, or suffer the consequences. We are watching. —A.A.”
The villagers who had followed them outside recoiled, the women clutching their children tightly. The air seemed to grow colder, the oppressive atmosphere closing in like a noose.
Roy clenched the letter in his fist, his knuckles whitening as his arm trembled. His spectacles glinted faintly in the lantern light, reflecting the fire that burned in his eyes.
“Akku,” he hissed, his voice a low growl. “The coward hides behind threats. But his time is running out.”
He turned to the villagers, his expression fierce. “This is what they do. They want to scare you into submission, to make you believe they’re untouchable. But they’re not gods. They’re nothing. And we’ll prove it.”
Farhan placed a hand on Roy’s shoulder, his voice steady. “Control the anger, Roy. We’ll need it for the fight ahead.”
Roy nodded curtly, his jaw set like stone. “He’ll regret every second he’s breathed.”
Despite the fear, a sense of defiance began to ripple through the crowd. Saritha, standing near the front, raised her voice. “They’ve taken enough from us. No more.”
The villagers nodded, their fear slowly giving way to resolve. The agents exchanged glances, a silent understanding passing between them.
Agent-90 spoke, his voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel. “The time for fear is over. Prepare yourselves. Tonight, we take back what’s yours.”
The village of Gazhutan Brudhan was alight with chaos, its oppressive silence shattered by the clash of steel and the thunder of gunfire. Akku Agarwal’s men swarmed through the streets like a plague, their laughter sharp as shattered glass and their intent as dark as the storm-laden sky above.
In the labyrinthine alleys, Jun, Farhan, and Masud lay in wait. Their silhouettes melted into the shadows, their resolve a quiet storm ready to unleash its wrath.
The first wave of attackers moved cautiously, their predatory eyes scanning for resistance. They found it in the sudden flash of Jun’s blade, a whisper of steel that carved through the air with the precision of a sculptor’s chisel. He moved like a spectre, fluid and silent, his strikes leaving no room for retaliation.
Farhan emerged next, a tempest in human form. Armed with a pair of batons, he wielded them like extensions of his own body. Each strike was a crescendo, each block a deft counterpoint, his movements a deadly rhythm that left his enemies crumpled in the dirt.
Masud, ever the tactician, used the terrain to orchestrate chaos. He herded attackers into choke points, where their numbers became a hindrance. A shotgun roared in his hands, the sound reverberating through the narrow alley like a roll of thunder.
As the villagers rallied, armed with improvised weapons and bolstered by the agents’ ferocity, the tide began to turn. The once-cowed people of Gazhutan Brudhan fought with the desperation of those who had endured too much for too long.
Meanwhile, Roy and Agent-90 approached the fortress-like Kala Manzar Bhavan. The mansion loomed before them, its jagged silhouette a testament to the corruption it housed. The air around it felt heavier, as if the very earth recoiled from the deeds committed within.
The two agents moved with calculated purpose. Roy’s hands twitched slightly, a barely-contained fury simmering beneath his calm exterior. Agent-90, by contrast, was a study in detached precision, his icy blue eyes scanning the mansion’s defenses with the cold efficiency of a machine.
As they breached the outer perimeter, their presence did not go unnoticed. The mansion’s guards greeted them with a hail of bullets, the muzzle flashes lighting up the night like fleeting stars.
Roy and Agent-90 moved through the chaos with lethal synchronicity. Roy, wielding a compact SMG, cut through the enemy ranks with a ferocity that bordered on primal. His movements were swift and brutal, every shot a declaration of vengeance.
Agent-90 was a shadow incarnate, his silenced pistol dispatching enemies with surgical precision. He flowed through the melee with an economy of motion, each strike and shot perfectly timed and placed.
They reached the central hall, where Akku Agarwal and his remaining men awaited. The mob leader’s sneer was defiant, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” Akku taunted, spreading his arms wide. “You’ve walked into your graves.”
Roy’s grip tightened on his weapon. “Not before you crawl into yours.”
Far away, in the dimly lit sanctum of Madam Di-Xian, the tension was palpable. Alvi, standing by her side, was unusually quiet, her eyes darting toward the display showing the agents’ progress.
Madam Di-Xian, ever perceptive, glanced at her. “Something troubles you, Alvi. Speak.”
Alvi hesitated, then said, “Rapeman is a notorious criminal, Madam. A clever sociopath. If the agents… misstep, the blame will fall on them. The world doesn’t see what they see.”
Madam Di-Xian’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk. “And that is precisely why they are the Five Lawless Men. They do not walk the world’s path—they carve their own.”
Back in the village, the battle raged. Jun, Farhan, and Masud pushed back the mob with relentless ferocity. Jun, bloodied but undeterred, faced down three attackers at once, his blade a blur of silver that left carnage in its wake.
Farhan used his batons like a maestro conducting a symphony of destruction, each strike a note in the discordant melody of battle.
Masud, methodical and unyielding, moved through the fight like an unstoppable tide, his shotgun roaring again and again, each blast a tolling bell for the fallen.
The villagers fought beside them, their courage a wildfire that spread with each mobster that fell.
Inside the mansion, as the tide turned against him, Akku fled, his bulk moving surprisingly fast for his size. Roy pursued, his breaths harsh and laboured, his singular focus burning away all other thoughts.
Akku led him through a maze of crumbling corridors, finally setting a trap—an explosive rigged to a tripwire. But Roy, sharp-eyed and fuelled by vengeance, spotted it in time, vaulting over the wire and continuing the chase.
The pursuit ended in a cavernous room, its walls adorned with tattered banners and faded symbols of power. Akku, cornered, turned to face Roy, a sneer on his face.
“You think you’re better than me?” Akku spat, brandishing a knife. “You’re just like the rest—weak, broken.”
Roy didn’t reply. He struck, disarming Akku with a swift, brutal motion. The fight was short and savage, ending with Akku crumpled on the ground, unconscious.
Akku Agarwal awoke to suffocating silence, his vision blurry and his head throbbing. As his senses returned, so did the biting cold of the metal table beneath him. His arms and legs were bound with heavy chains, their edges biting into his flesh. The taste of plastic filled his mouth, muffling his breath.
The room was dim, lit only by a single flickering bulb that swayed gently overhead, casting erratic shadows across the concrete walls. Around him stood the agents—Roy, Agent-90, Jun, Farhan, and Masud—each a silent sentinel of judgement. Their faces, illuminated by the wan light, bore expressions carved from stone.
Roy stepped forward, his face inches from Akku’s. His black eyes, magnified slightly by his spectacles, burned with a fury that seemed to light the entire room. With a deliberate motion, he removed the plastic gag from Akku’s mouth, the sound of it snapping echoing like a whip crack.
“Do you feel any remorse for what you’ve done?” Roy’s voice was low, steady, but laced with venom.
Akku coughed, spitting to the side before sneering. “Remorse? For what? Women are nothing. They’re weak, useless… born to serve men.”
Roy’s jaw tightened, his lips drawing into a thin line as he fought to maintain his composure. “Weak?” he repeated, his voice trembling with restrained rage. “Useless? Is that what you tell yourself while you destroy lives?”
Akku laughed, a guttural, bitter sound. “They’re toys, and I take what I want. That’s how the world works.”
Roy inhaled sharply, his chest heaving. Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver locket. He opened it to reveal a photograph of a young girl, her face radiant with innocence and joy.
“This is my sister,” Roy said, his voice cracking slightly. “Natasha. She was fifteen when you and your monsters tore her apart. Why? What reason could you possibly have?”
Akku’s eyes flicked to the locket, then back to Roy. His expression remained defiant. “She dressed like a whore. Asking for attention. What did she expect?”
Farhan, who had been standing silently at the side, surged forward. His baton cracked against the edge of the metal table, the sound reverberating like a gunshot. “So, you raped her because of what she wore?” he snarled, his voice shaking with disgust.
Roy’s shoulders rose and fell as he drew a deep breath, his eyes fixed on Akku. His tone was quieter now, but no less dangerous. “You’re not human,” he said. “You’re worse than a pig. You hurt women because it makes you feel powerful. You break them because you think it proves your dominance. But all it proves is how small, how pathetic, you truly are.”
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of Roy’s words hanging in the air like a blade. Then Roy stepped to the side of the table, his movements deliberate and slow.
“You like to show dominance,” he said, his voice like steel. “I like to show subjugation.”
Roy grabbed a scalpel from a nearby tray, the light glinting off its edge. With a precision born of cold rage, he moved to Akku’s side. The mob leader’s bravado faltered as he realized Roy’s intent.
“No—wait! Don’t!” Akku’s voice cracked, his struggles futile against the chains.
Roy didn’t hesitate. The scalpel moved with surgical precision, and Akku’s scream tore through the room, a sound that curdled the blood of even the hardest men.
As Akku writhed, his agony etched into every contorted feature of his face, Farhan, Jun, and Masud stepped forward, their batons raised. The steel rained down on Akku’s body, each blow accompanied by a sickening thud. His blood splattered the walls and pooled beneath the table, a crimson testament to their justice.
Agent-90 watched silently, his expression unchanging. When the others paused, he stepped forward, his movements cold and efficient. Grabbing a rotating saw from the tray, he switched it on. The blade spun with a high-pitched whine, and without a word, he brought it down. Akku’s screams ceased abruptly as his lifeless body slumped.
One by one, the agents moved through the mansion, delivering the same brutal justice to the rest of Kala Dandakaranya. Each man fell to the unrelenting force of their vengeance, their blood staining the floors of the fortress they had used to oppress others.
When the carnage was over, the agents gathered in the room where Akku’s body lay. The air was heavy with the metallic scent of blood and the weight of their actions.
Roy knelt on the blood-soaked floor, clutching the locket to his chest. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the gore around him. His voice was a whisper, trembling with emotion.
“Natasha,” he said, his gaze fixed on the photograph. “Your vengeance is taken. Rest in peace, little one.”
Jun, Farhan, and Masud, their faces etched with exhaustion and sorrow, moved closer. Without a word, they embraced Roy, their shared grief binding them together. Even Agent-90, ever the stoic, stepped forward and joined the group. His arms wrapped tightly around them, his icy exterior momentarily thawed by the raw humanity of the moment.
As the agents left the mansion, the first light of dawn broke over Gazhutan Brudhan, illuminating the bloodied battlefield they left behind. The village, scarred but free, stood as a testament to their resolve.
Roy glanced at the horizon, his grip on the locket firm. “Rest now, Natasha,” he murmured. “We’ve done what needed to be done.”
The agents walked into the rising sun, their shadows long and dark against the path they had carved through justice and vengeance.
The village of Gazhutan Brudhan, once drowned in the oppressive shadow of tyranny, now stood eerily silent, as if holding its breath. The oppressive weight that had hung over the streets seemed to lift with the dawn, replaced by an air of cautious hope. The blood of oppressors soaked the earth where their cries had once dominated, a grim baptism cleansing the land of its sins.
Villagers emerged tentatively from their homes, their eyes wide with disbelief as they took in the aftermath. Crude graffiti mocking the helpless had been wiped away by the rains of rebellion, and the streets that had echoed with the cruelty of the mob now bore the marks of liberation.
A group of women gathered at the old shrine, where the agents had made their stand. Saritha, her face lined with both grief and determination, knelt before the monument, whispering prayers of thanks. Behind her, others lit candles, their flames flickering like fragile beacons of hope in the morning breeze.
Children ran freely for the first time in years, their laughter breaking the long-held silence. It was as if the land itself had exhaled, its scars illuminated in the soft golden light of a new beginning.
The journey back to the SDF Hideout was marked by a heavy silence among the agents. The victory they carried with them was tainted with the weight of what they had done. Their faces bore not just the grime of battle but also the invisible scars of vengeance fulfilled.
As they entered Madam Di-Xian’s office, the familiar scent of incense mingled with the faint hum of ancient records spinning on a turntable. The office, as always, was a sanctuary of quiet authority, its dim lighting and rich décor exuding an air of calm.
Madam Di-Xian looked up from her desk, her sharp eyes appraising each of them. Her expression was a mosaic of curiosity, concern, and unspoken understanding.
At the side of the room stood Hecate and Hella, the Sinner who had found refuge under Madam Di-Xian’s leadership. Hecate’s sharp, analytical gaze flickered over the agents, while Hella’s more expressive features betrayed a mix of admiration and curiosity.
“They’re back,” Hella whispered to Hecate, her voice tinged with awe. “The Five Lawless Men.”
Hecate folded her arms, her tone measured but with an edge of humour. “More like four lawless men and a ghost,” she said, glancing toward Agent-90, whose icy demeanour seemed to chill the very air around him.
Madam Di-Xian gestured for the agents to step forward. “You’ve returned,” she said simply, her voice as smooth as flowing silk yet as firm as tempered steel. Her gaze lingered on Roy, whose face was still marked with grief. “What news do you bring from Gazhutan Brudhan?”
Farhan was the first to speak, his voice steady. “It’s done, Madam. Akku Agarwal and his men are no more. The village is free.”
A faint smile curved her lips, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “And what price did you pay for this freedom?”
Roy stepped forward, holding the locket tightly in his hand. “The price was blood,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “But it was a price worth paying.”
Hella, unable to hold back her curiosity, stepped closer, her eyes wide. “Is it true what they say? That you took down the entire Kala Dandakaranya by yourselves?”
Jun chuckled, though his voice lacked its usual levity. “Not by ourselves. The villagers fought with us. We just showed them how to aim their anger.”
Hecate arched a brow. “And the stories about Akku? That he begged for mercy?”
Roy’s face darkened, and he didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to Madam Di-Xian, his grip on the locket tightening. “Natasha’s vengeance is complete,” he said softly. “She can rest now.”
Madam Di-Xian studied Roy for a long moment before nodding. “Justice is a heavy blade,” she said, her tone reflective. “It cuts deep, leaving scars on those who wield it as well as those it strikes. But sometimes, the wound is necessary.”
She glanced at Alvi, who stood silently beside her, her usual sharp composure replaced by a rare tension. “Alvi,” Madam Di-Xian said, her voice softening slightly. “You doubted their path, didn’t you?”
Alvi hesitated, then nodded. “I feared the consequences, Madam. That the world might not understand.”
Madam Di-Xian gave a faint smirk. “The world rarely does. That’s why they’re the Five Lawless Men. They carve their own path, indifferent to the judgments of those who lack the courage to walk it.”
As the agents began to disperse, Roy lingered near the window, staring out at the distant horizon. The locket remained in his hand, its chain wound tightly around his fingers. His shoulders shook slightly, and though he made no sound, the weight of his grief was palpable.
Farhan approached him, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. “You did right by her, Roy,” he said softly. “She’d be proud.”
Jun, Masud, and even Hecate and Hella moved closer, their presence a silent show of solidarity. Even Agent-90, whose stoicism rarely wavered, stepped into the circle.
In an uncharacteristic gesture, Agent-90 placed his hand on Roy’s shoulder. Though his face remained impassive, the gesture spoke volumes.
Roy finally turned to face them, his eyes red but resolute. “Thank you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “For everything.”
As the group left Madam Di-Xian’s office, the weight of their mission lingered, but so too did the knowledge that they had made a difference. The streets outside bustled with life, a stark contrast to the haunted silence of Gazhutan Brudhan.
Hecate glanced at Hella as they walked behind the agents. “They’re more than lawless men,” she said quietly. “They’re avengers.”
Hella nodded, her expression serious. “And maybe the world needs avengers more than it knows.”
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the agents walked into the growing shadows, their figures outlined against the fading light. For them, the fight was never truly over—but for now, they had earned a moment of peace.
The Kishore family, nestled in the bustling heart of Alampur, was the epitome of modest contentment. Prakash Kishore, a schoolteacher, and his wife Anjali, a homemaker, had built their lives around principles of kindness, discipline, and unwavering love. Their children, Roy and Natasha, were the centre of their world.
Roy, the elder sibling by five years, was a quiet but fiercely protective brother. Natasha, by contrast, was a vivacious fifteen-year-old, her laughter as bright as the morning sun and her dreams as vast as the open sky. She wanted to become a journalist, a voice for the voiceless, and her determination burned like a fire in her chest.
It was an ordinary afternoon when the tragedy unfolded. Natasha, dressed in her crisp school uniform, had stayed late for debate practice, a passion she excelled at. As the school bell rang, she waved goodbye to her friends and began the short walk home, the strap of her bag cutting into her shoulder as she hummed a tune.
Unbeknownst to her, shadows had begun to gather. A black SUV trailed her, its windows tinted like the eyes of a predator waiting to pounce. Inside were Akku Agarwal and three of his men, their laughter low and predatory. Natasha turned onto a quieter street, and they struck.
The SUV screeched to a halt, the doors flying open like the jaws of a beast. Natasha barely had time to scream before rough hands grabbed her, dragging her into the vehicle. Her school bag fell to the ground, spilling books and a half-eaten apple onto the dusty road.
When Natasha didn’t return home, panic set in. Prakash Kishore called every friend, every teacher, but no one had seen her. Roy, who had just returned from his university classes, joined the frantic search, his heart pounding like a drumbeat of doom.
Hours turned into an agonising eternity until a call came from the police. Natasha had been found—but it was not the reunion they had prayed for.
The Kishores were led to a deserted construction site on the outskirts of the city. There, amidst the rubble and broken beams, lay Natasha’s lifeless body. Her uniform was torn, her face bruised, and her once-bright eyes stared blankly at the heavens.
Prakash collapsed to his knees, his cries piercing the night. Anjali clung to Roy, her sobs wracking her frail frame. Roy knelt beside his sister, his trembling hand brushing her cold cheek. His mind refused to accept the sight before him, a nightmare that no waking would end.
A bloodstained note was pinned to her chest, scrawled in jagged handwriting:
“This is what happens to those who don’t respect men.”
Natasha’s death shattered the Kishore family. Anjali became a shadow of herself, her laughter forever silenced. Prakash withdrew, his shoulders stooped under the unbearable weight of grief. But Roy’s pain ignited something else—a fury that burned with the intensity of a thousand suns.
He vowed that no one else would endure what his sister had. He trained his body and mind relentlessly, enrolling in martial arts and devouring books on criminology and law enforcement. His friends watched as the once-quiet Roy became a man possessed, his purpose as sharp and unyielding as the edge of a blade.
It was during a street brawl with local thugs—men who had tried to extort a grieving family—that Roy caught the attention of Chief Wen-Luo of the SSCBF. Wen-Luo saw not just a fighter but a man driven by a deep, unrelenting need for justice.
After the brawl, Wen-Luo approached Roy, his commanding presence impossible to ignore.
“You fight like a man with nothing to lose,” Wen-Luo said, his voice calm but penetrating. “But rage alone won’t change the world. If you want justice, you need precision, discipline, and allies.”
Wen-Luo offered Roy a place in a covert training programme that prepared operatives for the Shadow Defensive Force (SDF). Roy didn’t hesitate. He left behind his studies, his friends, and what remained of his old life, stepping into the shadows to fight the monsters that lurked there.
Under the tutelage of SDF mentors, Roy honed his skills to a razor’s edge. He became an expert marksman, a master of hand-to-hand combat, and a strategist capable of outthinking even the most cunning adversaries.
Through it all, Natasha’s locket remained with him—a reminder of why he fought, a talisman against despair. Every punch, every bullet, every plan was for her.
When Roy completed his training, Madam Di-Xian, the enigmatic leader of the SDF, welcomed him into their ranks. She saw in him not just a soldier but a force of nature—a man who could inspire fear in the wicked and hope in the oppressed.
On the day he donned the SDF insignia, Roy stood before Natasha’s grave, the locket clutched in his hand.
“I swear,” he whispered, his voice trembling but resolute. “I’ll make sure no one suffers like you did. I’ll hunt them, Natasha. Every last one of them.”
Roy’s path led him to Akku Agarwal and the Kala Dandakaranya, the culmination of years of pain and purpose. His vengeance was not just for Natasha but for every victim silenced by fear.
As he stood with his comrades in the aftermath of their mission, the locket clutched tightly in his hand, Roy felt a sense of release for the first time since that fateful day.
“Rest now, Natasha,” he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of a promise fulfilled.