The moon hung low in the ink-black sky, casting a ghostly pallor over the desolate courtyard of the enigmatic "Order of Shadows." A row of pawns, their faces obscured by hooded cloaks, awaited their turn with silent anticipation. The air was heavy with tension, broken only by the occasional rustle of fabric or the soft murmur of sinister orders.
Their recruiter, a man shrouded in obsidian robes, stood at the centre of the courtyard like a malevolent spectre. Before him, the pawns knelt beside their terrified captives, each with a number etched into their memory. Their calloused fingers twitched beneath their cloaks as the handler summoned them, one by one.
"Prove your loyalty, your obedience, your worthiness," the handler intoned. "Begin."
419, with a cruel glint in her eyes, wasted no time. She drew a blade, its steel glinting ominously in the moonlight. The first captive's eyes widened with dread as the blade descended, watching as his view spiralled into the air, spinning before darkness shrouded his vision with a resounding ‘thud’.
The handler's voice cut through the still night. "Quick and ruthless, just as expected.”
The remaining hostages watched in helpless horror, their faces contorted with grief and despair as they witnessed the brutal end of their companion, nevertheless, the show carried on without pause.
The handler continued his cold and unforgiving ritual. He called out the next pawn with the same ominous tone. "220," he called.
"Prove your loyalty, your obedience, your worthiness," the handler repeated once more.
"Begin."
A sickly smile crossed 220's lips as he reached for a concealed vial of poison, holding it to the lips of his captive as he forced it down her throat. The poison quickly coursed through the victim's veins, a sinister concoction of deadly ingredients. It brought about a slow and agonizing end, causing the captive's eyes to bulge with terror as she produced harrowing muffled noises that lessened with each struggle. She gasped for breath; each inhalation more painful than the last until her body convulsed in a final fit of motions.
The handler's voice cut through the courtyard; his tone malicious. "Cruel and calculated, good."
The handler's cold gaze now fell on the third pawn in line. "117," he called towards a bony individual.
"Prove your loyalty, your obedience, your worthiness," the handler called out once more.
"Begin."
‘117’ wasted no time, exuding sadistic glee, he unleashed a torrent of fire from his hands that aimed to consume the third captive. Glaring flames roared around the terrified victim as it burned through his ragged clothes before engulfing him in a searing inferno. Agonized screams echoed through the courtyard, a chorus of indistinct pain and suffering, as flesh blackened and curled.
The stench of burning flesh soon filled the courtyard, whilst the charred remains served as a stark testament to 117's mercilessness. Even after the flames subsided, a grotesque, lifeless and blackened figure lay in the scorched earth, his last position and expression remained momentarily fixed in place.
“Savage and fiery, unique.”
The handler, his voice still devoid of emotion, turned his attention to the pawns behind him. His gaze now slightly expectant as he called out yet another number.
“621”
Amid the chilling silence that hung over the courtyard, 621, a strikingly handsome and pale young boy, slowly stood from his crouched position. His eight-year-old frame looked unassuming, yet his countenance claimed otherwise. His demeanor was eerily calm, his eyes void of emotion, as he walked to the front of the row of pawns. In his hands, there were no weapons, no visible tools of death.
The pawns beside him had drawn blades, unleashed poison, and conjured fire, but 621 seemed unperturbed by the horrors that had unfolded before him. He was trained for this, moulded; perfected. His steps were measured, deliberate, and devoid of any hesitation.
As he reached the front, he stood patiently beside the handler, his gaze calmly fixed on the ‘prey’, their faces etched with terror but in his eyes, they were nothing more than ‘targets’. They had seen their companions meet gruesome ends, and now, they were about to witness the method 621 would employ to execute the next hostage.
His appearance was a stark contrast to the gruesome brutality that had transpired in the courtyard. It was as though he held a different kind of darkness within, one that masked itself in an unsettling calm.
This was the day he would take a significant step in his training. Throughout his time in the Order of Shadows, he had only been tested on wild animals and other weak targets, a means of survival in the harsh conditions of his training. Killing had become a matter of survival, and he had learned to be indifferent to the lives he took, whether it was an animal or a creature of the night.
But this night was different.
621 knew that the target of this grim test was not another creature but a fellow human; a hostage, chosen to be a mere subject in this macabre ceremony. He had been conditioned to be remorseless, to carry out orders without hesitation. Emotions were a weakness to be eradicated. The concept of guilt or empathy was alien to him.
Like a record player, the emotionless handler repeated the same exact words to him, "Prove your loyalty, your obedience, your worthiness.”
And like a death sentence; he declared a single word,
“Begin.”
In that moment, all eyes, both captives and pawns alike, were fixed on 621. His method, his choice, remained a mystery, and the moon's cold gaze cast an eerie light upon his pale form. It was clear that 621 was a different kind of entity within this nightmarish world, and his actions would reveal the depths of his darkness.
As the handler’s words drifted into his ears, 621's actions unfolded with chilling precision. Without the slightest hesitation, he thrust his right fist into his hostage, a reflexive movement that unfolded with lightning speed. His immeasurable blow punctured useless flesh, shattered ribs, and stopped the heart from beating. The captive's life was extinguished instantly, leaving behind only a lifeless shell that leaned back with a resounding thud.
But 621 wasn't finished.
In a departure from his fellow pawns, he summoned an eerie green fire with an entirely different purpose. The flames silently roared around the lifeless form, and with relentless intensity, they consumed the captive's body. Within moments, all that remained of the victim was a cloud of ash, a fine residue of an existence obliterated from the world.
The handler, typically devoid of emotion, let slip a special sentence, his voice laced with a unique form of pride.
"A master of efficiency, 621, excellent," he remarked, his words carrying a subtle note of approval that set 621 apart from the others, even in this macabre realm.
621 felt no remorse executing his hostage the way he did. He felt oddly indifferent when he destroyed the hostage’s body and soul. For a moment, he thought he would feel a different kind of feeling as he launched his fist into the man but there was nothing; he felt nothing.
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He simply crouched back down among the pawns afterwards. As he did, the handler called out another number continuing the inhumane ritual.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, seeking solace within the warm embrace of darkness. And in that instant, he was transported back to a dimly lit room from his past, a room devoid of any warmth or comfort. The memories flooded his mind, unbidden but vivid.
He was a child, no older than three, left to the orphanage's care. He recalled the other children with whom he had shared the same cold, unforgiving walls. Their names and faces were a blur, like half-forgotten dreams, for the orphanage had a way of stripping identities away. He recalled the cold, unforgiving nights, the hunger that gnawed at his belly, and the whispers of lost children who sought solace in the dark corners.
The orphanage had been a bleak existence for him, and yet he couldn’t help but yearn for it in the depths of his inner despair. The harsh conditions, the meagre meals, and the monotonous routines that had once been his short life now held a peculiar allure.
His first meeting with the recruiter from the Order of Shadows had been a chance encounter, a man in his mid-40s who had taken an interest in a young boy with no background. The man had come with a vague yet beguiling question, one that was easy to understand for a child but held weight beyond measure. The recruiter's interest in him had been clear.
And it marked the beginning of a dark adventure that had led to his indoctrination into the Order of Shadows.
His training had been inhumane, pushing him and the other “pawns” to the brink of insanity. It was a dog-eat-dog world, where they were forced to survive in extreme conditions, to forget their names, and to embrace a world of darkness. It was a world where their humanity was systematically stripped away.
He remembered scenes of relentless challenges where he had been pitted against the other pawns, forced to survive in conditions that were not meant for children. Hunger, cold, and fear had been his constant companions.
The man in his mid-40s, who had discovered himself when he was just three years old, soon became his handler and chief tormentor within the Order of Shadows and he recalled to that time feeling lost and vulnerable; feelings that he now extinguished as mere memories.
Scenes of trials and ordeals that aimed to dehumanize him also played out constantly. He recalled having had a name, but it had faded into the mists of forgotten memories, lost to the darkness, a faint echo of a past life.
But there was another memory, one that haunted his dreams and plagued his thoughts even before the handler. It was the recollection of a blurred figure from his past, a shadowy presence with no discernible facial features, only darkness where a face should have been. The figure had been another tormentor, a presence that lurked in the depths of his nightmares.
And the voice of that figure was something he could never forget. It was grueling, deep and haunting, a voice that whispered dark secrets and forgotten prophecies. It was a voice that seemed to resonate with his very soul, an indelible mark of his past.
As he crouched in the present, 621 couldn't help but recall these fragments of his past. The memories were haunting, and his lost name remained a tantalizing enigma, an identity forever buried beneath the shadows. He was no longer the child who had been lingering at the orphanage; he was a pawn at the service of the Order of Shadows, and his actions reflected the brutality that had forged him into a heartless demon.
In front of him, 621 noticed that all but one hostage remained standing, albeit trembling with fear. A damp spot could be seen on the surface of this hostage’s front bottoms as drops of a yellow watery-substance dripped from the hems of his lower pants along his ankles, to his sandals and all the way to the ground. It’s distinct smell diffused into the air that had already been invaded by all sorts of unpleasant smells.
Subsequently, only one more pawn remained to be tested: Number "666." She stood there, a young girl of similar age to 621, with an air of innocence that was incongruent with the malevolent proceedings. Her wide smile, seemingly genuine, stood in stark contrast to the emotionless facade that characterized the other pawns.
The handler's call resonated in the courtyard, and 666, with a demeanor of enthusiasm that defied comprehension, stepped forward. Her steps were light, and her eyes sparkled with an eerie anticipation, as if the impending test held no terror for her.
Upon closer inspection, 621 couldn't help but notice the unsettling nature of her smile. It was not one of innocence or warmth, but rather a sadistic yet jovial expression that seemed almost bloodthirsty. Her lips curled upward, revealing a grin that sent shivers down the spines of those who watched.
Her eyes, previously sparkled with an eerie anticipation, now held a glint of something more sinister. They bore into the hostage with a hunger that transcended mere curiosity. In this moment, Number "666" appeared to be a creature of darkness, reveling in the macabre theater of the Order of Shadows.
As the handler prepared to give the orders, the courtyard's tension deepened. It was now abundantly clear that this newcomer possessed a malevolence that defied understanding, and 621 couldn't help but wonder what ordeal she had for offer.
The moon's cold light cast an otherworldly glow over the dark scene, enhancing the sense of foreboding that hung in the air like a palpable presence. The stage was set for a climax that promised to reveal even deeper layers of darkness within the Order of Shadows.
"Prove your loyalty, your obedience, your worthiness," the handler intoned once more.
"Begin" he declared.
666 approached the trembling hostage, her unsettling smile never wavering. Her words were like soft, sibilant whispers, weaving their way into the hostage's mind.
"Tell me," she purred, her voice strangely soothing, "What is it that keeps you up at night? The things you dare not speak of, the fears you bury deep within."
621 was confused by her interrogation wondering why she would ask a fear-stricken hostage such menial questions yet, to his shock, the hostage began to speak, answering 666's probing questions. The words came forth with an eerie calmness, devoid of the expected fear and stammering. It was as though he had fallen under a spell, his usual emotions replaced by a detached compliance.
The hostage's voice quivered as he responded, "I... I fear so much. The darkness, the unknown, and the shadows. They haunt me."
666's smile widened, her eyes gleaming with a sinister gleam. "You see, my dear, fear can be a powerful thing. But it can also be a weapon, a tool to control those who succumb to it."
666's tone remained oddly soothing, "And you agree, don't you? You see the beauty in the darkness, the allure of the unknown. It calls to you, doesn't it?"
The hostage, now under her subtle influence, nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on 666 as if drawn to her. "Yes," he replied, his voice devoid of emotion, "I see it. I feel it."
"Tell me, do you yearn for power?" 666's words were almost hypnotic, her tone a soothing melody. "Do you crave the taste of it, like a forbidden fruit?"
The hostage nodded, his eyes glazed over. "Yes, I want power. I want to be free from fear."
"Power, my dear," 666 whispered, "is the antidote to fear. It gives you control over the things that once terrified you."
"Control," the hostage echoed, his voice devoid of emotion, "I want control."
As the conversation continued, the hostage's responses grew increasingly detached. His words became mechanical, as if he were caught in a trance, agreeing with everything she said.
With each passing moment, the hostage became more pliable, a marionette in her hands. His fears and insecurities were being transformed into something far more sinister, something that would soon culminate in a dark and ominous act.
The eerie calmness of the conversation sent shivers down 621's spine. He couldn't comprehend the transformation of the once-frightened hostage into this compliant, almost robotic figure. It was a strange sight.
666's smile widened, her eyes glittering with dark amusement. "And with power comes freedom. Freedom from doubt, from weakness, from the shadows that haunt your dreams."
The hostage's response was swift and unwavering, "Yes, freedom. I want it all."
"And freedom you shall have," 666 purred, her voice dripping with a twisted sense of promise. From an unknown space, she produced a gleaming knife, its blade catching the moonlight's ghostly glow.
With a swift and precise movement, she thrusted the knife deep into the man's chest. His eyes widened, but the happy expression remained, like a macabre mask of joy. His final breath escaped him, and the light in his eyes slowly dimmed, leaving him with that unsettling smile etched onto his face as he fell to the ground, his body growing limp and lifeless. The smile of hope and the thirst for freedom still clung to his face, even in death.
Throughout the macabre performance, 666's unsettling smile never faded. She gazed down at the lifeless form with a sense of sinister pride, as if she had orchestrated a chilling masterpiece. Her dark amusement seemed to reach its peak as she reveled in the act, laughing silently. It was a grim display that left an indelible mark on those who witnessed it, 621 included.
The handler's voice, a blend of admiration and satisfaction, murmured, "Impressive as always, Number 666. You truly have a way of turning the darkest of moments into something... artistic."
As for 621, witnessing this chilling charade, his thoughts were a mixture of shock, unease, and a growing curiosity about the true depths of 666's abilities. He can't help but be unnerved by the complex manner in which 666 orchestrated the execution. He believed in efficiency and her manner of taking care of targets irked him in the slightest of ways.
Afterwards, the handler stepped forward, casting a cold and calculated gaze over the courtyard. After a brief moment of silence, he addressed the crouching pawns, his tone still devoid of emotion:
"Your obedience and commitment to the Order of Shadows have been tested today, and you have demonstrated your loyalty. You are our instruments, our shadows, and our strength. As long as you serve the Order with unwavering dedication, you shall rise to greater heights and command unparalleled power."
With those cryptic words, the handler signalled the end of the test. The handler's words carried a weight of finality, as though this macabre ritual was a rite of passage that solidified the pawns' place within the organization.