They are not seen.
They are not heard.
But their presence is felt — like a breath behind your neck when you're alone… like the moment just before a storm breaks.
No banners.
No names.
No trace.
They move in silence, not for glory, but because the work they do cannot be seen.
Not by the public.
Not by history.
Not even by those they save.
They're spoken of in fragments — whispered at the edge of campfires, in the ramblings of soldiers and spies.
An urban legend, perhaps.
Or the last hope of men who have seen too much.
Some say they don't exist.
Some hope they don't.
But those who truly know fear… who've seen darkness without end…
know the name that shadows the silence:
The Shadow Clan.
They do not chase power.
They do not crave praise.
They erase — clean, quiet, surgical — because sometimes saving the world means making sure it never even knows it was in danger.
They do what others cannot.
They bear the weight others won't.
And they bleed in silence… so others don't have to.
Their mission is not vengeance.
It is balance.
It is protection — from the things that slip through the cracks in our world… from the creeping terror of the Nightmare Spell, a force that corrodes reality.
To fight such darkness, they must become the dark
not cruel but cold when needed.
Not heartless but hardened by sacrifice.
Buried for the sake of a world that sleeps peacefully in ignorance.
And that's exactly how it should be.