Peace was never lost — for it never began.
Not in this world. Not in Vermoria.
In the land of shattered skies and burning roots, where the sun rises only to set on misery, war is no event — it is inheritance. No soul now living recalls the first volley, the first scream, the first fire. The calendars were burned, the histories redacted, the maps rewritten with ash. But the war — the Curse — lives on, humming like a death-song in the marrow of the people.
Hope is a dream forbidden. Tomorrow is a myth best left unspoken. The people endure not with courage, but with numb resignation. For what god would they pray to? The old gods are silent, the new ones monstrous. A hundred years have passed without a whisper of peace, and the sky itself seems to mourn in dull greys and copper-red rains.
Two nations, born from fratricide, bathe endlessly in the sins of their fathers. The Arcian Dominion and The Stahlreich Federation — twins by blood, monsters by choice — scribe their history with iron and bone. Their war is not one to be won, only endured. It is a rhythm deeper than memory, louder than logic — a requiem etched into the heartbeat of a dying world.
In Vermoria, truth is treason. Mercy, a myth. Only despair grows fertile.
Once, it was a realm of harmony — a united Vermoria, golden and whole. The empire sang under Emperor Ulrich Vorn Drauskald, a leader of wisdom and ambition. He ruled with thirteen wives, but it was from his first wife that came two sons — Sebastian Mordrin Drauskald and Bastian Emmeran Drauskald. Born of noble lineage, the brothers were cursed from their cradles with hunger for supremacy, not service. Neither knew love for the common man.
When Ulrich named his daughter — the kind-hearted Elgaria — as heir, born of his second wife, the brothers conspired. Their blades found their father first, and Elgaria next. That night, known as The Cursed Night, became the tombstone of Vermoria.
By dawn, it was no longer one kingdom, but two. Sebastian crowned himself Emperor of Stahlreich, his empire of fire and fear. Bastian seized The Arcian Dominion, bitter with envy and a shattered hand — a hand lost to Sebastian's blade during the fratricidal war.
Their crowns were thorns. Their nations, ruins.
Homes crumbled into trenches. Schools into armories. Roads became minefields. The civilians became currency — slaves in the machinery of war. Hunger reigned. Plagues danced through the streets. Every breath was borrowed.
To escape meant death or otherwise entertainment — for the emperors would broadcast the capture and torment of deserters like theatre. And above all stood the Elites — those draped in coin and cruelty. In both realms, power was the only sanctuary.
Yet even now, more than a century later, both tyrants live. Unaged. Unyielding. Unholy.
Whispers tell of the Drauskald Serum — an elixir born from Ulrich's obsession with time and power. A serum that gifted his sons unnatural life… and perhaps something worse.
Sebastian — the Butcher King — rules with a smile sharper than his sword. He drinks in screams like wine.
Bastian — the cruel duke — fights not for glory, but to surpass his brother, even with a hand half-machine.
Did the people never rise?
They tried.
Dozens of rebel banners were raised — all were torn down.
All but one: The Phantoms.
Seventy-nine years ago, they came close — so close that Sebastian bled. But betrayal undid them. One of their own severed their hope. The rebels were executed before the eyes of the world.
The message was clear: Hope is treason.
Yet... shadows do not forget. And neither do the dead.
The Phantoms never truly died. They merely sank into silence, like seeds beneath ash.
✧ Present Day – 105 Years After the Fall ✧
Stahlreich's iron horns blare across the cities.
The Announcement was made:
A rebel has been captured.
She shall be judged in the Colosseum.
Crowds gather like cattle before the storm. Children watch wide-eyed. Elders weep silently.
Some whisper, "No one escapes Sebastian."
Others mutter, "God… if you still watch us…"
And some merely curse: "Rebels bring nothing but suffering."
-
✧ The Night Before the Execution – The Phantom's Lair ✧
In a room where only the moonlight breathes, Sophie enters — her voice trembling against the weight of silence.
Sophie: "Captain... are we not going to save Raven?"
A figure sits cloaked in shadow, unmoving, staring at a war map older than the paint on the walls.
Sophie: "Captain… we can't leave her. She's one of us."
No reply.
Sophie: "If you won't move… I'll go. I'll die if I must, but I won't watch her burn."
Silence.
Then — the figure stands. Slowly. Deliberately. His voice is a winter wind wrapped in steel:
Captain: "No one dies tomorrow. Not Raven. Not us. We save her.
The moonlight touches his face. Thirty, maybe. Blonde. Scarred. Tired. Eyes that have seen centuries. A man — or what remains of one — hardened by failure but forged in resolve.
✧ The Day of Execution – The Iron Colosseum ✧
A thousand voices rise beneath broken banners. Screens bloom across every city square.
It is the fifth public execution in three years.
The voice of doom bellows:
"General Orgravan will proceed with the judgment."
Orgravan. The Iron Howl.
Not merely a man, but a relic of dread. His armor is ancient wrath forged anew — bound by old glyphs, whispered curses, and blood rites. Marble shatters beneath his boots. Upon his shoulder, the pelt of the last Dire wolf — its stitched eyes a warning.
He takes the podium, his voice a hammer:
"This rebel, like all before her, dared defy our Emperor. Let her agony be a sermon. Let the children learn the price of defiance. Let there be no roots for rebellion. Not now. Not ever."
"Bring her forth — bring Riisha",
Riisha, the real name of Raven.
From the rusted gates, she emerges — dragged, not led. Chains bite her wrists, pierced through by iron spikes. Blood trails behind like ink on old parchment.
The sky mourns — crimson clouds coil above the Colosseum like watching gods.
At the heart of the arena stands the Spire of Oaths.
Raven is bound to it — beaten, bloodied, but unbowed.
The crowd chants a name like a storm:
"Orgravan! Orgravan! Orgravan!"
And he stands above her, Crucior in hand — a blade that thirsts not for blood, but for fear.
The bells toll.
The sky weeps.
And somewhere in the crowd… a shadow moves.
From beyond the western ridge, a low hum rose.
Not thunder. Not wind. Helicopters.
The crowd's gaze tilted skyward—eyes narrowing against the harsh light—just in time to witness them: three black airships slicing across the heavens like metal ravens, wings humming with vengeance. Each bore the sigil of the Phantom Rebellion — a smirking joker's face, half-burnt and half-daubed in warpaint, crowned with a fractured diadem.
From the lead chopper, a figure leaned out into the sunlight — face hidden behind a white mask edged in gold, clothed in an olive-green battle-coat stitched with knightly finery. He stood with a poise sculpted from confidence and defiance.
Wraith touched his earpiece.
"We're fire-dropping on command. Begin the show."
The Colosseum erupted.
Harpoon cables fired from the aircraft, burying into the stone ramparts of the arena. One by one, Phantom operatives ziplined downward—blurs of shadow and steel. Smoke grenades burst open, spilling green, blue, and violet clouds into the air like a revolution painted in firelight. Screams began. Orders failed. The Imperial Guard was blind.
A sniper's shot cracked the chaos.
The executioner beside Raven crumpled, half his head missing.
"Target down." The Phantom Sniper's voice buzzed over comms.
Then they hit the pit.
Wraith landed first. His twin blades arced outward, carving down two guards mid-motion before his boots kissed the sand. Behind him, five to six more rebels descended, guns roaring, tearing through the stunned guards.
They swept toward the execution spire. Wraith unslung a compact pistol from his back and, with a single shot, dropped General Orgravan. The Iron Howl—dead before his blade even left the ground.
Silence rippled across the watching empire.
The elites froze in horror. Screens flickered. Across the nation, mouths hung open. In a command center, Orgravan's brother—Imperial Commander Magnus—roared, slamming his fist through a glass table.
"I want every rebel's head on my floor," he growled.
The arena drowned in blood.
A Phantom screamed as he fired:
"DIE, YOU BASTARDS! THIS IS FOR OUR HOMES!"
Steel doors crashed open—dozens of imperial soldiers storming in, weapons primed. Rifles, machine guns, riot shields. The sand turned black from muzzle flashes. Smoke covered the ground. Bullet shells showered like brass rain.
And still, the Phantoms cut through them.
"Echo, free Raven!" Wraith shouted.
"On it!" came the response.
One rebel shouted above the storm:
"Jet trails—west sky! They're coming fast!"
Overhead, a swarm of red-armored knights dropped from dark ships like war angels—guns, rocket launchers, grenades in hand.
Wraith stood tall.
"Ready, Phantoms. Plan B—Delta formation!"
The sun blinked out. Enemy ships passed over. Then—impact.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The sand convulsed.
The descending troops deployed their kinetic shields in unison, forming a spear wall of energy before advancing.
Tracer rounds screamed across the sky. Drones hissed through the battlefield. Corpses hung from balconies, still swaying, while the living ran or were gunned down where they stood.
Wraith inhaled once—long, slow, heavy.
"Now."
From the eastern side, a rebel charged into the chaos—flamethrower rig attached to his arms, mouth twisted in a grin, Pyro.
The fuel hissed. Napalm spread like wildfire.
Soldiers ignited. One, burning alive, kept firing until his knees buckled.
Another Phantom, female, bloodied and furious—Ember—grabbed an enemy and drove him like a spear into another. Blood splattered across her chest.
She roared, "Don't run! Fight me! We're PHANTOMS—we were born to die free!"
At the arena's edge, Wraith raised his blade, eyes gleaming.
"This is it. This is where we carve our name."
He lifted the blade high.
"PHANTOMS—UNLEASH HELL."
From the shadows, Halo emerged.
He tossed high-grade grenades into a cluster of enemies.
"Gifting you ghosts," he whispered.
The sky ruptured.
The grenades erupted—fire and death consuming a dozen soldiers in a heartbeat.
As Raven's shackles fell, the battlefield surged with fresh war cries—
—but this wasn't over. The Empire had more to give.
From the eastern gate, six Juggernaut-Class Execution Units stormed in—towering mechanical beasts, ten feet tall, powered by core-fuel and hatred. Their visors glowed crimson. Each step cracked the Colosseum stone.
Wraith saw them first.
He sprinted, vanished into smoke, and reappeared above the first Juggernaut—
blades drawn, he landed on its shoulder and drove both swords into the armored joints.
Sparks erupted. The machine spasmed.
He twisted one blade, leapt off mid-spin, and hurled a magnetic mine as he dropped.
KRA-KOOM!
The giant exploded behind him, raining metal like a steel storm.
Another machine targeted him with twin cannons.
WRAITH sprinted straight at it—bullets shredding the earth behind his feet—then slid beneath it and slashed its leg pistons. The giant stumbled and Ember jumped from the side wall, landing atop its head, plunging two hooked blades deep into the cockpit.
She didn't scream.
She smiled.
Blood gushed from the split hatch as the pilot inside gurgled his last breath.
Meanwhile, Pyro was pinned behind a collapsed wall by a new threat:
four Arc-Rifle Knights, their weapons crackling with electric charge.
"Think you can outrun me?" Pyro smirked.
He dropped his flamethrower and pulled out a plasma hatchet from behind his back.
He leapt up, dodged a bolt, threw the hatchet—it lodged into a knight's helmet and detonated, shredding his skull from the inside.
He ran straight through the explosion, grabbed the fallen rifle, and turned it on the others.
"You boys ever try your own weapons?"
BRRRRAAAAKK!
Three knights fell, twitching, smoke curling from their armor.
Pyro spat into the dust. "Trash."
Up on the high ledges, two Empire Jet blade Assassins dropped from the sky, heading straight for Raven.
But Halo was already moving.
He sprinted across a broken support beam, leapt midair, twisted and mid-fall, tagged one assassin with a smartbomb disk.
It beeped once.
BOOM. The assassin vanished in a bloom of fire.
The second came at him with dual sabers, slashing fast.
Halo ducked low, and suddenly came behind the assassin with a short blade drawn.
"Wrong shadow."
One slash.
The assassin collapsed, his throat gone before his brain caught up.
Down below, more guards advanced—shock-hammer squads and riot turrets on wheels.
Wraith regrouped with Ember, Pyro, and Halo near the execution platform.
He scanned the horizon.
More coming.
Too many.
Then he looked at Raven.
She stood tall despite the blood and broken breath. Her eyes flared with defiance.
Wraith raised a hand. "Phantoms—formation Echo-Zero. We burn everything behind us."
Smoke grenades.
Remote turrets.
Trip mines.
A new line of defense born in seconds.
As the Empire closed in the sky roared again.
Three new Phantom ships.
Backup.
WRAITH didn't smile.
He whispered, "This isn't the end. This is the ignition."
Reluctantly, the rebels fell back toward the helicopters, weapons firing until the last second. Then they lifted, their crafts roaring into the sky.
But behind them, a wave of Imperial gunships gave chase—firing missiles, bullets, death.
"Rats incoming!" Pyro barked.
From command, the Captain's voice broke in:
"PLAN H. Initiate."
"Copy that," said Wraith.
The helicopters vented thick clouds of black smoke — chemically-engineered cloaking mist, thick enough to blot the sky.
The Imperials fired blindly into the smoke.
When it cleared, the three helicopters still hovered.
Guards fired again—striking the choppers.
Wings shattered. Blades sputtered.
But no rebels aboard.
Nothing.
They had vanished.
Somewhere deep within the forest, one of the imperial guards craft had landed. Inside, nine rebels lay bleeding but alive. Raven was slumped between them. Wraith, drenched in blood, raised a cracked comm to his lips.
"Captain… we did it. We did it."
The next day, the empire woke to failure.
Sebastian, seated on his dark throne, murmured with a smile that was more hunger than joy:
"Well… this will be interesting. I want their flesh on my table."
Inside Varkast Police Station, the Captain of the Phantoms sat at his desk. He wore the uniform of the Imperial Police — his badge shined with the kingdom's emblem.
A soldier stormed in, throwing a photograph down.
"We're searching for this woman. Her name's Riisha. Orders from the top. You're in charge of this sector, Inspector Izaak van Daalen."
The man smiled softly.
"Of course," he said.
No hesitation.
No lie.
For Izaak was two men: a loyal inspector in the light… and the heart of the rebellion in the dark.
✧ The Imperial Guard Armory - 3 days after ✧
The Imperial Guard Armory loomed like a mountain forged by gods of war.
Its walls rose twenty feet high, laced with pulse-beacons and kill-turrets. Sentinels passed in thirty-second intervals. Overhead, two zeppelins hovered, ever watchful.
No one entered.
No one escaped.
Except him.
He came with the storm — shrouded in fog and shadow, body wrapped in grime, breath shallow and silent.
Through drainage trenches and up vertical shafts he climbed like a phantom spider.
At exactly 3:07 a.m., two guards passed near the shaft. One never screamed—his windpipe crushed. The other had time for a single gasp before the blade met his eye.
The central vault sat behind triple-sealed blood rings and bio-locked gates.
He bypassed all of it.
Sliding an ancient shard—tech long banned—into the neural override slot, he melted through Imperial security with a ghost's patience.
Inside lay the prize.
A gun—sleek, dangerous, custom-modified.
The VLOG (Vortex-Laced Oblivion Gear)
He grinned.
"This'll make a lot of money, man…"
He turned—
Tripwire.
A blinking red.
"UNAUTHORIZED BREACH IN ARMORY FOUR. REPEAT—BREACH."
Alarms shrieked.
The whole base lit red.
He didn't panic.
Didn't run—*yet*.
He strapped the VLOG to his back and dropped a smoke pellet.
The hiss was like a demon's breath.
Then—he vanished into the fire.
Twelve guards saw him.
Three opened fire—shock rounds crackling through the corridor.
He moved like smoke with muscle. Rolled between the bursts, let one bolt hit a wall panel. The ricochet sparked the floor lights—blackout. He vaulted over a processing unit just as sirens began to wail.
A seismic charge flew from his palm.
BOOM.
The hallway convulsed.
Pipes burst.
Steam poured in thick, suffocating waves.
Blind chaos.
He sprinted up the maintenance wall like a phantom, used the curve to spring mid-stride, and vanished through a ventilation hatch with the hiss of ghost breath.
The moment he emerged from the exhaust vents—gasping slightly, boots hitting rusted metal—
Two drones swiveled in from above, eyes red.
"Target acquired. Lethal force authorized."
He didn't hesitate.
He vaulted up the rooftop, each jump reckless and perfect—railing to railing, like a crow on fire, fleeing a sky of judgment.
Tracer fire shredded the air behind him—burning lines across the night.
He spun.
Fired from his sidearm.
FZZZAAAAP!
One drone burst into a spinning fireball, its frame disintegrating into sapphire flames.
The second pulled back and climbed into the clouds.
He dove into an alley just as a third zeppelin's searchlights scoured the streets below—bright enough to reveal sins in skin.
He wasn't just escaping anymore.
He was being hunted.
"Oh shit… that's some heavy work," he muttered, panting between the shadows. "Should've told sis I'd be late tonight…"
Then—a growl of engines.
A black-armored security truck tore through the southern checkpoint, its wheels screaming against the broken asphalt. Four bikes flanked it in a V-formation, red lights cutting across the dusk.
In his earpiece, a voice—
"They are heavily armed. Run fast as you could. Eyes on the VLOG core."
He didn't wait for a second call.
He leapt from the rooftop.
Landed on the truck like a thunderclap.
Metal crumpled under his boots.
With one yank, he tore the hatch open. Inside, terrified faces turned to him—too late.
He dropped a charge.
"Goodnight, iron pigs."
BOOM.
The explosion split the street.
Heat, smoke, glass, screams.
He rode the blast like a storm god descending.
When the dust cleared, half the checkpoint was rubble.
The air was sirens and silence.
But he was gone.
Only the wind knew where.
History does not remember the obedient. Only the defiant carve their names into the bones of empire.