"Do you swear to do what must be done? To take the necessary action to restore this country to the glory it once had?"
General Varikk Torne addressed the recruits lined up in tight formation across the parade field—Ashfall Square, as it was known to all. The field was packed. Behind each row stood their commanding officers, eyes fixed ahead, offering their general their undivided attention.
Varikk stood above them on a raised platform. No microphone. No speakers. The silence was so vast, he could have whispered and still been heard. But he wasn't a man who whispered—not when it came to The Shroud. They had given him status, power, and a legion to command.
"I expect you to be ruthless. Fearless. I expect you to be violent and merciless to our enemies. And I expect you to follow orders. To be disciplined. Be the legion The Shroud needs you to be."
He wore his full dress uniform: a long, tailored greatcoat—midnight black with a metallic weave that shimmered like oil and steel. Beneath it, flexible composite armor plates lay hidden, invisible to the eye. The coat's sharply structured shoulders gave him a towering, angular silhouette. Crimson trim lined the inner coat and cuffs, only visible when he moved. The color of blood.
A high collar framed his jaw like a blade's edge. Beneath the lining, small, glyph-like insignias were embroidered—marks of past campaigns, visible only to those who knew where to look.
His uniform was completed by armored boots with sound-dampening soles, reinforced combat gloves, and his infamous hat—The Black Halo, the troops called it. Modeled after a traditional officer's peaked cap, the rear curve arched higher, creating a subtle halo effect in profile. It tricked the light into circling it faintly. Forged from a rare carbon-steel weave, it was matte black with a smoky shimmer—like ash frozen mid-burn.
The recruits were a mixed bag. Some of them shook, sweat clinging to their brows. That "I didn't sign up for this" look in their eyes. But most stood at attention, motionless as stone, drinking in every syllable from the general's mouth. This was what they were here for. To become part of a legion powerful enough to conquer.
Their uniforms reinforced the image: matte black that devoured light, shadow given form. Deep crimson accents. A lightweight armored weave beneath modular plates on the chest, shoulders, thighs, and forearms. For today's assembly, they had left their helmets in the barracks.
General Varikk paced the stage, eyes sweeping the formation like a predator. He stopped just as a recruit wiped his nose, then smeared it on his trousers. The moment he realized the general had noticed, the recruit snapped his gaze forward. His face turned red. His hands began to tremble.
Varikk pointed at him.
"That one there is a thinker," he barked. "He believes what I say is of little importance. He'd rather tend to his own problems—like his runny fucking nose!"
Every eye on the parade field locked onto the recruit. The air turned sharp with menace.
"Remind me how we deal with thinkers," Varikk commanded.
They swarmed.
The first punch broke the recruit's nose. A knee shattered his jaw on the way down. An elbow crashed into the crown of his head when he hit the ground. Then came the boots. Stomping. Kicking. The shouting. The spitting. Traitor. Worthless. Trash.
A blade drove deep into his side—twisting viciously before being ripped free. Another stabbed into his chest, then the side of his neck. More boots followed. A final stomp landed with a wet, bone-snapping crunch.
He was gone.
The recruits returned to their positions, eyes forward. Their attention locked back onto the general.
He smiled and nodded slightly, signaling his approval.
"Lastly, you will abide by your commanding officers. If I hear of any insubordination in my legion, you will be dealt with. Understood?"
They all shouted in unison,
"The dark reigns, Sir!"
General Varikk stepped down from the stage and moved through the formation. The recruits remained still, heads and eyes locked forward, not daring to move.
He stopped beside the blood-soaked patch of concrete where the recruit had fallen and stepped into the still-warm puddle. Kneeling, he examined the body, running a gloved finger along one of the deeper wounds. Then he called out.
"Stemble!"
The tallest commanding officer responded, pushing through the formation. His chest bore the mark of a High Binder—a black-outlined eye with a dark red iris. He commanded the Dead Man's Legion, and his presence carried the weight of that title. He shoved several recruits aside without hesitation, knocking them into each other as he passed.
He stopped beside General Varikk and bowed his head, hands at his sides.
"Yes, sir?"
Varikk didn't look at him. His gaze remained fixed on the corpse.
"Take this one."
Stemble nodded, then waved over two recruits bearing his Legion's patch—black skulls with blood dripping from the eyes. Without a word, he pointed at the body.
"Take it to the mound."
The recruits obeyed. One grabbed the wrists, the other the ankles. They lifted the body and carried it away, leaving a smeared trail of red across the black concrete.
Varikk turned to the nearest recruit and leaned in, face inches from his own. The recruit tried to keep his eyes forward, but they flicked toward Varikk's left eye—he couldn't help it.
It wasn't human.
Smooth and precise, the eye gleamed like a crafted weapon. A ring of crimson metal encased the core, glowing faintly like burning coals. Inside, the same deep blood-red hue churned in a slow, mechanical pulse.
Varikk didn't react. He simply asked,
"What is your name, troop?"
The recruit swallowed hard, sweat rising on his forehead. Varikk noticed and allowed himself a faint grin.
"Aiden, sir," the recruit answered.
"Aiden," Varikk repeated, resting one hand on the pommel of his blade. "Do you believe your parents raised you well?"
Aiden hesitated.
"Uh… yes sir. I believe so."
Varikk tilted his head slightly, the smile turning curious.
"You don't sound confident. Or certain."
Aiden swallowed again, his voice catching. His eyes trembled. His hands shook.
Varikk took a half-step closer, so near that Aiden could feel the general's breath on his skin.
"Do you believe you are fit to be in my Legion?"
The recruit straightened suddenly, fists clenched tight.
"YES SIR!"
The general smiled and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"How many will you kill before your mission is complete?"
"AS MANY AS IT TAKES, SIR!" Aiden roared, the strain in his throat drawing a thick vein across his forehead.
Varikk nodded once, stepping away.
Then it happened.
The recruit relaxed his stance, and Varikk heard the soft exhale of contentment that followed. A mistake.
Varikk drew his blade from its sheath, a low, electric hum rising from it.
He called it Severant—a weapon of legend among those in The Shroud. Forged of blackened steel, the blade thrummed with life, glowing red wires running from the hilt into the blade itself. The handle was wrapped in worn, dark brown leather, and a blood-red gem pulsed in the pommel. It was short but brutal—dual serrated edges made it perfect for both stabbing and slashing.
Varikk stepped back and, without hesitation, brought the blade down hard onto the top of the recruit's head.
Severant sank instantly, cleaving through half the recruit's face, stopping just above his nose. His eyes rolled back, body spasming violently. He tried to speak, but only garbled noises escaped. Blood poured down his uniform, trickling from his chin and dripping steadily to the black concrete below.
Varikk stood still, hand gripping the hilt, letting the sight sink in for the others. His voice cut through the silence:
"We will be perfect. A legion that doesn't need history to speak for us. We will write history. We will be the curators of all things. We will become gods among these meatbags."
He looked back down at the dying recruit, still twitching, still trying to form words.
"When people create these… these shit humans," Varikk spat, "they condemn our country—and the world—to mediocrity. They push care and compassion over strength and will. I will do the opposite. The strongest will inherit everything. I will make it so."
His grip tightened on the blade.
"You will be my weapon, Legion. My hand that wreaks hell upon those who oppose us."
With a sudden jerk, he forced the blade deeper—cutting through the recruit's mouth, past his throat. The dying man's arms rose to shoulder height, fingers flicking helplessly, a harsh gurgling sound escaping his throat.
Varikk twisted Severant.
A fresh hole tore through the recruit's throat. Blood sprayed and flowed. The body crumpled forward and landed face-first on the concrete. He spasmed, choking, drowning in his own blood. After five or ten seconds, the movement stopped. Only the sound of blood pattering onto the ground remained, fading into a final, quiet trickle.
Varikk looked around. None of the recruits had moved.
"Perfection comes at a great cost," he said, his voice low but sharp.
"It's a price I am more than willing to pay."
He raised Severant, examining the glistening blood along its jagged edge in the moonlight.
"I'd spill the blood of millions to make this happen. And I expect the same from all of you."
He wiped the blade clean across the dead recruit's uniform.
"High Binder! Another to collect!" he barked.
Stemble rushed forward with two more soldiers.
"Same as the other. To the mound. And someone clean the blood!"
He raised his hand flat in the air, stopping them mid-step.
"No. Do not touch the blood. It stays. It reminds us all of what we are willing to do. Of what we must be willing to do."
Stemble nodded and returned to formation. The others followed.
Varikk slid Severant back into its sheath, the blade locking in with a final hiss. He climbed the stage once more, once again standing above them.
"At any cost, we will succeed. We must succeed."
He looked across the sea of black uniforms and crimson trim.
"I dismiss you to your commanders. For the Cut."
He raised his right hand in a rigid blade shape and, with a sudden brutal motion, slashed it diagonally across his chest—from left shoulder to right hip.
At the end of the motion, he snapped his hand into a clenched fist against his side.
His jaw is clenched, eyes forward. He shows no emotion.
After the salute, Varikk steps off the stage and walks off the parade field. On the way, he turns to the line of commanding officers.
"Take command. Train, fight, and prepare. Await further orders."
They return his salute with vigor, barking orders to their recruits. The worst pain those soldiers will ever experience is yet to come—and they charge into it with fire in their eyes. Inspiration comes in many forms. A few broken bodies and blood-soaked messes are more than enough for men already thirsty for war.
Varikk heads for The Eye, the war room located on the far east side of the main base compound, west of the parade field. He approaches the compound's heavy entry doors, guarded by six heavily armored sentries wielding Reaper Claws—close-quarters and mid-range forearm-mounted weapons that combine blades and bullets for brutal, versatile combat.
He marches past them with a salute and swings the doors open—clipping one guard's nose with the left door. The guard doesn't flinch. He snaps to attention, blood rolling from his nostrils.
"Thank you for reminding me to always be prepared for attack, sir! For the Cut!"
Varikk returns the salute briskly and moves on, eyes locked forward.
He enters a corridor that leads to the war room's secure entrance. The door itself is a wall of modern defense—an outer layer of reactive polysteel over a core of memory-infused graphene lattice, reinforced with Kyne-Tech's self-repairing nanofilaments. Minor abrasions vanish within hours. Inside, the frame is lined with Faraday mesh, blocking all signals in or out.
A robotic voice buzzes from speakers in the corners:
"Scan and prepare for judgment."
Biometric scanners extend from the walls—one for a retinal scan, the other for neural signature analysis. Varikk stands still as they begin.
"Speak the words," the voice commands.
"Order from chaos," Varikk replies.
The door hisses and slides open. He steps inside, and it closes behind him with an electric whirr and a sharp locking beep.
"General. Well done with the recruits. Fear is our finest tool—and deadliest weapon," says High Binder Jax, saluting.
Varikk returns it with a curt nod.
"General, we've lost four teams in the desert just this week!" shouts one officer. "The damn animals are tearing them apart! We need to send more men!"
Another snaps back, "If we keep throwing bodies out there, we'll have nothing left for the assault. Train them better—don't waste resources."
The War Room—The Eye—erupts into chaos. Bickering. Arguing. Commanders clashing like a true council of war.
This is where every strategy is born. Every scheme, every tactical maneuver is hatched within these alloyed steel walls. The floor is black concrete, same as the parade field. Subdued overhead strips and embedded floor lights cast a cold, muted glow. In the center: a heavy, octagonal alloy war table, built to seat twelve.
Officers shout over one another, demanding new policies, claiming strategic superiority, debating the best path forward for the Legion.
Varikk says nothing. He moves to the back of his seat and draws his pistol—the Vox Revenant.
It's a modified .50 caliber sidearm, forged from weathered, parkerized steel with a scorched, muted finish. The slide is fluted and ported for recoil control. Some say when it fires, it sounds like a thunderclap. The grip is polished dark walnut, hand-carved with the skull of a revenant etched deep into its surface.
He lays the pistol casually against the back of his chair, finger resting lightly on the trigger. Silent.
The room falls quiet.
Every officer knows the tales. When Varikk draws the Vox Revenant, it usually means someone's already dead—they just haven't hit the ground yet.
They sit. Eyes locked on him.
Only then does Varikk holster the weapon and take his seat. He places his hand on the table. A thin red beam scans his palm, sliding up and down in a line of light.
A circular biometric scanner—shaped like a robotic eye—extends on a mechanical arm from the holographic projection unit at the center of the table. It scans Varikk's face and tongue. The device beeps twice, flashing green from its "retina," and retracts.
A hologram flickers to life above the table, revealing a detailed map of the desert and the city of Pierview. Varikk uses the touch interface on the table to zoom in on the desert, bringing up a live feed of troops and vehicles in motion. Some units are overtaking enemy positions; others are preparing ambushes along supply routes. Everything appears to be running smoothly and efficiently.
Losses are inevitable. Conflict demands sacrifice. As long as Varikk maintains psychological supremacy, he can mold those under his command into the ruthless destroyers the Shroud demands.
He swipes left. The hologram shifts to the cityscape of Pierview—corrupt, chaotic, and crawling with spies and organized crime syndicates. Colored blips indicate the locations of agents, teams, and active objectives. Reports stream in live across the interface.
Zooming out, Varikk surveys both territories. His eyes then drift to the seats surrounding the war table.
One is empty.
"Who is missing?" he asks coldly.
"T," answers Elias, spymaster and Machinant of Varikk's inner circle, known as The Triarii. "I knew he'd be late, General. Meant to inform you, but I got tied up in here."
Elias's domain is shadows and whispers. Misdirection, psychological warfare, and preemptive silence of dissent. He ensures rebellion dies before it ever breathes.
"Men of his rank and station are charged with punctuality!" roars Minrath, Executor Primus of the Triarii. The hidden blade of Varikk—feared across the lands. "He knew his attendance was mandatory!"
Minrath is a killer of legend. Thousands have died at his hand, and he will keep killing until his dying breath.
The other officers stay silent. Killing an officer is costly—but not unthinkable.
Minrath throws his hands up in disbelief. "Sir, we have a standard to uphold. We are the masters of our craft. Don't let him drag our name down with tardiness. It's damn embarrassing."
Elias chuckles. "Wow. Didn't think you were one to care what others think. You should stick to the 'silent blade' persona—it suits you better."
Minrath slides a dagger from his sheath, flips it in the air, and catches it by the blade—ready to throw. Elias, spotting the movement, draws a golden revolver and thumbs back the hammer.
"The age-old question," he grins. "Are knives faster than bullets?"
He bares his teeth and licks them slowly, eyes locked on Minrath.
Varikk stands hard and fast, his chair slamming into the steel wall behind him with a loud clang. He plants both hands on the table and glares at them.
Elias's finger remains on the trigger. Minrath holds his dagger mid-throw.
"You both promised me you'd try to work together. Is this your idea of cooperation?"
Minrath slides the blade back into its sheath and places his hands on the table, shooting Elias a cold death-stare.
The door to the War Room hisses open.
"Elias," a voice calls. "I found something you didn't know about."
Standing tall in the doorway is T, one of his dual silver revolvers in hand, a cigar clenched between his teeth. Smoke curls from his grin. In his grip is a man wearing a blue uniform, held by the collar like a feral dog.
T tosses the man forward. He hits the concrete floor with a heavy thud.
Elias turns his revolver away from Minrath and points it toward the new arrival.
"I found a rat sneaking around the motor pool. And this was on him."
T flicks a small disc toward Varikk, who snatches it from the air with one hand. He unfolds the compact disc into a paper-thin sheet.
The note reads:
"In the motor pool. Find the plans for the Demigod. Bring them back. —KJ"
Varikk's brow furrows. His eyes narrow.
SLAM —his fist pounds the table.
"Fuck!" he shouts, rattling the walls and freezing every soul in the room.
Silence.
Everyone but Elias, Minrath, and T stares in fear. The Triarii, for all their friction, know their value—and know their place. Brothers don't always get along. But when war calls, they fall in line.
Varikk crumples the note and throws it to the floor.
"We have to strike," he growls. "They know our plans. They know where we are. The longer we sit, the more they'll send. If one got in… many more will follow."
His gaze locks on the spy. He strides toward him, fury in his boots. He grabs the man by the throat and slams him against the wall.
Eye to eye, voice like a blade:
"We will find where you hide, thinker. You and your unbearable outfit will see what true power looks like."
Varikk drops the man to his knees, then drives his kneecap into the man's chin. The impact slams his head against the steel wall with a sickening clang. The man clutches his skull, blood dripping from his bottom lip where he'd bitten through it. Tears fall freely from his eyes.
"Elias. Find where they are. Now."
Elias holsters his revolver and rushes out of the room without a word.
Minrath twirls a four-inch blade between his fingers, watching the man with a predator's grin.
"You want information, sir? I'd be happy to extract it for you."
Varikk nods.
"When you're done, take him to the mound. I have a plan for him as well."
Without another word, Varikk turns and walks out, leaving the prisoner with Minrath, T, and the remaining officers.
"Clear out," T says flatly. The officers file out quickly. T holsters his revolver and takes another drag from his cigar. He slings his pack onto the table, unzips it, and pulls out a bottle of bourbon.
He shakes it with a satisfied grin, glancing at Minrath, who nods in approval. T pulls out a couple of plastic tumblers and pours three shots in each.
Handing one to Minrath, he raises his own.
"Cheers," he says. "To the greatest job in the world."
"Cheers," Minrath replies, clinking glasses with him. They both take a sip.
Minrath sets his tumbler down and hoists the prisoner up by the coat, slamming him down hard against the table. The man cries out, his back cracking audibly against the edge.
T steps forward, gripping the man's middle and index fingers.
"Please—I'll talk! Don't hurt me!" the man begs.
T chuckles darkly.
"I know you'll talk. Especially after I do this."
He wrenches the fingers apart. The skin tears, bones snap, and the man screams in agony, pounding the table with his free hand.
Minrath takes another sip, then calmly plucks the cigar from T's mouth. T glares at him, but Minrath doesn't acknowledge it. He sets the glass down and straddles the prisoner, holding his left eye open.
Without hesitation, he presses the lit end of the cigar to the eye.
The man shrieks—high-pitched, like a child screaming on a playground. He thrashes, slapping and hammering at Minrath's side, finally landing a punch to his cheek that knocks him off balance.
Gasping, the man turns toward T and attempts a desperate uppercut to his groin. T reacts instantly, driving his elbow down across the man's jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground.
The man spits blood, his mangled hand gushing red.
"Where did you come from!?" T shouts.
"Pierview!" the man cries through sobs.
Minrath and T exchange a look—serious now.
"We're gonna kill all of you evil fucks!" the man shouts defiantly, both middle fingers raised—barely managing it with his ruined hand. "This world doesn't have room for psychos like you!"
Without hesitation, Minrath flicks his dagger. It embeds cleanly into the man's throat.
The defiance ends instantly.
He gurgles, eyes wide, choking as blood bubbles up in his mouth and spills out. He collapses, twitching, then goes still.
"Fucking Pierview," T mutters. "What good is a spy network if corporate shits are still skulking around—even in the city we monitor the most?"
He takes his cigar back from Minrath, relights it, and exhales a long stream of smoke.
"We'll get this one to the mound and report back to Varikk… wherever the hell he went," Minrath says, grabbing the corpse by the ankles and dragging it toward the exit.
T downs the last of his bourbon, then jogs over to help.