Veltraxis shimmered with life.
From its gleaming arcsteel towers to the vibrant tapestry of stalls and neon awnings crowding its lower tiers, the border city bustled like a living circuit. Hovercarts zipped between elevated rails above, leaving glowing trails in the dusk-blue sky. Children laughed as they darted between vendor stalls, chasing flares of drifting light that vendors released for luck. Music thumped low from public speakers, a fast urban rhythm mixed with oldworld melodies.
Vendors called out deals in a dozen dialects. Steam rose from skewered meats, sweet-spiced teas, and synthfruit carts. A mother lifted her son to grab a sugar disc from a floating dispenser. A painted performer juggled light-orbs to scattered applause.
Veltraxis was a city of movement. Of color. Of hope surviving where it shouldn't.
And in its quiet, overlooked bones—where shadows clung and the crowds thinned—
Klaus Aetherion walked.
Barefoot. Shirtless. Scarred. Every breath still heavy from strain. The last of the stolen wind trailed behind him like a whisper, fading into the cracks of the alley.
His body ached. The price for using that power clung to him like heat. Muscles twitched. Joints burned. He kept moving anyway.
Eyes sharp beneath soot-dusted lashes, Klaus ducked into a side passage where trash bins overflowed and the scent of oil mingled with rot. A shredded tarp fluttered nearby.
He dug through the refuse with slow, deliberate motions.
There—a long, dark trench coat. Weathered. Torn near the hem, but thick and heavy. He shook it out and slipped it over his shoulders, pulling the hood low over his brow. In another pile, half-buried beneath a cracked synthcrate, a pair of scuffed boots—one size too big, but good enough. He shoved them on and flexed his toes.
Disguised, covered, forgotten.
That would do.
Klaus stepped from the alley into the bleeding edge of the crowd.
Lights stung his eyes. The noise pressed in around him—voices, laughter, commerce—but he kept to the perimeter, a phantom moving just beyond the senses. Every step hurt. Every breath was earned.
I need to lie low. Just for a bit.
The world didn't stop for him. Veltraxis moved forward, endless.
So he moved with it. Head down, coat flapping, his path winding through backstreets and half-lit corners.
There'd be a place to rest soon.
Just a minute to breathe.
Because something was coming.
And every second bought him ground.
The crowd of Veltraxis thickened as Klaus drifted in further, losing himself in the city's pulse.
Children sprinted past him—barefoot, laughing, one clutching a glowing marble that left a trail of starlight in its wake. One of them, a scrappy boy with sun-tanned skin, bumped into Klaus's side with a muttered "Sorry, mister," before vanishing back into the swarm of sound and warmth.
Klaus didn't flinch.
But his stomach growled.
Food.
It came as a dull ache first, then something deeper. He hadn't eaten in… he didn't remember. Just before the Crucible?
His pace slowed as he spotted a row of eateries tucked beneath a neon archway—bright signs flickering in hungry colors. A few had long lines of families and workers laughing over bowls of steaming noodles or seared synthbeast. Others were quieter, high-end—polished glass, glowing walls, and host bots scanning for credit strands.
He stepped into one. The heat hit him first—grilled meat, garlic, something sweet. His eyes adjusted to warm lights and tidy booths.
Then the hostess glanced at him.
Down to his coat. His boots. The faint dirt on his face.
Her smile faltered.
"I'm sorry," she said, carefully polite. "We're… reservation only."
Klaus looked past her to the half-empty dining floor. His jaw tightened.
Right.
He left without a word.
Two more tries. Two more places where the lights were warm but the stares were colder. The third didn't even let him step through the door—just a flick of a guard's baton and a quiet threat.
His hunger twisted. Burned.
The wind around him shifted.
But he calmed it. Bit it back.
There has to be somewhere.
And then he saw it.
Not clean. Not polished. A bar—half-sunk into the side of a rusted structure, the sign overhead blinking between languages too old to matter. "The Hollow Veil," it read in fractured glyphs. A red light buzzed over the entry, and deep inside, laughter slurred against the rim of clinking glasses.
Klaus stood outside for a moment, watching.
No bouncer. No hostess.
No rules.
Just doors. Just noise.
He pushed them open.
The Hollow Veil was the kind of tavern that smelled like history, sweat, and a hundred poor decisions.
Wooden beams groaned overhead with age. The stone walls wept from years of soaked boots and spilled ale. A fire crackled in the large hearth, casting dancing shadows across worn tables and cracked mugs. The place wasn't clean, but it was alive.
"—so I told the guy, ''You call that a blade? I've picked my teeth with sharper ones!'"
Laughter burst around a table of grimy mercenaries.
A cloaked man slammed his mug down, cheeks ruddy. "Swear on me old commander's grave, that demon was this big!" He held his arms wide, nearly knocking over the barmaid beside him.
"You sure it wasn't just your ex-wife?" another quipped, triggering another roar of drunken howling.
Chairs creaked, dice clacked across wooden surfaces, someone in the back was tuning a half-broken fiddle, and through it all the sweet scent of roasting meat drifted from the kitchen—clashing wonderfully with the stench of wet dogs and pipe smoke.
And then the door creaked open.
Heads barely turned—at first.
Klaus stepped in, the chill of the evening curling around his frame. His presence wasn't loud, but it shifted the air. Like something sharp had been dragged across the fabric of the room. His eyes—dark, hollow, still—took in everything.
He looked like a ghost made of muscle and memories. Tattered cloak. Worn boots. A black shirt stretched across a torso sculpted by suffering. His face, young but carved with old pain.
He walked in slow, deliberate strides—until a figure blocked his path.
A massive man with a shaved head and heavy fur cloak leaned from the bar. His voice rumbled with ale and ego.
"Well, well. Someone let a little rat in."
He cracked his knuckles. "You lost, pretty boy?"
Klaus looked up—just a glance.
And the mercenary froze.
Those eyes didn't threaten. They promised. Behind them was no rage. No violence. Just a cold abyss where mercy had long drowned.
The man blinked. Snorted. Then stepped aside.
Klaus didn't even speak. He simply moved past and slid into an empty corner table, back to the wall.
From the bar, a soft voice came. "I'll take this one."
A girl stepped over—barely older than Klaus. Brown eyes, gentle but lively. Auburn hair tied in a messy bun, apron stained with flour and ale. Her smile was honest. Warm.
"Welcome to the Hollow Veil," she said, brushing hair from her cheek. "Can I get you anything?"
Klaus studied her for a moment. "No meat."
"Got it. We have roasted vegetables, barley stew, or potato cakes. And for drink?"
"Water," he replied simply.
She scribbled, then smiled again. "Coming right up. Take your time, okay?"
Her voice was quiet—but it lingered in the noise like warmth in cold wind.
As she turned to leave, Klaus allowed his shoulders to settle. Not relax—but settle.
The fire snapped again. Someone spilled a drink. The tavern rolled on.
Until—
"Oi. Thought you were done flirting."
The same mercenary stood again, swaggering toward the girl—Mira, judging by the call from the kitchen earlier. He blocked her path near the corner table.
"You gonna smile like that for all the boys, or just the ones with broody eyes?"
She stepped back. "Please—just go back to your seat—"
He grabbed her wrist.
Klaus stood.
But before he could take a step—
A click.
A glass met wood.
And silence fell.
From the far-left table—almost hidden in the shadow of a support pillar—sat a man who hadn't moved in the past hour.
White hair fell in perfect waves to his shoulders, swept slightly back with faint shine. His cloak, dark navy with gold trim, rested loosely on one shoulder like it belonged there. A long katana lay across the table—its sheath lacquered, the guard shaped like wind spirals.
He sat relaxed. Legs crossed. One arm hanging lazily off the back of his chair.
But his face—
Chiseled, sharp, beautiful in that dangerous way. And over his left eye, a scar curved clean—a thin, deliberate mark like a sword's kiss. The eye beneath it remained closed.
But the other eye opened.
It gleamed silver-blue.
The moment his gaze locked on the mercenary—
Pressure.
Every drink turned cold. The laughter stopped. The lute snapped a string mid-note.
The mercenary's knees buckled. His mouth foamed. And with a twitch and a gargled squeal, he hit the floor like a sack of bricks—twitched once—then went still.
Everyone stared.
The man didn't move. Didn't even look at the girl.
He just poured himself another glass.
The girl blinked in shock.
Grayson's voice boomed as he burst into view, eyes locking instantly on the mercenary twitching on the floor..
Grayson's expression shifted in an instant. "Ah—thank you, Kuro."
The man—Kuro—raised his glass in mock salute. "You're welcome, Old friend. Just handling your bouncer problem."
Grayson's scowl melted into a grin. "Damn mercs never learn."
He stepped past the unconscious thug and moved toward Mira, who was still rubbing her wrist.
"You alright, Mira?" Grayson asked, tone dropping to something gentler.
She nodded, voice still trembling slightly. "Y-Yeah. Thanks to him…"
Kuro offered her a faint smile and a light shrug. "Don't mention it."
Mira blinked a few times, then turned and quickly fetched a steaming bowl of food, setting it down gently in front of Klaus.
"Here you go," she said softly. "Enjoy."
Klaus didn't reply—just continued eating, focused, intense. He didn't seem to notice the growing conversation around him, or the subtle stares of curiosity. Grayson and Kuro exchanged glances from the bar, a sense of familiarity between them despite the strange air of mystery surrounding the white-haired man.
"So, you sticking around this time, Kuro?" Grayson asked with a wry smile, leaning against the counter while cleaning another mug.
"Depends. You planning on finally fixing the leaky roof?" Kuro quipped, sipping his ale.
Grayson snorted. "Only if you promise not to scare off all my paying customers."
"No promises," Kuro said with a wink, the kind of smile that seemed too easy for a man with so many secrets.
Grayson's tone grew more serious as he set the mug down. "So, what's next for you?"
Kuro didn't immediately answer. Instead, he leaned back in his seat, eyes scanning the room with a casualness that belied the strength in his posture.
"There's always somewhere to be," Kuro murmured. "But right now… here feels good."
Grayson gave him a pointed look, as if weighing his words carefully. "Always somewhere to be, huh? Sounds like the life of a ghost."
"You wouldn't understand, Grayson. You've got roots. I'm just passing through."
There was a subtle silence in the air between them, heavy with unspoken words. The kind that lingered long after the surface conversation ended.
Meanwhile, Mira quietly approached Klaus with the bill, though she was cautious, watching him intently.
"Excuse me," she said gently, as her fingers curled around the small notepad she held. "… your meal is fifteen silver pieces."
Klaus paused mid-bite, then patted his pockets absentmindedly. His expression froze.
"I don't have any money," he said flatly, his tone devoid of concern.
Mira blinked, her eyes wide. "Oh… I—"
"Ah, put it on my tab!" Kuro's voice boomed across the room, cutting through the tension. He raised his mug, a smirk playing on his lips. "I've got him covered!"
Mira looked up in surprise. "You're sure?"
"Absolutely," Kuro grinned. "Guy eats like he's been through a war. I respect that."
Klaus glanced up, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Why would you—"
"No reason needed," Kuro said with a wink, his casual demeanor never faltering. "Sometimes the world's better when you do one good thing without asking why."
Mira smiled faintly and nodded before heading back to the bar. As she passed by Grayson again, she leaned in toward him, voice low, though her shock was evident.
"Uncle… who is he, Kuro?"
Grayson gave a heavy sigh, lowering his voice so no one could hear. "Most folks don't know the full story… but Kuro's one of those legends. People who think they know him don't, not really."
Mira frowned, a sense of curiosity eating at her. "What do you mean?"
Grayson looked over at Kuro, who was still drinking with the same relaxed smile. But there was something heavy behind his eyes, something that made even Grayson uncomfortable.
"He was the first one to understand his awakened abilities," Grayson said, his voice quieter. "Long before most others even knew what they were truly capable of."
Mira's eyes widened. "The Archeons..?
Grayson held up a hand to quiet her. "You're about to find out."
Grayson leaned in a bit closer, his voice dropping even further as he began explaining. "Back during the First Expanse War, we were losing. Fast. The Syndicate—the aliens—had already launched their assault, and Earth's forces, well, we were overwhelmed. The Monarchs were still a fledgling force at the time. Their Houses were barely holding together. But Kuro? He was something else."
Mira's brow furrowed as she listened, trying to grasp the enormity of what he was saying. "What do you mean?"
Grayson's gaze turned distant, his hand tightening around the mug he was cleaning. "The Archeons had started awakening by that point, but no one knew how to control their abilities—not really. But Kuro? He was different. He felt something that no one else could, something inside him clicked. He became the first person to awaken fully, to not just control his powers but to understand them. And that's when the war turned."
Mira's jaw dropped as she absorbed the significance of his words. "He turned the war?"
Grayson nodded slowly. "He didn't just fight. He understood his limits better than anyone else. He could push past what any of the other Archeons could do. He fought through every battle, not just as a soldier, but as a force."
Mira blinked in shock. "He fought like that? Alone?"
Grayson nodded again. "Yeah. While others were falling back, Kuro stood tall. He faced down their king—the leader of the Syndicate's forces—Xyrrath, the Unyielding. And not only did he survive, he crushed Xyrrath's forces in a battle that shook the very foundations of their command."
Mira's eyes widened in disbelief. "He beat The Xyrrath?"
Grayson's expression became more somber, his voice quieting as he spoke. "He didn't just win. He made a statement. He proved that no matter how strong the enemy was, humanity had a chance. And he did it alone. That's why no one knows what he's really capable of. Kuro didn't want fame, didn't want glory. He just wanted to make sure Earth didn't fall."
Mira was left speechless, absorbing the magnitude of his words. This man—this Kuro—had shaped the outcome of the war with his bare hands. The thought was staggering.
Grayson sighed, his eyes filled with a kind of quiet reverence. "That's why no one knows his full story. After the war, he disappeared. Just… vanished. Left everyone behind. No one even knows where he went, or why."
Mira was stunned, unable to tear her gaze away from Kuro, who was still seated at the bar, his back to them, seemingly oblivious to the conversation.
Mira was left speechless, absorbing the magnitude of Grayson's words. This man—this Kuro—had shaped the outcome of the war with his bare hands. The thought was staggering.
But her curiosity finally broke through the silence.
"Uncle," she asked, voice barely above a whisper, "how do you know all this? I mean… I thought he was just your usual drunk customer. You talk like you saw it all."
Grayson's eyes shifted from Kuro to Mira. His jaw clenched subtly, a shadow of old memories passing behind his gaze.
"I wasn't just speaking rumours, Mira," he said, voice low and distant. "I was there. On the front lines."
Mira's eyes widened. "What…? You never told me you were in the war."
Grayson gave a dry chuckle. "Didn't seem like the kind of bedtime story a kid should hear. But yeah. I was drafted when things got bad. Not a warrior like Kuro—hell, I was just a field engineer trying to keep the damn barricades intact."
He paused, hands tightening on the cloth he was wiping a glass with.
"One of the outposts in the northern ridge—we got ambushed by Xyrrath's raiders. Syndicate beasts, weapons we didn't understand. We didn't stand a chance."
His eyes seemed to glaze over, caught in the memory.
"I remember the heat. The smell of plasma fire melting the ground. We were all gonna die. I watched my captain get vaporized right in front of me… and then—"
He looked toward Kuro, who was still at the bar, calm as ever.
"—he came out of nowhere. One man. I thought I was hallucinating. Thought maybe death had come early and looked like some silver-haired ghost."
Grayson let out a slow breath.
"But it wasn't death. It was Kuro. And when he moved—Mira, I swear to the stars—he tore through them. Not like a soldier. Like something the Syndicate didn't know how to fight. I don't even remember when he picked me up, but next thing I knew I was twenty meters away, alive, and watching him end the entire skirmish by himself."
Mira stared at him, stunned silent.
"You mean… he saved you?"
Grayson nodded slowly. "If he hadn't shown up… I'd be ash. I owed him my life. Still do."
"You called him Kuro earlier... is that his name?"Mira asked, curious.
Grayson gave a slow nod. "Yeah… short for Kurozane."
Her brow furrowed slightly. "Kurozane...? What's his full name?"
Grayson's gaze lingered on the man across the tavern—relaxed, smiling faintly, yet exuding something dangerous beneath the surface. He spoke with quiet weight.
"Kurozane Arashi. The Sword Saint."
Mira looked over at Kuro with a new weight in her eyes—no longer just the quiet wanderer who sat at the bar, but a man with blood-soaked legend beneath his silence. A man who had saved her uncle… and never once spoken of it.