They left the headmaster's office without ceremony, the heavy doors closing behind them like a verdict. The corridor beyond smelled faintly of wax and old paper; the academy's stone walls held the dusk's cool against their backs. For a long moment they walked in step—Valkara's boots a soft metronome, Coil's hands shoved deep in his pockets, Chrona's shoulders taut enough to press a shadow into the air.
Finally Valkara broke the silence. Her voice was careful, low. "Chrona—" she began, then stopped. The apology was there before she finished it. "I'm sorry for dragging you into that… for making this messy with unconfirmed data."
Chrona's reply was a small, almost brittle smile. "We weren't wrong to act," she said. "Better to move on a hunch than to do nothing while students die." She folded her hands in front of her and kept walking.
Coil gave a short nod, arms folded behind his back. "She's right. And on that note…" His eyes narrowed, and his tone sharpened. "Chrona, there's something you need to know. Whisper—he's alive. And he's working with Glass Fang."
Chrona stopped mid-step. Her boots scraped against the floor. For the first time in years, her composure cracked.
"…What did you just say?"
Coil didn't flinch. "Whisper didn't die during Operation Black Dusk, eight years ago. The same operation that—"
But Chrona had already grabbed him by the collar, her fist twisting his coat and pulling him close. Her golden eyes blazed with fury.
"Where did you get that information?" Her voice was low, dangerous, shaking not from weakness but from tightly leashed rage. "That was classified. Top-level management only. A-rank clearance at minimum. That operation was buried. Answer me, Coil."
Valkara stepped in, raising a hand. "Chrona. Calm down."
Coil raised his palms in surrender, though his gaze stayed locked on hers. "We ran searches. Dug into every villain dossier linked to Glass Fang. Whisper's file was blocked, classified and firewalled too aggressively. So we breached it. Without permission."
Chrona's grip tightened. "You breached—"
"Valkara knew," Coil cut in. "She searched with me. And we barely scraped fragments. Enough to confirm two things: Whisper survived. And you, Chrona… were there. You were a participant in Black Dusk. A survivor."
At that, Chrona froze her face moved through a handful of colors—anger, fear, shame, something like resignation. Then, slowly, she released him. Her hands trembled before she stuffed them into her coat pockets, her jaw tight.
"This," she muttered, her voice colder than the air around them, "just became a major problem. One that won't wait."
Valkara looked at her intently. "Then tell us. As an A-rank hero yourself, what happened back then? Why does even the name Whisper shake you like this? What is he capable of?"
Chrona was silent. Her eyes flickered, shadows of memory passing across her features. For a long moment, it seemed she might refuse. Then, finally, she spoke.
"…Black Dusk wasn't a mission. It was a massacre. Casualties fell heavy on both sides—heroes and villains alike. And Whisper… he was at the center of it."
She told them everything.
The hall grew quiet as she spoke, her words carrying the weight of blood-soaked history. Valkara's face paled, lips parting in disbelief. Coil's usual calm cracked into visible unease.
When Chrona finished, the silence was suffocating. Both of them stared at her, shaken.
Chrona straightened her coat, her composure returning in sharp, clipped edges. "If Whisper has allied with Glass Fang, we don't have the luxury of hesitation. He must be captured, or killed on sight. If we fail…" She exhaled, her tone final, heavy as a verdict. "…then a new Overlord will rise. And when that happens, the world won't survive the storm he brings."
* * *
In the lexicon of the Hero Bureau, one word carried more weight than any other.
Overlord.
A term reserved for villains who had clawed their way into the S-rank stratosphere. To be an Overlord was to wield enough power to carve mountains, flood cities, and scorch nations. They weren't just criminals. They were walking catastrophes. Few existed, and fewer still dared oppose them.
And yet… in a world ruled by the Bureau, there would always be places beyond its reach. Places where even light could not touch. Those shadows were the dominions of the Overlords.
Four nations already bore their mark:
North Korea — a sealed-off dictatorship under the iron grip of The Red Warden, an Overlord whose prison was the entire country.
Somalia — stripped of a government, carved into shards by Warlords, B-rank villains staking claim with blood and steel.
Venezuela — broken by a hero civil war, now a corpse picked clean by villains.
Myanmar — strangled by The Serpent Crown, an A-rank syndicate with ambitions of more.
The map of the world was no longer just geopolitical. It was territorial. Villains had carved borders into the earth itself.
And if Whisper rose to join them, if he claimed the title of Overlord, then America—the so-called fortress of heroes—would fall.
That was the fear written on every face in Chrona's office.
The three of them had shifted from the sterile halls into the shadow-draped chamber where Chrona conducted her work. The silence hung heavier here, pressing in on the walls until Valkara finally asked:
"…What rank was he? Whisper, I mean."
Chrona leaned back in her chair, her fingers laced together. Her voice was steady, but her eyes betrayed unease.
"A-rank. Before Black Dusk, he was a Tyrant that controlled countless syndicates across America. His influence was… cancerous. And then the operation gutted him."
Coil exhaled sharply. "Not gutted enough." He leaned forward, his tone sharpened like a knife. "But here's the thing. Whisper isn't leading Glass Fang. Their leader isn't registered at all. She goes by the alias Nyxshade."
Chrona's brow furrowed, her mind immediately working. "…You're saying Whisper's aligned with her?"
"Aligned, or playing puppet master," Coil replied flatly. "But Nyxshade isn't the only unregistered player. Bleaktide and Hexdrive—they're ghosts too. All three are new uprising villains. On paper, they shouldn't exist. And yet here they are."
Valkara crossed her arms. "That makes no sense. Why would Whisper—an A-rank Tyrant with aspirations toward Overlord—tie himself to rookies? Eight years gone, power stripped, and now he resurfaces with a pack of unknowns? The math doesn't add up."
Chrona's jaw tightened. "It's not supposed to."
Coil's voice dropped to a near-whisper. "…Unless he doesn't intend to rise again himself. Unless he's trying to raise them. To nurture these new villains into Overlords of their own."
The words settled like a toxin. Even Valkara's calm faltered.
"That possibility…" she muttered, "…is nightmare enough. It means he's playing a longer game than we imagined. And when it reaches its end…" Her gaze hardened. "…there will be rivers of blood. Heroes. Villains. Civilians. None will be spared."
Chrona looked away, her reflection caught faintly in the glass pane of her office window. The city outside bustled with life, oblivious to the storm looming overhead.
"The Bureau won't be ready," she said at last. "Not for this. Our ranks rot from within—heroes serving their own interests, corrupt deals in daylight, shadows in every corner. We'll eat ourselves alive before the first blow lands."
Coil's eyes narrowed. "And what of him? The World Guardian? The Bureau's precious S-rank savior. Does he intervene—or does he sit on his throne and watch while the world burns?"
No one answered.
The silence was heavier than any reply.