The neon signs of Seoul flickered in the rain, painting the streets in shifting colors. Jordan Kim walked alone, hood pulled over his head, his earbuds in but no music playing. He didn't need music — his mind never stopped replaying melodies he hadn't recorded yet, verses he'd never share.
He had performed earlier that night. A small venue, barely two hundred fans, but every single one of them screamed his name. To them, he was an idol — tall, handsome, mysterious. The "Lost Star." But when the stage lights dimmed, and the cheers faded, he was just another shadow wandering the city.
He felt it again — the pull in his chest. Like a vibration under his skin, low and haunting. A demon was near.
Jordan ducked into an empty alley, pulling down his hood. His reflection stared back at him from a rain-slick window: half-Korean, half-American, all confused. He looked like he belonged everywhere, and nowhere.
"Show yourself," he whispered.
The shadows rippled. A distorted figure emerged, its face a blur of smoke, its mouth twisted into a cruel grin.
"You sing for them," it hissed, "but you sing for me, too."
Jordan's jaw tightened. His fingers brushed the silver pendant around his neck — a disguised sheath. With a flick, it unraveled into the Soulblade, glowing faintly as if hungry.
"You picked the wrong fan," Jordan muttered.
The demon lunged. Jordan sidestepped, his movements sharp, almost like dance choreography. The blade cut through the air in rhythm with his breath. But tonight, he didn't just fight. He sang.
His voice rose low and steady, the melody of Nocturne Blade. The notes echoed against the walls, and the demon froze, its body flickering. Each word sharpened the sword, each lyric struck like fire.
"Shadow to shadow, fade away,
Your chains can't bind, your lies decay…"
The demon shrieked as the Moonveil Bow materialized in Jordan's other hand, strung with light. He pulled back an arrow made of sound, his voice hitting the chorus.
"I'm your Nocturne Blade…!"
The arrow flew, piercing the demon straight through the chest. It shattered in a burst of smoke and ash. Silence fell, broken only by the last fading note of his song.
Jordan lowered his weapons. In the reflection of the rain-soaked glass, he saw himself again. Idol. Hunter. Lost soul.
No one would ever know. To the fans, he was just Jordan Kim, a struggling soloist with a voice that could melt hearts. To the world of Demon Hunters, he was Vyre, a warrior who killed with sound. To himself… he wasn't sure.
He sheathed his sword, adjusted his hood, and walked back into the night. Somewhere across the city, other Demon Hunters — the girls he had only glimpsed from a distance — were fighting their own battles. They were the stars of the stage, the center of attention.
But Jordan? He was a song no one could quite understand. A voice caught between worlds.
And tonight, that voice still echoed through the rain: lost, beautiful, dangerous