Rain still slicked the streets, turning neon lights into fractured reflections on puddles below. The city had quieted after the previous night's chaos. Most eyes were elsewhere—few noticed the ghost moving between shadows, silent as a whisper, invisible as mist.
He crouched atop a rooftop, muscles coiled, gaze scanning the narrow alleys below. Reports had mentioned a small gang of mana-infused rats in the warehouse district. Low-level, yes, but dangerous in numbers. The kind of target that sharpened reflexes without drawing undue attention. Perfect for early progress.
"You sure you want to waste your time on vermin?" the gauntlet whispered in his mind, its tone tinged with amusement.
"Better than drawing attention from people who actually matter," he replied, eyes narrowing. The alley below was dark, filled with crates and abandoned carts—the perfect hunting ground for creatures that thrived in shadows.
The gauntlet pulsed against his hand, a subtle heartbeat of awareness. With a flick, the metal shifted into a thin, shimmering barrier along his forearm, enough to deflect stray sparks of mana from the rats' small attacks. It was not a weapon yet, just a shield, waiting for command.
He leapt from the rooftop, landing with silent precision on a stack of crates. Muscle memory guided his movements—the placement of feet, the swing of arms, the slight twist of the wrist—all flowing as naturally as hammer on steel. A motion he no longer remembered learning, yet one that felt like breathing.
The first rat lunged, claws glinting with faint mana. He struck, and the gauntlet rippled, forming a blade-like edge along his forearm. The creature collapsed silently, a faint trail of blue sparks fading into the wet alley floor. The next two followed the same fate—each strike precise, efficient, almost artistic.
"Still got it," the gauntlet said softly, almost proud.
He ignored it. Focus was all that mattered. Survival depended on it.
After the last rat fell, he stepped back, letting the gauntlet retract into the simple form of a glove. To an outsider, it was nothing. To him, it was everything—alive, aware, and ever-watchful.
"You remembered the swing," the gauntlet commented, its voice teasing now.
"Muscle memory," he muttered, flexing his fingers. He did not know why the motion felt so natural, only that it had. Buried deep inside him, under the haze of forgotten memories, the rhythm of forging and fighting still lived.
The city above him hummed softly with life. Neon signs flickered, casting shifting shadows that made the streets seem alive. Somewhere, in the distance, a train roared past. Somewhere else, a mage practiced in secret, unaware of the shadow that hunted below. The ghost in the alley observed it all, silent, detached, yet strangely connected to every pulse of the city.
"Do you ever wonder who we were?" the gauntlet asked suddenly, voice quieter now, more serious.
He stared at his hand, at the living metal hugging his arm. The question lingered, unspoken, dangerous. Memory had betrayed him, leaving only instincts and this weapon. Who was he before all this?
The answer did not come. Not tonight.
He moved again, silent as before, vanishing into the wet streets, a shadow among shadows. Every strike, every maneuver, every pulse of mana was another step closer—not just to survival, but to the fragments of himself he had yet to reclaim.
And as always, the gauntlet whispered: "Don't forget… we're not alone."