Darrius had never believed in the art of the impossible.
Abilities had limits. Rules. Logic.
And yet, the people standing before him were doing the impossible—again and again. What had once been unthinkable was becoming more common as the years passed, and that truth irritated him more than anything else.
"What exactly makes it impossible?" Darrius asked.
The orange-blond–haired man didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached into his bag and pulled out several photographs.
Darrius stepped forward to get a better look.
His eyes widened—then narrowed.
Annoyance flared.
"So if I'm understanding this correctly," Darrius said, slamming his hand against the table, "you found the guy and decided to run a full photo shoot?"
The pictures showed the same man—Damien—over and over again. Different uniforms. Different locations. Different factions.
Same face.
"Darrius, you don't know how long—"
The woman cut herself off with a small smile. "Now why would we come back to you without results?"
She stood, sweeping all the photographs into her hands before pinning them to the board in front of the meeting table with quick, practiced movements.
"No, Glenn," she said lightly, sitting back down. "You tell him."
Glenn rose from his seat, adjusting his posture.
"Alright. Here's what we know," he began. "Each of these photos was taken through our guard connections across the factions. We made sure multiple guards took the pictures so suspicion wouldn't fall on any single one—at least not yet."
He pointed to the board.
"Dawn. Black Halo. Evolaris. Even the Broken Veil."
Darrius's jaw tightened.
"He's in every faction," Glenn continued. "Sometimes as a background guard. Sometimes as a low-tier recruit. Every time, he slowly works his way up until he becomes a direct guard."
Glenn turned to Darrius.
"Be honest with me. If you didn't already know about his ability… do you really think you would've found him?"
"Yes," Darrius answered instantly.
The lie was obvious.
Glenn and the woman exchanged a brief glance. Darrius's ego wouldn't let him admit the truth.
Glenn continued anyway.
"Moving on. Based on what we've gathered, he likely has a limit to his cloning."
He reached into his bag again and pulled out another photograph, pinning it beside the others.
This one was different.
The person looked like Damien—but younger. Smaller. A child.
"Using my connections," Glenn said, "I found information on this kid. If the data's accurate, he's the newly adopted son of the Dawn faction."
Darrius studied the photo closely.
"What makes this relevant," Glenn went on, "is the timing. This kid appeared the day after you discovered and killed one of Damien's clones. That means he created this one either the same day… or the day after."
He paused.
"And yet, his background is airtight. Records say he was born ten years ago. School files. Medical data. Everything checks out."
Glenn's finger tapped the board.
"Except one thing. There's no record of his parents. No deaths. No disappearance. Nothing explaining how he became an orphan."
Silence filled the room.
"So," Glenn asked, "should we inform the factions? Tell them they've been infiltrated?"
"No."
Darrius's answer was immediate.
A slow, unsettling smile spread across his face—one that would have driven any sane person away.
"We let Damien stay exactly where he is," Darrius said. "Let him keep doing what he's been doing."
His eyes gleamed.
"We're one step ahead now. We know who to watch."
A knock echoed through the room.
All three of them stiffened.
Darrius opened the door. A scientist stood there, tablet clutched tightly in his hands.
"S-sir," the man swallowed, "I think we've got your answer about what—"
"Great," Darrius yelled, escorting the man out of the room. "I'll handle this. Keep tabs on him."
His mood had improved dramatically. For once, he wasn't completely in the dark while the factions ran wild. He had a grip on the situation—tightening by the second.
As he strode down the corridor, Darrius glanced down at the scientist walking beside him.
"Give me the long story, short version," Darrius ordered.
"Ahem." The man cleared his throat nervously. "We ran full scans on all the gemstones. Two of them showed abnormalities. Their power wasn't forced or stolen—it's more like they were… given away."
Darrius stopped walking.
"Which gemstones?" he asked as they entered the containment chamber.
"Bluey and Inky," the scientist replied. "We weren't sure how at first, but we believe we know why now. We reviewed the security footage and scanned the opposite side of the portal."
He hesitated.
"We didn't get much, but we confirmed two things. First—there was someone on the other side. An Evolver. The readings were clear."
"And second?" Darrius pressed.
The scientist looked away for a brief moment.
"Don't slow down now," Darrius growled, looking down at him. The pressure in his voice made the man clutch his tablet tighter.
"…They're compatible," the scientist finished.
A vein pulsed in Darrius's forehead.
"And what does that mean?" he demanded. Just when one problem resolved, another appeared.
"We believe," the scientist said carefully, "that the gemstones have hosts. Predetermined ones."
Darrius's eyes narrowed.
"They can't be used to their fullest without them," he muttered.
"Actually… incorrect, sir," the scientist said quietly. "We can't use them at all without the host."
For a split second, Darrius looked ready to kill him.
He stopped himself.
"I want you to track where that portal led," Darrius said in a low, controlled tone. "See if we can follow it."
The scientist didn't hesitate. He hurried off, clearly afraid Darrius might change his mind.
Darrius stood alone.
"I don't know why," he murmured, a slow smile forming, "but something tells me this all leads back to Damien."
His smile widened.
"And when I get my hands on him, I'll end him with my bare hands."
Anyone nearby instinctively stepped back. No one wanted to be close when Darrius looked like that.
⸻
In a massive hall, a man with red-bleached hair and a lean, well-trained body walked calmly past rows of guards. Their armor resembled that of medieval knights—like warriors from the Round Table.
"Sir Clad!" one knight shouted, snapping into a salute.
"At ease," Clad said with an easy smile.
This was Clad—the leader of the Dawn faction. It explained the reverence.
"How is he doing?" Clad asked.
The knight held a wooden sword. Nearby, a young boy—Damien's newest clone—was on the ground, clutching his head where he'd just been struck.
"He's doing incredibly well, sir," the knight said. "Especially for his age. It's like he has muscle memory… though something still seems to be holding him back."
Clad nodded thoughtfully.
"Thank you. I'll take it from here," he said. "Leave me and my son."
The knight saluted again and quickly returned to his post.
Clad looked down at the boy.
"I'm guessing the thing holding this body back is you," Clad said gently. "You kept your soul in there, didn't you, child?"
He smiled—an expression that was rare when it came to Damien. This was different. Special.
No child's corpse had ever been used in the process before.
And Clad loved that he could see his son in this child's innocent eyes once again.
"My name isn't Damien, it's—"
Clad cut him off.
"It's whatever your parents named you," he said softly. "I know this much—your parents died, and we're giving you a second chance. You died… and we felt bad."
He knelt, holding out his pinky.
"Let's make a promise. Stay here with us for a while, and we'll make sure your parents' bodies are returned to you. You'll have full control. No influence from us."
The warmth in Clad's smile made the boy hesitate—then trust him.
Their pinkies linked.
"Good," Clad said.
A vibration buzzed on his wrist.
A hologram appeared, showing a man's face.
Damien—or one of his clones.
"I've got the results," the man said. "I'm sending the video now."
The call ended.
"I'll be back," Clad said, standing. "My son."
As he walked away, the boy whispered—
"I'm not your son."
Clad walked toward his office.
No one was allowed to enter without his permission.
The moment he stepped inside, he closed the door behind him. The room sealed itself completely—no windows, no cracks. The top and bottom of the door locked tight, ensuring not even a trace of light could escape.
Darkness claimed the space.
The only illumination came from a single candle resting on the desk, its flame flickering softly, shadows stretching and warping along the walls.
Clad sat down and tapped the face of his wristwatch.
A low hum filled the room as a hologram bloomed into existence above the desk. A video began to play.
"That's my boys," Clad murmured.
A smile spread across his face—warm, proud. Like a father watching his sons win their first real fight.
But what played before him wasn't a fight.
It was a massacre.
Riven moved through the footage like a storm, lightning glowing and surging around his body as he carved through men with his sword. Bodies dropped one after another, blood painting the floor. Even while engaging Crow, Riven never slowed.
Another angle shifted into view.
Jordan faced Darren.
Ink bled into reality, forming weapons and shadows as explosions tore through the space. Jordan pushed himself past his limits, relentless, methodical.
Clad watched without blinking.
"So this is their reaction, huh?" he said softly.
His smile widened.
"I guess they really loved you that much."
With a flick of his finger, the hologram changed.
The footage vanished—replaced by the image of a man lying motionless on a hospital bed. Tubes ran from his body, machines humming steadily beside him.
The reason.
The sole reason Jordan and Riven had slaughtered the entire Sunriot gang.
Clad leaned back in his chair, candlelight dancing across his face as he continued to watch.