Arknight : The Rise of The Grand Detective

I can't deny it—I'm a little scared.

Outwardly, I'm calm, composed. But inside? There's a knot of unease twisting in my gut.

"I should stop worrying. Besides, my abilities will cover for me."

Perfect immortality. Complete cellular manipulation. A mere bullet isn't enough to kill me.

But the pain? The pain is another matter entirely.

I exhale slowly, fixing my gaze on Xiaolan. Her hands tremble around the sniper rifle, though she's trying desperately to steady them.

The dark circles under her eyes are faint, barely visible beneath layers of makeup, but they're there.

A mark of sleepless nights, of grief that never settled.

"Listen to me, Xiaolan," I say, stepping closer.

"The moment you pull that trigger, the revenge you've been chasing your whole life will slip through your fingers."

Death—it's the easiest punishment for criminals.

A quick release. No reckoning, no suffering. Nothing left but the hollow grief of those who remain.

"I know Justice failed you."

She flinches. I can see it—the wavering in her stance, the fracture in her fury.

I take another step forward.

"But I can help you get the revenge you deserve."

Xiaolan's breath hitches.

Then, in a flash, she swings the sniper rifle toward me.

"And why the hell should I trust you?"

Her voice is raw, barely containing the rage simmering beneath.

"Do you have any idea how long I've waited?" she spits, her grip tightening. "

For months, they lied to me. Let me believe my brother was alive."

She straightens, her anger solidifying into something colder, something sharper.

"For years I held on, clinging to their words like a fool."

I know.

Victims taken by gangs don't last long.

They're blackmail material—nothing more. Once they've served their purpose, they disappear. Forever.

"It's true," I admit.

" I don't know how you feel."

Because how could I? How could I possibly grasp the depth of her loss?

The weight of her suffering?

All I can do is watch her, read the grief carved into every movement, every breath.

"But I do know this—you deserve something more than a bullet in their skulls."

Another step. I'm close now. Mere inches away from the rifle's muzzle.

"That's why I need you to listen to me."

Xiaolan swayed, her strength finally giving out as she collapsed into my arms.

Even now, she fought against the darkness threatening to take her, forcing herself to stay conscious. Stubborn to the very end.

"You've done enough."

I lifted her with ease, her body light but burdened with suffering.

The air carried the faint scent of sweat, and exhaustion.

Inside a nearby building, I laid her down on a worn-out couch, her breath shallow but steady.

She had fought long enough. It was time someone else carried the weight.

I turned on my heel and stepped back into the night.

***

Varen Baronsmith

A name that commanded fear.

Once a lowly loan shark, clawing his way through the filth of Lungmen's underworld, Varen had built an empire—brick by bloody brick. Drugs, women, power.

If it could be bought, he owned it.

Now, he stood on the balcony of his lavish club, a cigarette smouldering between his fingers, the neon glow of the city reflecting in his cold, calculating eyes.

Below, his kingdom thrived.

The music pulsed through the floor, women twirled under golden lights, and desperate men gambled away their last scraps of dignity.

He exhaled a plume of smoke, stepping back inside.

A god. That's what he would become. A legend that even Lungmen's filthiest gutters would whisper about.

With a satisfied grunt, he dropped into a leather chair, reaching for a bottle of Baron's Reserve '76—an old classic, rich, smooth, a drink worthy of a king.

The glass was halfway to his lips when he noticed it.

A man.

Seated across from him, uninvited, unapologetic.

A stranger in a double-breasted overcoat, dark hair slicked back, crimson eyes glowing like embers in the dim light.

A small book rested in his gloved hands, his fingers idly turning the pages.

Varen scowled.

Who the fuck—

His mouth moved, but no sound came out.

His chest tightened.

His throat burned.

He tried again—nothing.

Panic clawed at his ribs as he gasped for breath, but his body refused to obey.

His pulse thundered in his ears.

He reached for his phone, for a gun, for anything—his fingers barely twitched.

His gang—his people—surely, they'd notice.

He turned, eyes wild, searching for his men.

And then he saw it.

Every single person in the bar—his guards, his dancers, his guests—sat frozen in place, heads slightly tilted, eyes wide open.

But they weren't looking at him.

They weren't looking at anything.

Because their pupils were gone.

Just blank, lifeless orbs staring into nothing.

A cold dread curled up Varen's spine. His tail twitched involuntarily, his ears straining for any sound beyond the suffocating silence.

A chuckle.

Low, quiet, hollow.

"You must be scared."

The man across from him spoke, his voice soft, almost amused, but dripping with something else.

Something wrong.

Varen's breath came in short, desperate bursts.

"Look around," the man continued, turning a page in his book.

"A room full of people, and yet... you're completely alone."

The air was suffocating now.

"Shall we begin?"

The book snapped shut.

Varen's ears twitched violently, his body betraying his terror.

Howard leaned forward, eyes gleaming.

"Let's recount your sins, shall we?"

The words slithered through the air like poison.

"Trafficking minors. Running brothels filled with girls who never got to leave. Selling them off like cattle when they lost their use. Drugging clients, turning them into addicts, bleeding them dry before tossing them into the gutter. Oh... and let's not forget your little 'side projects'—a cocktail of chemicals so vile, even the filthiest rats of Lungmen wouldn't touch it."

Howard smiled.

"You really thought you were untouchable, didn't you?"

Varen wanted to scream. To plead. To do something.

But his body refused to move.

Howard reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small pill.

"Open wide."

Varen's jaw snapped open against his will.

His teeth clattered, his tongue trembled, but he couldn't fight it.

Then—blackness.

A sudden, suffocating void.

And Varen Baronsmith blacked out.

***

A gasp. Then a ragged, shuddering inhale.

Varen's eyes flew open.

His vision blurred, his body jolted upright, but something held him down. He struggled, limbs thrashing, but thick, unyielding restraints bit into his wrists and ankles.

White.

Everything was white.

The walls, the ceiling, the floor—endless, featureless, suffocatingly sterile. No doors, no windows, no escape.

His breath came in frantic gasps, heart hammering wildly as he forced himself to look ahead.

And there he was.

Howard.

Seated casually in a chair that hadn't been there a moment ago, legs crossed, fingers idly tapping against the armrest. Watching. Waiting.

"You're awake."

Varen swallowed, his throat dry, voice shaking.

"W-where… Where the fuck are we?"

Howard leaned forward, resting his chin on his knuckles. "

"Your mind."

Varen's breathing stuttered.

"A dreamscape, if you will. A little realm within that thick skull of yours.

Quite spacious, though terribly dull. But don't worry—"

Howard smiled, something wrong curling at the edges of his lips.

"I've redecorated."

A chill ran through Varen's spine, his body instinctively trying to shrink back—only to be reminded of the restraints holding him still.

Howard stood, his polished shoes clicking against the floor as he approached, hands in his coat pockets.

His crimson eyes glowed under the stark white light.

"You see, Varen," he mused, "your body… fascinated me. So, I made a few adjustments."

Varen's blood turned to ice.

"W-what do you mean?"

Howard ignored him, stepping closer, eyes gleaming.

" Seeing your memories ,you were always a survivor, weren't you? Clawing your way up from the gutters, enduring hardship, adapting. So, I thought—why not push that talent a little further?"

He crouched, lowering himself to Varen's level.

"From now on, every breath you take will feel like your lungs are burning from the inside out. Every movement will grind your bones against each other until they splinter. Your skin—ah, your wonderful skin—will become twenty times more sensitive. The lightest touch will feel like knives dragging across your flesh."

Howard tilted his head, voice still smooth, almost conversational.

"Of course, I made sure your heart won't give out too quickly. No sense in letting you escape into death so soon."

Varen's breath hitched.

The pain came almost instantly.

A searing agony in his chest, like breathing in fire.

His wrists trembled against the restraints, but the movement sent a sickening crack through his arm, white-hot pain exploding through his nerves.

He screamed.

A raw, wretched sound, his body convulsing, fighting against itself.

"Please!" he sobbed.

"I-I can give you anything! Money, power—fuck, I'll even turn myself in! Just—just make it stop!"

Howard's expression remained unchanged, impassive.

"Too late for that."

The white void seemed to stretch endlessly around them, swallowing Varen's cries as the pain devoured him whole.