The light there was faint, as though the darkness itself held a certain reverence for that place.
A vast hall pulsed with the echo of quiet footsteps; its walls were adorned with ancient carvings that seemed to swallow every sound.
At its center stood a high throne of black stone, gleaming with a cold, eerie sheen.
Upon it sat a man whose features seemed sculpted from silence — eyes sharp as blades, a presence so commanding that even a whisper met with fear.
No one dared to speak.
No one dared even to breathe without the permission of that silence.
One of his men pushed open the great doors and spoke in a low voice:
"Ardo has arrived."
Ardo approached with resolute steps, each one striking the ground as if the earth itself trembled beneath him.
He entered the hall with force; the doors shuddered as they closed behind him.
His stride was swift and sure, burning with a controlled fury, as though he were carving a path straight toward the throne itself — eyes blazing with a fire he barely contained.
He stopped abruptly at the center of the hall and shouted, his voice tearing through the stillness:
"Zylon! There was a Special-Rank user there! Did you know that and send us deliberately?!"
His words ricocheted off the stone walls, and the air thickened with anger.
The other men remained silent, their eyes locked on the throne, waiting for Zylon's reply.
Then came a short whistle from one of them, followed by a smirk.
"I think he's in a hurry to die," he murmured, amused.
The man on the throne did not move.
He merely smiled — a slow, mocking smile — as though Ardo's rage were too insignificant to stir his interest.
Ardo clenched his teeth until his jaw trembled.
When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse, heavy with wrath:
"Berma died because of you. You'll pay for this — dearly. Just wait."
He turned without waiting for an answer, his steps echoing with grim determination as he strode toward the exit.
On the throne, Zylon's smile remained — cold, untouched.
He raised his hand lazily and gestured to one of his men.
Behind him, the shadow of the man Zylon had sent began to move — silent, deliberate, unseen.
Then, without warning, the man drew a dagger and plunged it into Ardo's back.
Pain tore through him.
He turned, eyes wide with shock and confusion, meeting the assassin's icy stare.
The man's expression did not change.
"Zylon's orders," he said quietly, almost with indifference.
Ardo fell to the ground, dragging himself toward the edge of the bridge, gasping, each movement wringing a muffled cry from his chest.
The man watched in silence, then stepped closer — and stabbed him again, and again.
Ardo's screams broke through the night before fading into silence.
With a final, merciless kick, the man sent him over the bridge's edge.
Ardo's body slipped soundlessly into the dark — motionless, gone.
Far away, beneath the dim moonlight over the damp streets of Shanghai, a tall man with white hair and dark sunglasses walked steadily through the sparse crowds of the side streets.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
He answered.
A voice spoke from the other end:
"There are reports of power users aboard the ship docked at the harbor… You're to bring them in."
The man stood still for a moment, expression unreadable, eyes reflecting both weariness and calm precision.
Finally, he nodded once.
"Understood."
He put the phone away, lifted his head, and exhaled quietly — as though the news itself were a burden he had no desire to carry.
At the harbor, the ship had finally docked, trembling slightly before settling still.
The passengers stood motionless, as if unable to believe they had truly arrived.
Their faces were pale, eyes unfocused — haunted by memories of a journey that refused to end.
Slowly, they began to move, unsteady on their feet.
Some whispered; others stared blankly at the ground, walking like survivors of a dream too dark to recount.
Outside, the noise of police and dockworkers filled the air — questions, reports, orders — all blending with the smell of salt and fuel.
Even now, a shadow of the fear that had ruled the sea still clung to everything.
Among the crowd, Adam pushed forward, gripping his wife's hand tightly, while Barwen guided the children behind them, trying to keep them steady amid the confusion.
"Don't stop," Adam whispered tensely. "Don't look back. Just stay close."
They had taken only a few steps when a firm voice called out behind them:
"You there… stop!"
Everyone froze.
Time itself seemed to halt.
Sweat trickled down Adam's temple, and Barwen felt his chest tighten.
Adam turned slowly, forcing calm into his features, while his wife clutched their daughter's hand until it hurt.
The officer watching them looked exhausted, but more wary than suspicious.
"You look like hell," he said, studying their faces. "Were you on that ship?"
Adam nodded mutely.
The officer sighed, drew a small card from his pocket, and handed it over.
"Take this. The relief agency will help you. We still don't know what really happened out there, but…"
He hesitated.
"…the stories we've heard… impossible to believe."
He glanced at the children, his tone softening.
"I hope your lives are quieter than your voyage."
He walked away, his boots fading into the noise of the port.
For a long moment, the family stood motionless, hearing nothing but their own heartbeats.
Adam inhaled deeply.
"Let's go. Before anyone else starts asking questions."
They left the harbor quietly.
Adam hailed an old taxi near the gate, and they climbed in wearily — the children half-asleep in the backseat, Barwen sitting beside them, eyes heavy with exhaustion yet alert.
Nareman leaned her head against the cold windowpane, watching the city lights drift by, reflections trembling across the glass.
Her pale face looked distant, as though belonging to someone already half-lost.
Her thoughts pressed in, heavy and suffocating.
It's only a matter of time before they get to us… The question is: when?
The car rolled through the mist-draped streets, the night wrapping the city in a gray hush.
Inside, silence reigned — the silence of survivors who knew their survival was not yet over.
Back at the harbor, calm had returned.
The police were finishing their work, clearing out the last of the passengers.
A black car stopped near the dock.
The man with white hair stepped out.
He moved slowly toward the ship, his eyes gliding lazily across the scene, as if he weren't truly searching at all.
He lifted a hand, closed his eyes for a moment — sensing, listening, reaching.
For a trace of energy.
A whisper of power.
A breath of fear still warm.
Nothing.
He opened his eyes and smiled faintly, a quiet, relieved amusement in his voice: 'Ah… just as I expected… nothing. What a waste.'
He pulled a small communicator from his pocket, pressed a button, and said coolly,
"No sign of any power users. Looks like the report was false."
He paused, listening, then added with a cold smile,
"Yes. I'm absolutely certain."
Closing the device, he turned to the sea, gazing at its black expanse.
"If they're still alive…" he murmured,
"…we'll meet soon."
Then he walked away — his footsteps fading into the distance, swallowed by the wail of sirens and the fading murmur of the harbor.