Chapter 4 – The Reset
The Reset Morning
Jack woke with the taste of ash in his mouth.
For a moment, he thought he was still in the courtyard, lying on cracked stone, heat searing his skin, Iris's sword arcing down toward him. He flinched, hands raised—only to find himself staring at the plain, white ceiling of his bedroom.
His sheets clung to him, soaked in sweat. His breath rasped in and out, shallow and broken. The sound of birdsong drifted faintly through his open window. Morning light spilled across his desk, catching the edge of a half-finished homework assignment and the textbooks piled haphazardly beside it.
It was… normal. Too normal.
Jack sat up slowly, his head pounding. He rubbed his eyes, half-expecting to find them burning blue or filled with fire, but they were just his eyes. Normal brown. Dull. Human. His wrist ached, though, and when he glanced down—
The bangle was still there.
Not the faint outline of a dream. Not some trick of memory. Real. The same strange metal curves, the same runes that shimmered faintly when the light touched them. He ran his finger over it, hoping it would come loose, but it clung to his skin as though fused into him.
Jack swallowed hard. His throat was raw, like he'd been screaming for hours.
It wasn't a dream.
The World Plays Dumb
At school, things were worse.
The campus looked exactly the same as it had every other weekday morning: banners fluttering from lampposts, students clustered in groups, laughter echoing across the quad. The same cheerleaders practicing routines on the sidelines, the same sound of basketballs bouncing in the gym, the same smell of cafeteria waffles drifting from the commons.
No scorch marks.
No shattered walls.
No craters from energy blasts or sword strikes.
It was as if the courtyard battle—the soldiers, the dragon's flames, the phoenix's wings—had never happened.
Jack kept scanning the ground for cracks, for any sign of the dome of light that had sealed him in, but the pavement was unbroken, smooth. The benches were polished. The fountain at the center of the yard burbled quietly, spitting clean streams of water into the pool.
When he passed by Iris in the hallway, his stomach twisted.
She was leaning against her locker, surrounded by her usual crowd of admirers. She was smiling. Smiling. No dragon scales, no molten aura, no murderous fire in her eyes. Just a girl with perfect hair and a casual laugh that made people cling to her every word.
Her gaze flicked past Jack once. He stiffened. For a heartbeat, he thought she would recognize him, bare her fangs, drag him back into the fight.
But she didn't. She didn't even blink.
It was as if she didn't know him at all.
Ghost
He spotted Ghost during second period. She was seated two rows ahead of him in history class, her posture straight, her hand scrawling notes effortlessly across her notebook. Her dark hair shimmered faintly under the fluorescent lights, catching blue edges that made Jack's chest ache with recognition.
The same Ghost who had shielded him.
The same Ghost who had whispered, Stay with me.
She didn't look at him once.
Not when he walked in.
Not when he sat down.
Not when his pencil slipped from his sweaty hand and clattered loudly onto the floor.
Her face was unreadable, calm, like porcelain. Her eyes stayed on the blackboard, tracing the teacher's lecture on 17th-century wars.
Jack felt his throat tighten. Was it an act? Was she pretending? Or did she truly not remember?
When the bell rang and students shuffled out, he lingered, waiting for her to glance back. Just once. A flicker of acknowledgment. A spark of the girl who had risked herself to protect him.
But Ghost didn't pause. She slipped her notebook into her bag and walked out the door, her shoulders relaxed, her steps unhurried. A normal student, blending into the crowd.
Jack stood frozen in the empty classroom, his fingers clenched around the desk until his knuckles turned white.
The Pulse
It wasn't until lunch that the bangle stirred again.
Jack sat alone at a corner table, his food untouched. Around him, the cafeteria buzzed with chatter, trays clattering, soda cans cracking open. Nobody noticed the faint shimmer crawling across his skin.
The bangle pulsed once.
Jack gasped, shoving his hand under the table. His pulse hammered against the metal as the runes lit faintly, glowing a soft blue only he could see. The glow faded quickly, leaving him trembling, sweat slicking his palms.
Nobody else reacted. Nobody even glanced his way.
The world pretended nothing was wrong.
But the bangle knew.
The Whisper
That night, lying in bed, Jack stared at the ceiling again. Sleep hovered out of reach, chased away by the memory of fire and wings and the man in black's voice:
"Choices mean nothing without consequence."
He rolled over, pulling the blanket tighter. His eyes closed.
And then he heard it.
A whisper.
Faint. Soft. Not from the room. Not from outside. From the bangle.
"...Jack…"
His eyes snapped open. His breath caught. He stared at his wrist, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
The bangle pulsed once, faintly.
Like a heartbeat answering his.
The Fractures
The next morning, Jack woke with the strangest feeling—like someone had rearranged the world around him during the night.
His alarm clock blinked 6:30 AM in neon red. Birds sang outside the window. The hum of his neighbor's lawnmower buzzed faintly in the distance. Everything looked normal. Ordinary.
Too ordinary.
Jack dragged himself out of bed, every muscle tight, every nerve raw. His wrist tingled where the bangle clung, faintly warm against his skin. He tried again to pry it off—wedging a ruler beneath it, tugging at the metal until his skin reddened—but it refused to move. The runes shimmered faintly as if mocking him.
You're mine now. That was what it felt like it was saying.
The Hallway Echo
At school, the illusion of normalcy began to crack.
Between second and third period, Jack was walking down the crowded hallway when he saw it: a flash of red against the corner of his vision. He turned sharply, heart leaping.
For a split second, the world rippled.
The lockers stretched taller, shadows deepened, and a faint heat brushed his face like the breath of fire. Iris was there—her dragon form flickering like a ghostly overlay, wings half-unfurled, molten eyes blazing.
And then it was gone.
He blinked, staring at the ordinary hallway. Students milled around, laughing, slamming locker doors, shoving books into bags. No one else seemed to notice.
Jack's skin prickled. He stumbled back, nearly colliding with a passing senior.
"Watch it, kid," the guy muttered, brushing past him.
Jack leaned against the locker, heart racing. Was I hallucinating? Or… are cracks showing through this reset world?
The bangle pulsed faintly, once.
Not an answer. A warning.
The Lunchroom Rift
By lunchtime, things got worse.
He sat at his usual lonely corner table, tray untouched. His eyes wandered across the cafeteria, trying not to stare at Iris or Ghost. Iris laughed loudly with her friends, tossing her perfect hair like she hadn't tried to incinerate him hours ago. Ghost sat with a small group, calm and composed, sketching in her notebook as if her hands weren't capable of wielding a sword of living flame.
Jack pressed his palms to his temples. Maybe he was losing his mind.
That was when it happened.
The hum of conversation dimmed. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead. The air warped, heat rippling like it did before a firestorm.
And then—just for an instant—the entire cafeteria transformed.
The walls cracked and blackened. Tables splintered under scorch marks. Blood smeared the floor tiles. Shadows writhed where students sat, their faces flickering into masks and monstrous visages.
The war was there—layered over the ordinary world like a second skin.
Jack jerked upright, his tray clattering. His chair screeched against the floor, earning him stares from the tables nearby. He blinked hard.
And the world snapped back.
Students laughed, ate, chatted. No scorched walls, no blood. No monsters. Just lunch.
But the bangle pulsed again. Stronger this time.
Like a heartbeat.
The Cops
That afternoon, as Jack walked home, still shaken, a black SUV rolled slowly past the edge of campus. Dark windows. Engine low. He noticed it because it didn't belong—not in their sleepy town, not near their school.
The SUV slowed, matching his pace for a few seconds, before continuing down the road.
Inside, behind tinted glass, someone was watching. He couldn't see their faces, but he felt it. Eyes tracking him.
And for the briefest moment, as the sun hit the windshield, he saw the flash of a metallic bangle—identical to his—on the driver's wrist.
The cops.
The ones who knew.
His heart hammered. His hands trembled.
Jack wasn't alone in remembering.
The Mirror Glimpse
That night, in his bathroom, Jack leaned over the sink, splashing water on his face. He stared at his reflection, eyes sunken, hair sticking up in clumps.
"You're going crazy," he whispered to himself. "None of this is real."
But then his reflection moved.
Not a trick of light. Not his imagination. His reflection smiled—cold, sharp, wrong. The bangle on its wrist glowed bright blue, runes crawling like living fire across the mirror's surface.
Jack stumbled back, slamming against the wall.
The reflection leaned forward, its voice low and warped, echoing from nowhere and everywhere at once.
"They're watching, Jack. And the war never ended."
The glass rippled. His reflection stretched, warped into something armored, something ancient, with wings of shadow unfurling behind it. For a heartbeat, Jack saw himself—transformed, inhuman, terrifying.
And then the mirror stilled.
Only his pale, terrified face stared back.
The bangle on his wrist pulsed again, harder than before.
This time, Jack wasn't sure if it was a warning—or a summons.
The First Test
The night air was sharp, carrying the faint tang of rain. Jack lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, the bangle on his wrist glowing faintly like an ember refusing to die. Sleep didn't come easy anymore; every time he closed his eyes, visions of fire and feathers, blood and steel, clawed their way back to him.
By midnight, he couldn't take it. He sat up, pulled on his hoodie, and slipped out through the back door of his house. The town was silent, save for the whisper of wind brushing through trees. His sneakers crunched against the pavement as he walked aimlessly, trying to shake the weight pressing on his chest.
That was when he heard it.
A low hum—mechanical, alien. It cut through the silence like the growl of something unnatural.
Jack froze.
The streetlamps around him flickered, their halos dimming into a sickly blue. The air thickened, charged, as though invisible static wrapped around him. And then, ahead, the world cracked open.
A seam of light split the night air like a wound, stretching tall and jagged between two houses. Sparks spilled from it, scattering like falling stars. The sound intensified—a mixture of grinding gears and shrieking metal.
A portal.
Jack's stomach dropped. He recognized the same sickening energy from the alley.
The seam widened. Shadows spilled out first, thick and heavy, dragging across the pavement like spilled ink. Then something stepped through.
A figure cloaked in tattered green, its face hidden behind a twisted mask shaped like a griffin's beak. The emblem on its chest gleamed faintly, pulsing with emerald light. In its hand, it carried a curved blade that seemed carved from both bone and steel, jagged and alive with shifting runes.
The Green Griffin Assassin Squad.
Jack's breath caught. His mind screamed at him to run, to disappear, to do anything but stand there frozen like prey.
The masked figure tilted its head, staring directly at him. It hadn't even hesitated—had stepped through the portal as if it knew Jack would be here.
The bangle on his wrist flared. Once. Hard. The heat seared through his veins.
The Griffin Assassin raised its blade.
The Attack
Jack bolted. His sneakers slammed against the pavement as he sprinted down the street. Behind him, the hiss of steel cut through the night, followed by the heavy impact of something inhuman giving chase.
The shadows moved with it, stretching unnaturally fast, crawling across walls and sidewalks like living things. Jack's lungs burned. He turned a corner sharply, nearly slipping, and dove into an alley.
The assassin followed.
Its presence wasn't human—it was heavier, darker. Like death itself had donned a uniform.
"Stay away!" Jack's voice cracked, panic rising in his throat. He grabbed a trash can lid, hurling it back. It clanged uselessly off the assassin's blade, sparks flying.
The figure didn't flinch.
The bangle pulsed again, harder. Jack's vision blurred—his veins burning with fire. He stumbled, grabbing his wrist, the heat unbearable.
Then, for the first time, the bangle responded.
A thin layer of shimmering blue light spread from it, coating his arm in a flickering shield just as the assassin's blade came down. Steel met light, the impact rattling Jack's bones. Sparks exploded. The shield cracked but held.
Jack gasped. He hadn't even willed it—the bangle had acted on its own.
The Voice
In the chaos, he heard it.
A voice. Low, steady, echoing in the marrow of his bones.
"Run no longer. Fight."
Jack staggered back, shaking his head. "What—? Who—?"
The assassin lunged again. The blade cut downward in a lethal arc. Jack threw up his arm instinctively, and the shield expanded, deflecting the strike with a flash of light. The sound rang out like clashing bells, shattering the quiet night.
Jack's heart thundered. His mind screamed he wasn't a fighter, wasn't a soldier, wasn't anything compared to this nightmare. But the voice whispered again, steady, unwavering.
"Choose. Strike, or fall."
The bangle flared, forming not just a shield this time but something sharper. Blue light coalesced, stretching forward into the shape of a blade. Jagged, unstable, but real.
Jack stared, wide-eyed, at the sword in his hands. His breath came in sharp gasps.
The assassin tilted its masked head, as if amused. Then it charged.
Jack gritted his teeth. He didn't run.
The Clash
Their blades met. Steel against light.
The impact shook Jack's entire body, forcing him back several steps, his sneakers scraping against the pavement. His arms screamed with pain, his grip nearly breaking. But he held.
The assassin pressed harder, shadows writhing around it like chains. Jack shouted, twisting with desperation, forcing the blade aside. For the first time, he struck back—slashing wildly with the light-forged sword.
The assassin dodged easily, but the swing left a crackle in the air, a scar of blue flame that lingered for a heartbeat before fading.
Jack blinked. The sword wasn't just light. It was real.
The assassin lunged again. This time, Jack moved differently—not running, not blindly swinging. The bangle pulsed in rhythm with his heart, guiding his motion. He parried, blocked, turned aside each strike, barely—but enough.
Sparks filled the alley. Shadows clashed with light, the night erupting into war.
Jack screamed as he swung with everything he had, the blue sword slicing through the assassin's mask. The blade didn't shatter; it cut.
The assassin reeled back, mask cracked, emerald light spilling from within like liquid fire. It let out a distorted hiss, stepping away into the shadows. The runes on its blade pulsed once, then it retreated, dissolving into mist.
The portal reopened behind it. In seconds, the assassin was gone.
Only silence remained.
Aftermath
Jack fell to his knees, chest heaving, the sword of light flickering before dissolving into sparks. His arm throbbed, the bangle pulsing faintly now, like a satisfied heartbeat.
He'd survived.
No—he'd fought.
Jack looked down at his trembling hands. He'd never held a real weapon in his life, but tonight… he had wielded one. The voice still echoed faintly in his ears.
"Run no longer. Fight."
He swallowed hard, staring at the dark alley around him. Somewhere above, he thought he saw movement—a shadow perched on the rooftop. Watching.
The Green Griffin wouldn't forget him. Neither would the others.
The test was over. But the war had just begun.
The Watchers
The alley still smelled of scorched metal and shadow. Jack stumbled out, wiping sweat from his forehead, heart still rattling in his chest. His arm throbbed where the bangle pulsed, and the faint outline of the light-sword lingered in his vision even though it had faded minutes ago.
He was about to collapse against a wall when the sound of tires screeched at the far end of the street.
Jack froze.
A black vehicle rolled into view—sleek, unmarked, but far too armored to be anything but military. Its headlights cut across him like interrogating spotlights. The vehicle slowed, then stopped.
The door opened.
Three figures stepped out, their boots crunching on the wet pavement. They didn't look like cops—not the ones Jack knew. They were clad in dark tactical gear that shimmered faintly under the streetlamps, each with a glowing bangle of their own strapped across one wrist. Unlike his, theirs were older, heavier, with cracks of different colors running through them like veins of lightning.
Jack backed up, pulse spiking. More assassins?
But no—these weren't like Iris or Ghost, nor like the Griffin. Their movements were efficient, professional. They weren't hunting. They were… surveying.
The tallest of the three, a man with close-cropped gray hair and a scar running down his left cheek, spoke first.
"Subject's alive." His voice was calm, clipped. Authority wrapped in steel.
Jack blinked. "S–Subject? What—who the hell are you?"
The man didn't answer immediately. He just studied Jack with sharp, calculating eyes that saw far more than they revealed. Finally, he tilted his head.
"You've been marked."
Jack's mouth went dry. "What?"
The second figure—a woman with her hair braided tight, her eyes cold but not unkind—stepped closer. The faint glow of her crimson bangle flickered as she lifted a handheld scanner from her belt and waved it over Jack's wrist. The device beeped violently, pulsing red.
"Confirmed. Energy signature matches. He's bonded."
Jack instinctively hid his wrist, clutching it against his chest. "Bonded? I didn't—I don't even know what this thing is! It just—" He cut himself off, remembering Ghost pressing it into his hand, her desperate whisper: It will protect you.
The woman's gaze softened slightly. "It's protecting you, yes. But it's also painting a target on your back."
The third figure, younger than the others, leaned casually against the vehicle. He had an easy grin that didn't quite mask the sharpness in his eyes. "Kid doesn't even know what he's carrying, does he?"
Jack snapped. "Then tell me! I've almost been killed twice in two days! What is this? Who were those things? Why—"
"Enough."
The gray-haired man's command silenced the alley. He took another step toward Jack, his presence heavy, unwavering.
"What you saw tonight wasn't an accident," he said. "The Griffin didn't stumble across you. It came for you because of that." He pointed at Jack's wrist. "That bangle doesn't belong to them. It doesn't belong to us either. It's older. Wiser. It chose you."
Jack's stomach knotted. "Chose me…? For what?"
The man's gaze hardened. "For war."
The Silent Accord
The words hung in the air, heavy and absolute. Jack shook his head. "No. No, I didn't ask for this. I didn't choose any of it! I'm just—"
"You're just a kid," the younger man said, almost kindly, though there was pity in his smile. "That's what makes it worse."
The woman lowered her scanner, her expression unreadable. "We can't keep him unprotected. If the clans know, the others will come. They won't stop."
The gray-haired man studied Jack, then finally nodded. "Agreed. We bring him in."
Jack stepped back instantly. "Bring me in where? No—no way! You're not dragging me off like—like I'm some kind of experiment!"
The younger man chuckled. "Relax, kid. We're not the bad guys. Not compared to what's out there." He gestured vaguely toward the shadows above the rooftops. "We're the only reason the rest of your pretty little city wakes up every morning without knowing it's built on a battlefield."
Jack's skin crawled. The words echoed Ghost's warning. If you knew what lay under the surface, you wouldn't sleep at night.
"Why me?" Jack's voice cracked. "Why not someone else? Why not—you guys? You look like you know what you're doing!"
The woman answered softly. "Because none of us were chosen."
Her words silenced him.
The gray-haired man finally extended his hand—not in kindness, but in command. "Come with us, Jack. Or the next time the Griffin comes, we won't be there in time."
Jack stared at the outstretched hand. His chest tightened. He could still feel the weight of the bangle, the phantom burn of the sword of light in his grip. He thought of Iris's blade inches from his throat, of Ghost's desperate voice.
He didn't trust these people. But he didn't trust the night, either.
And somewhere above, in the shadows of the rooftops, something was watching. He could feel it.
His choice might not matter.
Because in this war, choices seemed to be made for him.
The Briefing
The ride was silent.
Jack sat in the back of the armored car, squeezed between the woman with the braided hair and the younger man with the smirk. Neither spoke. Neither looked at him. The only sound was the hum of the engine and the faint whine of some system buried deep inside the vehicle's panels—too advanced to belong to any police cruiser Jack had ever seen.
He kept his arms wrapped around himself, clutching his backpack like it was a shield. His wrist burned where the bangle pulsed faintly, the glow dim but stubborn. Every time he tried to cover it with his sleeve, it bled through the fabric like living fire.
The woman's gaze flicked to it once. Just once. Enough to remind him that she saw everything.
Finally, the car slowed. The younger man leaned forward, tapping the glass divider. "We're here."
The gray-haired driver didn't reply. He pulled the car into a shadowed tunnel, one Jack hadn't even noticed at the side of the city's river embankment. The walls closed around them—brick, then steel, then a ripple of blue light as they passed through a scanner. Jack felt it crawl over his skin like a phantom hand, every hair on his arms standing upright.
The tunnel ended in darkness.
Then the floor sank.
Jack's stomach lurched as the car descended on some hidden platform, lowering them into depths beneath the city. When the descent stopped, the walls parted, revealing…
Jack's jaw went slack.
It wasn't a garage. It wasn't a bunker. It was something between a war room and a cathedral.
The space was massive, stretching farther than his eyes could follow. Black stone and steel intertwined, the ceiling supported by arches carved with symbols he didn't recognize. Ancient. But running through them like veins were threads of glowing energy, pulsing in time with his bangle.
Screens hovered in the air, suspended by nothing, each flickering with images of city streets, battle recordings, and fragments of data that moved too fast for him to track. Tables held weapons—some guns, some swords, some things that looked like both. And along one wall stood cases of bangles. Dozens of them.
Some cracked. Some burned. Some humming faintly, like sleeping hearts.
Jack's breath caught.
The older man stepped out of the car first. "Out," he said simply.
Jack hesitated, then followed. His sneakers squeaked faintly on the polished stone floor.
The younger man smirked at his wide-eyed stare. "Welcome to the Watchtower."
Jack swallowed. "What… is this place?"
The gray-haired man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked to the center of the room, where a circular table stood. Its surface rippled like liquid metal as he placed his palm against it. The table glowed, projecting an array of holograms into the air—maps, clan insignias, battle reports.
Only then did he look at Jack. His eyes were steady. Measured. "This is the last wall between your world and theirs."
The woman spoke, her voice low but precise. "The clans fight every night. They bleed into the streets, tearing the city apart. But by dawn, the Reset erases the evidence. The world wakes clean. Normal. Oblivious."
Jack's throat was dry. "But… why don't I forget? Why doesn't anyone else notice?"
The younger one tilted his head. "Because you're not like 'anyone else,' kid. You bonded."
Jack held up his wrist instinctively, the bangle pulsing faintly. "With… this?"
The woman's gaze hardened. "That is no toy. No gadget. It's one of the First Relics. Fragments of the original forge. When one chooses, it does not unchoose."
Jack's stomach turned. "But I didn't want this! I was just walking home! I didn't ask to be part of your… your secret war!"
The gray-haired man's voice cut like a blade. "Neither did we."
Jack froze.
The man rolled up his sleeve. On his forearm, under the faint glow of his own silver bangle, was a scar—thick, jagged, running the length of his arm. The skin shimmered faintly, as though burned by something not entirely of this world.
He lowered the sleeve again. "We've been fighting since before you were born. Cleaning up their mess. Containing the Reset. Making sure the world doesn't collapse under battles it was never meant to see."
The woman stepped closer to Jack, her eyes cold but not unfeeling. "And now, you're part of it."
Jack's voice shook. "I don't even know who 'they' are."
The younger one smirked, gesturing at the holograms above the table. Ten insignias spun in the air—dragons, phoenixes, griffins, serpents, and others Jack didn't recognize. Each glowed with faint color, shifting as though alive.
"The Ten Clans," he said simply. "Each one older than history. Each one desperate to be the last standing. And guess what? You just pissed off two of the deadliest—Red Dragon and Blue Phoenix."
Jack's chest tightened. He thought of Iris's fury. Ghost's blade. Their words in that strange half-English, half-Japanese code. Their fight. Their eyes.
The woman's voice was quiet. "They won't stop now. They've marked you. You are no bystander. You are a target."
Jack stumbled back a step, clutching his wrist. "Then take it off me! If this thing makes me a target, just—just get rid of it!"
Silence.
The gray-haired man shook his head. "If it were that simple, you'd already be dead."
Jack's breath caught. "What does that mean?"
The man's eyes locked onto his. For the first time, something flickered there—curiosity. Maybe even unease.
"It means, Jack…" he said slowly, "that the Relic didn't just choose you. It's protecting you."
Jack's pulse pounded in his ears.
The younger man leaned in, grin sharp. "You know what that means, don't you, kid? You're not just another pawn in this game. You're the piece everyone's been waiting for."
The woman finished the thought, her tone flat. "The clans will burn the city to the ground before they let you live."
Jack's legs felt weak. He wanted to scream, to run, to wake up in his bed and laugh at this nightmare. But the weight of the bangle on his wrist told him there would be no waking.
Somewhere, far above, beyond stone and steel, he could almost feel it—eyes still watching. Shadows waiting.
The war had found him.
And it wasn't letting go.
Echoes in the Watchtower
The holograms dimmed. The room grew heavy with silence, and Jack found himself standing in the middle of too many stares. The three officers—the gray-haired commander, the woman with braids, the smirking younger man—watched him like he was both a child and a bomb waiting to go off.
"Why me?" Jack asked finally. His voice cracked despite himself. "Out of everyone… why me?"
The commander folded his hands behind his back. "We don't choose the Relics. They choose. That's all we know."
Jack shook his head. "That's not an answer."
The younger man smirked. "Kid, if you want answers, you'll have to earn them." He tapped the holographic table. "Simulation. Level one."
The table shifted, rippling like water. Light rose into the air, weaving shapes until Jack stood not in a war room, but in the middle of a ruined street. Flames licked at broken cars. Shadows darted across rooftops. A voice in the air spoke words in an old tongue, and when Jack turned, he saw them—two figures locked in battle, faster than his eyes could follow. One wielded a sword that glowed blue, the other a spear of red flame.
It was Ghost and Iris.
"No," Jack whispered. "This is—this is last night."
"Not last night," the woman said quietly. "Every night. For centuries. Different wielders, same battle. The Reset wipes it from the world, but we record fragments. Ghost and Iris are only the latest to inherit the mantle."
Jack's stomach tightened. "Inherit…?"
"Bloodlines," the commander said flatly. "Clans trace their power back to the Founding. It never dies. It only passes on."
The simulation flickered, showing other battles—other assassins. A green griffin tearing through a building. A serpent coiling around a skyscraper. A warrior of shadow splitting into dozens of copies. Each fight ended the same way: chaos, blood, and then nothing.
The younger man leaned closer. "So tell me, Jack. Still think you're just an unlucky bystander?"
Jack's fists clenched. He wanted to deny it. To scream. But the bangle pulsed on his wrist, matching the light of the holograms. Like it was… alive.
"Enough," the commander said. The simulation blinked away, returning them to the Watchtower's cavernous war room.
The woman turned to Jack. "You'll need training. If you're to survive another night, you cannot afford to be weak."
Jack flinched. "I'm not a fighter. I've never even… I don't…"
She tossed him something. A blade. Short, curved, faintly glowing. He fumbled, nearly dropping it.
Her gaze was sharp. "Then learn."
They took him into a smaller chamber—walls lined with old weapons and glowing runes. The woman sparred with him, striking fast but controlled. Jack swung wildly, clumsy and desperate. She disarmed him in seconds, knocking him flat.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Every time, Jack lost. Every time, the blade clattered from his hand. But the bangle never dimmed. Instead, on his tenth fall, as he scrambled to his feet, something happened.
The blade in his hand pulsed. His grip steadied. For one brief instant, his swing cut faster than his eyes could follow—sparks of blue light trailing its edge.
The woman froze. The commander narrowed his eyes.
Jack blinked, breathless. "What… what just—?"
The bangle flickered once, then went still.
The commander's voice was low, grave. "He's not just chosen."
The younger man finished it. "He's awakening."
Chapter 5 – The Normal Mask
The cafeteria smelled like grease and burnt fries. Normally, Jack barely noticed. Today, every sound felt sharpened—every laugh too loud, every tray clatter like a blade being unsheathed.
He grabbed his food mechanically, drifting toward his usual table. His friends were there—Matt, Sarah, Taye—all chattering about homework and last night's basketball game.
"Dude, you look wrecked," Matt said, eyeing Jack's pale face. "Stay up gaming again?"
Jack forced a laugh. "Something like that."
But his eyes were scanning. Always scanning.
That girl with the wing earrings was sitting with a group near the vending machines. When she laughed, the air seemed to ripple faintly around her, like wind stirring invisible feathers.
Two boys with serpent pins were at the back table. Their eyes glowed faintly green under the fluorescent lights. No one else noticed.
And then—Ghost.
She sat at a nearby table, uniform perfect, posture regal. She bit into an apple like she had all the time in the world. But every so often, her gaze slid toward Jack, calm and unyielding.
Across the room, Iris leaned against the soda machine, crimson eyes half-lidded but alert. Her mere presence made the air feel hotter, heavier.
Jack's fork trembled in his hand. He wasn't just paranoid. He was surrounded.
The worst part? No one else seemed to notice.
Sarah nudged him. "Jack, you good?"
He opened his mouth to answer when it happened.
A tray clattered nearby. A group of students strode past, uniforms crisp, movements sharp. They wore small insignias stitched into their jackets—emerald feathers, gleaming faintly.
The Green Griffin squad.
Their leader, a tall boy with silver hair streaked green, paused mid-stride. His eyes locked on Jack's. Cold. Assessing. Then, without breaking gaze, he smirked—just slightly—and tapped his chest where his insignia was sewn.
A silent message. We see you.
Jack's throat went dry.
Ghost's eyes flicked to them. Iris straightened from the soda machine. For a single tense heartbeat, the entire cafeteria felt like a powder keg, ready to explode.
But then the Green Griffin squad walked on, their laughter too casual, too sharp. To anyone else, it looked like nothing. To Jack, it was a warning.
He forced himself to breathe. Forced himself to laugh at Matt's joke. Forced himself to act normal.
But his food tasted like ash, and his heart wouldn't stop hammering.
Chapter 6 – The First Hunt
The Green Griffin squad moved like hunters, their boots scraping lightly against the alley pavement as they circled. The neon glow from a nearby ramen shop bled across their faces, making their emerald insignias glint like fresh-cut glass.
Their leader, the silver-haired boy, twirled his blade lazily. "Last chance, Jack Rivers. Give us the bangle."
Jack clutched his wrist. "I—I can't! I don't even know what it is!"
The boy smirked. "Then die with it."
He lunged.
The world blurred—steel singing through the air. Jack barely had time to flinch when a wall of sapphire flame slammed between him and the squad, scattering sparks across the asphalt.
Ghost landed in the firelight, her blade raised. The phoenix-shaped hilt pulsed blue as if alive, its mystic inscriptions glowing. Her cloak fluttered in the night breeze, eyes narrowed at the squad.
"You're out of your league," she said coldly.
The leader chuckled. "The phoenix dares to guard her toy? Cute."
Four blades gleamed green in the dark. They attacked all at once.
Steel rang. Ghost spun, parrying two at once before kicking off the alley wall, slashing downward in a blaze of azure fire. The heat licked Jack's skin, and for a heartbeat he thought the whole alley might ignite.
The squad was fast. They split like a flock of birds, emerald wings of light unfurling briefly from their backs as they darted to the rooftops. They struck from above, from the sides, their blades singing in the air.
Ghost met them head-on, every clash of her sword bursting sparks and flame. She moved with lethal grace, her strikes precise, each swing like a meteor burning through the night sky.
Jack stood frozen. His body screamed to run, but his legs wouldn't obey. The fight was everywhere—blades flashing, energy pulsing, the air itself alive with heat and pressure.
One of the squad broke through, landing near Jack. His blade gleamed inches from Jack's face.
"No!" Jack shouted, raising his arm.
The bangle flared.
A barrier of light erupted outward, emerald and blue, catching the assassin's strike mid-swing. The shockwave blasted him backward into a trash bin.
Jack gasped. His wrist burned like fire. The symbols across the bangle shifted, glowing in rapid succession—lines rearranging like they were unlocking something.
The Green Griffin leader's eyes widened. "Impossible. That bangle—"
"Jack!" Ghost's voice cut through the chaos. "Focus! Don't let it take control!"
But it was too late.
The bangle pulsed again, and a second energy wave surged. Not just a shield this time. A phantom blade of light unfurled from Jack's arm—translucent, shimmering, inscribed with runes he didn't understand. It vibrated with power, so heavy it nearly dragged him down.
Jack staggered. "I—I can't—!"
The leader's smirk returned. "So it's true. He's the key."
He launched himself forward, emerald blade clashing with Jack's phantom one. The impact rattled Jack's bones, sparks raining. He almost collapsed under the force, but the blade moved for him, guiding his arms in instinctive parries.
For a heartbeat, Jack was fighting. Really fighting.
But the strain was unbearable. His muscles screamed, his vision blurred. Each clash felt like lightning tearing through his veins.
Ghost's blade swept in, intercepting the leader's strike before it could finish Jack. She shoved him back with a burst of sapphire fire, her cloak whipping in the heat.
"That's enough," she growled.
The squad regrouped, perching along the rooftops like predatory birds. The leader's emerald eyes glittered with hunger. "We'll be back, Rivers. And next time, no phoenix will save you."
With that, the Green Griffin squad dissolved into shadows, their laughter echoing across the night.
Jack collapsed against the wall, gasping, clutching his burning wrist. The phantom blade flickered, then dissipated into sparks, leaving only the smoldering bangle.
Ghost knelt before him, eyes sharp but voice steady. "You awakened it. Too soon."
Jack swallowed hard. "W-what the hell is happening to me?"
Ghost looked at him in silence. Then she sheathed her blade. "Come. You deserve answers."
Chapter 7 – Ghost's Confession
The observatory dome groaned under the night wind, its cracked glass reflecting broken fragments of the moon. Jack sat on a rusted bench, clutching his burning wrist. His pulse hadn't slowed since the battle, and every time he blinked, he saw flashes of green blades and blue fire colliding.
Ghost leaned against the railing, her posture calm, but her aura thrummed with restrained energy.
"The bangle isn't just a shield," she said finally. "It's a relic—an Echo Relic. Forged long before our time. A bridge between magic and technology."
Jack frowned. "You keep saying 'relic' like it's some museum piece. But that thing nearly ripped my arm off."
Ghost's eyes softened for the briefest moment. "That's because you're untrained. It's like handing a sword to a child. The blade doesn't care who holds it—it only cuts."
He swallowed. "So… I'm supposed to just live with this thing on my arm?"
"You don't live with it," Ghost replied. "You learn to master it—or it consumes you."
Jack's mind spun. A few hours ago, his biggest worry had been finishing his math assignment. Now, ten different assassin clans wanted him dead. He stared at Ghost's face, searching for answers.
"Why me?" he whispered.
Her silence lingered long enough that Jack thought she wouldn't answer. Then she said, "Because the bangle chose you."
Jack's pulse spiked. "You keep saying that like it means something. Chose me for what?"
Ghost exhaled slowly, her voice dropping lower. "The Echo Relics aren't just weapons. They're fragments of something greater. When brought together, they don't just grant power. They rewrite fate itself."
Jack's eyes widened. "Rewrite… fate?"
Ghost nodded. "And that's why the clans want you. The Red Dragon seeks to burn the future clean. The Green Griffin wants dominion. The others… each with their own twisted vision. If any of them control all the relics, the world bends to their design."
Jack felt the ground sway beneath him. "And me? What part do I play in all this?"
She turned to him, and for the first time, her steel mask cracked. "You are the unknown. The one fate never accounted for."
Jack's chest tightened. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the bangle on his wrist flickered. The runes pulsed—one after the other—until his vision blurred.
The world shifted.
Jack's First Vision
He was no longer in the observatory. He stood on a battlefield drowned in fire and smoke. The sky was torn by rifts of red and blue, dragons and phoenixes colliding above him. Soldiers in futuristic armor and samurai robes clashed with laser blades and rune-etched halberds.
In the center stood ten figures—each clad in the colors of a clan—surrounding a single warrior cloaked in shadow. The shadow figure raised a blade of light, its glow identical to the phantom one that had manifested from Jack's wrist.
When the shadow spoke, its voice was Jack's own.
"You will all kneel… or fall."
Jack gasped and stumbled back into reality. He clutched his chest, trembling. Ghost was at his side instantly, steadying him.
"You saw it, didn't you?" she whispered.
He nodded shakily. "That… that was me. I was there. But… wrong. Dark."
Ghost's expression tightened. "That's the other danger of the relics. They don't just unlock power. They reveal what you might become."
Jack's breath came quick and sharp. He wanted to argue, deny it, but the vision's weight clung to him like chains.
Ghost's hand lingered on his shoulder, firm but grounding. "Listen, Jack. No matter what you saw, no matter what fate whispers—you choose who you become. Remember that."
Her voice was fierce now, almost desperate.
Jack looked at her, and for the first time, saw not just the assassin but the person behind the mask. Someone who carried her own visions. Someone who didn't want to be alone in this fight.
But in the ruined shadows of the observatory, crimson eyes gleamed. Iris leaned casually against the stone, her crimson blade humming faintly.
"So the phoenix finally shows her heart," she whispered, smirking. "How adorable."
She lifted her sword, crimson fire licking along its edge. "But I'll carve the boy's fate myself."
The night wind carried her words into the dark, unheard.
The Cops with Bangles
The city wasn't blind.
Long before Jack stumbled into the assassin war, the strange battles had been noticed. Burn marks on rooftops. Alleyways scarred by unnatural blades. Corpses that disappeared before dawn.
Most dismissed it as urban legends. But not everyone.
At the far edge of the city, inside a nondescript precinct building, a different war room came alive. Screens lit up with flashing red markers, tracking residual energy spikes across the districts.
"Another flare, sir. Sector Twelve," an officer reported, pointing at the map. "Blue-fire signature. Same as before."
Captain Reyes, a broad-shouldered man in his forties, leaned over the console. His wrist glinted with a bangle—not emerald, not sapphire, but steel-gray, etched with protective sigils.
"Ghost," he muttered. "And if she's moving, the kid's with her."
Around him, five other officers adjusted their coats, each revealing similar bangles. Unlike the assassins', theirs weren't built for offense. Their relics hummed with shielding auras, designed to survive where others burned.
A younger officer frowned. "Captain, shouldn't we move in? Secure the boy before the clans do?"
Reyes shook his head. "We're not hunters. We're the line between their world and ours. If we pull him too soon, we paint a target the size of the moon on his back."
Another officer scowled. "So what? We just let him keep dancing between death squads?"
Reyes' eyes hardened. "We watch. We wait. And when the time comes, we'll make sure the kid lives long enough to decide which side he's really on."
He adjusted his coat, stepping toward the window that overlooked the city's glowing skyline.
"But mark my words," he muttered. "The balance is shifting. And if the clans break the rules…"
The steel-gray bangle on his wrist pulsed once.
"…then the cops stop watching and start fighting."