Beneath the ancient catacombs of the forgotten Shrine, lit only by the blood-hued glow of cursed lanterns, nine shadows sat in silence.

These were no ordinary men and women.

They were The Hollow Nine—

Traitors to the Shinrei Law.

Masters of manipulation.

The forgotten puppeteers of history.

A soft drip of water echoed through the cavernous dark as the council sat in a perfect circle—

Each throne carved from obsidian, each presence stained with blood.

Then, a voice sliced through the silence like a blade through silk.

A man leaned forward—

Orange hair falling like fire across his brow, fingers laced as if in prayer.

"Vernara Village," he said, voice cold as steel.

"So it failed."

A chuckle answered him.

A white-haired young man, his slicked-back strands gleaming under torchlight, spun a knife on his finger. His smirk was wide, amused, cruel.

"Tsk. I even puppeteered dear Raiquen just right," he muttered.

"Played him like a lyre strung with grief… and still…"

He clicked his tongue.

"…those rebels didn't finish the job. Such a waste."

Across the circle, a green-haired woman tilted her head slow, snake-like.

A serpent tattoo coiled up her neck, its ink seeming to slither with her breath.

She did not speak. She never did. But her gaze unblinking, hungry spoke volumes.

Behind her stood a towering blue-haired brute, his back turned halfway, revealing the sigil that branded his loyalty—

A massive black whale, mouth open in a silent scream across his spine.

He grunted.

"I told you relying on emotion would ruin it. The Shinrei are more unpredictable when their hearts are at war."

Next to him, a twitchy figure giggled.

Painted like a clown, his cheeks were smeared in red and blue, eyes wide with madness.

Metal threads jutted from his wrists, fingers dancing through them like a puppeteer to unseen marionettes.

"But pain makes the world dance!" he chirped, voice shrill.

"And didn't Raiquen just perform beautifully at the end? Suicide—BOOM! That was my favorite part!"

A scarred man stood behind him, yellow hair in jagged spikes, his face marred by deep gouges.

His arms were folded. His stare? Cold.

He muttered one word only

"Cringe."

The clown blinked.

"H-Huh?"

"You talk too much," growled the scarred man.

In the shadows, one sat cross-legged, head shaved and seared with burn scars that made

his features hard to look at.

His skin glistened with old trauma. His silence was a sermon.

Beside him, a black-haired man sharpened a curved dagger.

His bangs covered most of his face, and the blade in his hands thrummed with cursed energy, as if eager to drink blood.

Finally—

All eyes fell to the center.

A man sat in absolute stillness.

Pink wolf-cut hair framed his pale face, and his fingers gently touched the stone floor as if he were seated upon a throne.

His eyes glowed in the dark—

A triple hue of orange, red, and black.

The colors of chaos. Of destruction. Of Void.

He whispered, voice low and even:

"The bloom has delayed the rupture."

A pause.

"But the root of the Shinrei still rots. And now…"

He opened his eyes fully.

"They're vulnerable."

The clown man gasped.

"Oooooh… are we finally doing it?"

He stood, arms wide, spinning.

"Operation Bloomcull?! Can I call it that? Please, please—"

"Silence."

The pink-haired man didn't raise his voice—

But the very pressure in the chamber twisted.

The stone walls groaned. The light dimmed. Even the brute with blue hair, who had stood with an unshakable presence moments ago, instinctively took a step back. The green-haired woman's snake tattoo coiled tighter as if sensing danger.

The clown-faced man, who had moments before cackled like a fool, slowly—almost involuntarily sat down, his body trembling beneath unseen weight.

The leader didn't smile.

He didn't need to.

His fingers hovered above a small pedestal resting gently on a pulsing orb.

The orb was pitch black, like liquid void. Inside it swirled corrupted Shinrei energy, thick and alive like smoke trapped in glass. Whispers radiated from it half-screams, half-chanting, as if souls were caught inside.

He whispered, and the whole room listened.

"No… We won't."

A pause.

"We've already achieved our goal."

He raised the orb slightly—just enough for the dark light to catch everyone's eyes. Reflections of madness and hunger danced in their pupils.

"This…" he said, tilting the orb just so.

The white-haired man whistled low, spinning his knife on one finger. "That's it, huh? The real prize?"

"It's only a matter of time now," the pink-haired man continued, eyes glowing orange, red, and black in succession like a ticking countdown.

"Before a new war begins."

The orb pulsed once.

And somewhere in the distance, a rift stirred.

…

Meanwhile — Makinji Kenj.

A man with shaggy, unkempt hair, his posture perpetually slouched as though even gravity was too much of a bother for him.

A bamboo toothpick hung lazily between his lips, shifting only when he spoke or yawned. His crimson coat looked like it had been slept in for days, sleeves half-rolled, collar crooked.

Around him stood several members of the Veinwalker team—uneasy, shifting from foot to foot.

Once, he had been Eclipse Vanguard, a name that carried weight in both whispers and warnings. Now he wore Crimson colors not because he'd been demoted, but because he'd asked to be left alone.

Lazy. Uninterested. But undeniably dangerous.

He stood at the edge of what was once the Village of the Dusksurge.

The air was thick with the smell of ash and something far worse—the stench of Void corruption.

Homes were nothing but broken frames. The stone paths were cracked, scorched, and bleeding a faint violet mist from the seams.

At the center of it all—

A rift.

Its jagged edges tore the air itself apart, purple and black light spilling out in waves. And from it…

Voidborn. Dozens of them, writhing shapes and monstrous silhouettes crawling into the world.

Makinji let his eyes narrow just enough to look mildly annoyed.

"...What is this?"

His voice was slow, almost bored, but there was a weight under it an irritation he didn't bother to hide.

A Veinwalker stepped forward nervously.

"Sir, it looks like… the entire village—"

"Gone," Makinji cut in, flicking his toothpick slightly with his tongue.

"Yeah, I can see that."

Another pulse from the rift sent dust swirling across the ground.

One of the Voidborn roared, its voice like metal grinding against bone.

Makinji sighed.

Long. Heavy. As though the universe had just handed him an errand he didn't want.

"...Shit. This is annoying."

He rolled his shoulders, neck popping once, eyes finally sharpening—

Just a fraction.

Because when Makinji Kenj decided to move…

It meant things were about to end very, very fast.

To be continue