Shadow Being System

Deep in the dead of night, elsewhere in the vast expanse of Military Academy Four, the tallest building loomed over the rest like a silent watchman. At its peak, behind a set of heavy, reinforced windows, sat the principal in his dimly lit office, where shadows danced in the flickering glow of a single lamp.

The man was thin, almost sickly, with a frail frame draped in a high-collared military uniform. His face, gaunt and pale, was made all the more absurd by the mustache curling at the ends—a feature that made him look less like a respected officer and more like a villain ripped straight from a child's animated film. His bony fingers clutched a pen as he meticulously reviewed documents, his eyes scanning over classified reports with a sharp, calculating gaze. A faint scent of ink and old parchment filled the air, mixing with the subtle bitterness of the tea cooling on his desk. Outside, the wind howled against the glass, rattling the windows as if the night itself conspired to disrupt his concentration.

Then, a knock—light, deliberate—echoed from the window.

The principal's brows furrowed, his thin lips pressing into a tight line. He set down his pen with an annoyed sigh and stood, his long coat trailing behind him as he walked toward the window. With a flick of his fingers, he unlatched the lock and pushed it open.

A shadow moved swiftly. A figure, dressed entirely in black, slipped inside like a wisp of smoke. The cloth covering his face left only his piercing eyes visible, cold and unreadable. His movements were fluid, almost unnatural, as if gravity had no hold over him. He landed silently, his boots barely making a sound against the polished floor. The principal's frown deepened, his fingers flexing as if resisting the urge to reach for a weapon.

The principal scowled. "What are you doing here? Didn't I tell you not to visit me unless it was important? The general is already suspicious of me."

The masked man took a slow, deliberate step forward, his gaze sweeping across the room before settling on the principal. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important."

The principal narrowed his eyes but said nothing as he returned to his chair, sinking into the plush leather. His bony fingers tapped against the armrest, irritation evident in the sharp rhythm. "What is it?" he finally asked.

"A message," the man said, his voice low and firm. "Tomorrow, when the students are on the beast planet, you must seize the opportunity to eliminate the target."

Silence filled the office, heavy and suffocating. The principal's fingers stopped tapping. His gaze darkened, lips thinning as he exhaled slowly through his nose. "You expect me to act now? I've done everything to get into this position, to infiltrate the military. And now, you're risking my cover for a single target?"

The masked man remained unfazed. "Orders are orders."

The principal rubbed his temples before shaking his head. "Why can't the heretics send an Anbu?"

"I don't know," the man replied, his tone unwavering. "Your job is to follow instructions, not question them. And make no mistake—this mission must not fail. Kill the girl, or…" He paused, leaning in slightly. "I don't know what the Cat will do to you, but I can assure you, death would be preferable."

The principal visibly tensed. The moment that name was uttered, his pale complexion became ghostly white. His breath hitched, and for a brief moment, real fear flickered in his eyes. "The Cat…?" he whispered, dread seeping into his voice.

"Yes."

A cold sweat formed at the back of the principal's neck, but then confusion clouded his face. "Wait—girl? I thought we were eliminating the Shadow Boy."

The masked man pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and placed it on the desk. With slow, deliberate movements, he unfolded it, revealing a photograph.

"There's been a change in plans. The target is her."

The principal stared at the picture, his expression shifting from confusion to frustration. His fingers curled slightly, resisting the urge to slam his fist onto the desk. "Why the girl?"

"I don't know. But it's important to the Cat. So make sure you get it done."

With that, the man turned, walking back to the window. Without another word, he leaped out, vanishing into the night like a phantom. The principal leaned back in his chair, staring at the photograph, confusion and unease swirling in his mind. "Why her?" he muttered. His fingers brushed against his temple, the weight of his orders pressing down on him like an iron chain.

__________________________

Elsewhere in Military Base Four, beneath the earth, a hidden dojo resonated with the crackle of energy. The underground chamber was vast, its walls scarred with deep dents and scorch marks from years of relentless training. A sharp scent of ozone filled the air, mingling with the sweat that dripped onto the stone floor.

Lightning flickered through the space, illuminating the figure of General Zhao. His body was coiled with raw power, muscles tense as he hurled another bolt toward the wall. A deafening crack split the air, and the impact sent debris scattering. His breath was heavy, his bare torso slick with sweat, but his stance remained firm. His training never stopped, not even in the dead of night.

Then, a presence.

Zhao stopped mid-motion, turning sharply. A shadow stood at the edge of the dojo. Your journey continues on empire

Zarin.

The air around him seemed to ripple as if the space itself acknowledged his existence. The general wiped his brow with the back of his hand, exhaling. "Let me guess—you need to leave the boy tomorrow, so you can't protect him? And you need my help to find someone to watch over him."

Zarin gave a slow nod.

Zhao smirked. "No problem. I'll send Mona. She's the only one I can spare."

Zarin inclined his head. "Thank you."

He turned to leave, his presence already fading, but Zhao called out. "If you manage to see him tomorrow, tell him to come back."

Zarin didn't turn back. His voice was barely a whisper, yet it carried through the room. "I'll try."

And with that, he was gone, leaving only the faint whisper of static in the air, as if the very energy of the room was reluctant to let him go.