By sovon444
Chapter One: The Return
The transport plane groaned as it descended through thick gray clouds. The young soldier stared through
the scratched window, eyes empty, hands trembling slightly from years of tension and training. His uniform
bore no name tag. It never had. He had always been a shadow, even to his own comrades.
He stepped onto his homeland's soil for the first time in years. Nothing had changed, yet everything felt
wrong. The city's neon signs blinked like nervous eyes. Billboards showed polished politicians with plastic
smiles. Underneath the glitter, something rotted. The country had moved on—but not forward.
He walked through streets that stank of fear and money. He saw young women flinch when officials walked
past. He saw mothers glance at cameras, then whisper warnings to their daughters. The system he had
once fought for was now the monster lurking in their shadows.
Chapter Two: The First Truth
Two weeks after his return, the soldier found a hidden story—something buried beneath layers of fake
headlines and bought silence. A girl, only seventeen. Drugged, raped at a political rally in a coastal town.
She had tried to scream but no one heard her. The man accused was a minister's nephew. Security guards
erased phone footage. Local police said she "was drunk."
Her name trended on social media for one day. Then, silence.
He visited her town. Her father, a schoolteacher, had been jailed for "slandering public officials." Her mother
walked like a ghost, clutching a photograph of her child. The girl was in a coma. The hospital's report was
altered. When he saw the CCTV backups destroyed, he knew this wasn't an isolated case.
Then came another: A college student who had testified against a local MP during a protest. Two days later,
she was found dead in a staged car accident. The autopsy was faked. The media reported it as "reckless
driving."
Another. A journalist named Trisha Dey. She ran an exposé on a political trafficking ring. Her apartment was
burned. Her body never found.
Another. An NGO worker poisoned.
Another. A whistleblower, stabbed forty times in public, while police "looked the other way."
He didn't speak. He simply started building.
In a sealed basement, he created a drug. One he had dreamed of during long, bloody battles. A serum to
harden muscle fibers until they were denser than Kevlar. When he injected it, his veins bulged. His pulse
thundered. Bullets no longer tore through him—but the impact still made him stagger.
He built a bow. Not a weapon. A monster. 450 pounds of draw weight. Only his chemically-enhanced arms
could pull the string. It fired arrows through concrete, steel, flesh. Silent. Deadly.
He crafted explosives from scrap—sleek, magnetic, reliable. He assembled drones with night vision and
facial recognition. His small army of machines could map a city block in seconds
Chapter Three: First Hunt
The first man never heard him coming.
He was a local lawmaker with five known complaints buried in sealed files. He hosted parties for his elite
friends—young girls often never came home.
A rooftop. A drone. A silent arrow punched through a glass window and buried itself in the target's throat
during a televised interview. Blood sprayed across campaign posters.
News called it a freak accident. The people whispered. The rich and powerful began to sweat.
He left no message. No symbol. No name.
But that night, thousands lit candles for the unnamed vigilante
Chapter Four: War in the Shadows
He struck again. And again.
A judge who freed a serial offender for "lack of evidence"—his car exploded on the way to court.
A police chief who ran an underground brothel—found pinned to a wall with six arrows in his chest.
A media mogul known for silencing stories—thrown through his penthouse window, a drone camera
recording the fall.
Drones flew overhead like silent ghosts. Explosives dismantled armored convoys. Politicians vanished
overnight. Bulletproof cars melted under fire.The soldier didn't just hunt rapists. He hunted systems. Judges who freed known offenders. Cops who
buried evidence. Doctors who forged reports. Tech firms that censored truth. Bankers that laundered hush
money.
In the alleys, whispers grew: "He's not human." "He can't be stopped." "He's not killing. He's cleansing."
He watched. From rooftops, alleys, dark corners of forgotten buildings. He saw how fear shifted power. He
didn't need to speak. His arrows screamed for him.
But at night, when he stared at his hands—burned, trembling, bloodied—he wondered: Was he becoming
the very thing he swore to destroy?
Chapter Five: The Chase
Police drones finally caught a glimpse of his silhouette during an ambush in a government complex. A task
force mobilized overnight. The state declared him a terrorist. National emergency measures followed. City
wide lockdowns began.
The media ran a new headline: "Shadow Killer Linked to Foreign Espionage."
Protestors who chanted his name were arrested. Families who praised his actions were interrogated.
Journalists were threatened again.
But the people didn't stop hoping. His arrows had given them something the state could never buy—
courage.
He kept hunting. But the war was no longer clean. He missed shots. Got caught in traps. Lost two drones in
a tower collapse. His body carried scars like war medals. The serum that made him bulletproof also
weakened his sleep, eroded his nerves. He bled.
But he didn't stop.
Chapter Six: The Last Rain
It was a monsoon night when they finally cornered him.
A safe house compromised. Five drones scrambled to blind the thermal cameras. But this time, they had
dogs. Heat sensors. Helicopters.
He stood in the storm. Bow drawn. Arrows spent. Blood dripping from a gash on his shoulder.
The city trembled.The police closed in. Slowly. Cautiously. As if afraid the myth might wake.
He raised his hand. Not to surrender—but to show them something.
A memory drive. Thousands of files. Victim names. Crime footage. Court transcripts. Government emails.
He tossed it into the rain.
One officer caught it.
By the time they looked back up, he was gone.
Vanished. Like he had never existed.
Final Line: Justice never needed a name