Arknight : The Rise of The Grand Detective

The wind tore through the skeletal remains of Chernobog, a city reduced to ash and whispers.

lexander stepped off the creaking transport, her boots grinding against the fractured pavement.

She stood tall, her silver-blue hair pulled into a tight ponytail that swayed slightly in the gusts.

Her all-black suit and pants clung to her frame, sharp and unyielding, though the fabric bore faint creases from travel.

Scars etched her skin—jagged lines peeking from her collar, her left cheek—each a silent testament to battles past. Ahead, an Ursine police officer loomed at the checkpoint, his matted fur bristling against the cold, his eyes hollowed by fatigue.

He thrust out a paw, his voice a low growl.

"Papers. Now."

Alexander met his gaze, unflinching, and reached into her jacket.

"Easy there," she said, her tone calm but edged with steel.

She produced a thin stack of crumpled notes—currency that barely passed for legal tender in this forsaken place—and pressed them into his paw.

"This should cover it."

The officer's claws curled around the notes, his snout twitching as he sniffed the air.

"You think this buys you a free pass?" he rumbled, eyeing her scars with suspicion.

"What's a woman like you doing in a graveyard like this?"

"Passing through," she replied, her voice smooth as ice.

"Chernobog's got nothing left to scare me off. You?"

He snorted, a plume of breath misting in the frigid air.

"Ain't my job to care. Just don't cause trouble. trouble."

His paw hesitated, then withdrew as he stuffed the notes into his coat. He waved her through the checkpoint with a grunt.

"Go on, then. Detection's half-dead anyway."

The gate buzzed faintly as she passed, its lights flickering like a dying pulse.

Alexander didn't look back. Chernobog had fallen hard, its vigilance rotting alongside its streets.

The city sprawled before her, a hollow shell of its former self. Buildings sagged like broken men, their windows shattered, their. walls scorched by the memory of fire and despair.

The Incident—spoken of only in hushed tones across Terra—had gutted Chernobog, leaving nothing but the husk of its past.

She adjusted the strap of her suitcase and pressed forward, her scarred hands steady.

Her destination was a worn-out motel, its neon sign stuttering "Vacancy" in defiance of the dark.

She pushed through the door, a feeble bell jingling overhead.

The receptionist, a wiry woman with gray-streaked hair and a cigarette. dangling from her lips, glanced up from a tattered magazine.

"One room," Alexander said, her voice cutting through the stale air.

The woman exhaled smoke and slid a key across the counter.

"Don't expect much. Food, electricity, basics. That's it. No luxuries here, girl." Her tone was flat, worn thin by repetition.

Alexander nodded, taking the key—Room 13. She turned toward the hallway, the floorboards groaning under her weight as she climbed the stairs. The air reeked of mildew and Regret.

Her room was as promised: old, sparse, functional.

The walls peeled, the bed sagged, and a faint hum came from the single lightbulb overhead.

She flicked the switch, and the light sputtered to life, casting a sickly yellow glow.

The sink dribbled water that ran brown before clearing to a passable gray. She set her suitcase against the wall and sank into a rickety chair, its legs wobbling beneath her.

Her eyes caught on something unexpected: a chessboard, perched on a small table. in the corner. Dust coated the pieces, but they were intact, carved with care.

She rose and brushed her fingers across the board, recognizing the figures—not standard pawns and kings, but symbols of Reunion, the fractured movement that had torn Chernobog apart.

Taluha, the cunning Queen.

Patriot, the unyielding King.

Frostnova, the swift Knight. Mephisto, the sinister Bishop.

Skullshatterer, the brutal Rook. A game frozen in time.

She sat before it, her mind igniting.

Chess had always been her refuge, a battlefield where chaos bent to her will. She reset the pieces, claiming the white side—Reunion's foes—and began to play against an invisible opponent: her own shadow.

Howard enjoyed playing chess. He used to play it whenever he had free time. He was inspired by one particular person. As a psychology student, that individual was essential to the research that went on even after he left.

Bobby Fischer.

So she began like he did.

Opening Move: Pawn to E4.

The gambit began simply, a pawn stepping into the void. Alexander's thoughts drifted to Freud's id—raw instinct driving her into this game, this city. She countered with Reunion's pawn, mirroring her move. A dance of symmetry.

Move 5: Frostnova to C3.

The Knight leapt forward, bold and unpredictable, like Jung's trickster archetype. She pictured Frostnova's icy resolve, her relentless strikes.

Reunion responded with Mephisto, the Bishop slithering diagonally, a serpent in the grass. "Cunning little devil," she muttered. "You think you see everything."

Move 12: Taluha to H5.

The Queen surged forth, commanding the board with ruthless grace. Alexander leaned back; her pulse quickening. Taluha was ambition unbound—Nietzsche's Übermensch, free of restraint.

She countered with her own Rook, Skullshatterer's twin, slamming into position.

"Strength alone won't save you," she whispered; her voice a blade.

The game escalated; pieces falling like soldiers in Chernobog's streets. She played with ferocity, channeling Bobby Fischer's relentless precision, each move a psychological thrust.

Her mind churned, a storm of fragmented thoughts.

Reunion isn't one enemy—it's a hydra. Cut off a head, and another grows. Patriot stands tall, but he's a symbol, not the root. Frostnova strikes, but she's fleeting. Mephisto schemes, yet he's fragile. Taluha… Taluha is the heart.

Climax: Move 28.

The board was a graveyard; pieces scattered like Chernobog's ruins. Patriot loomed, flanked by Taluha. and a lone pawn. Alexander's forces dwindled—a Knight, a Rook, and her King. She stared at the position, her breath shallow.

"To beat them," she murmured, "you can't destroy them from the inside. You make your own Reunion."

The epiphany struck like lightning. Reunion's branches were too vast, too scattered to eradicate.

She pushed her Rook forward, sacrificing it to lure Taluha into a trap. Reunion's Queen took the bait, and in three moves,

Alexander forced a stalemate—a draw born of mutual exhaustion. Her lips curled into a faint smile.

"Not victory," she thought, "but survival. Influence. A seat at the table."

She leaned back, raising her hand. A bead of blood welled from her fingertip, unbidden, as if the game had pierced her soul.

The droplet shimmered, then hardened, forming a tiny cross-shaped sword atop her finger.

It gleamed red for a moment before shifting slowly into a pristine white. A symbol.

Alexander's smile widened.

She understood now. To conquer Reunion, she wouldn't break the chessboard—she'd join as an opponent.

Chernobog was the right place after all.

***

The skeletal remains of Chernobog loomed under a sky choked with gray ash; its streets were a graveyard of twisted metal and shattered concrete.

The air carried the bitter tang of oil and decay, a constant reminder of the city's fall.

Two figures staggered through the ruins, their breaths sharp and shallow, pursued by the relentless echo of boots against rubble.

Kael, a lean Sarkaz with jagged horns and crimson eyes, pressed a trembling hand to his side.

Blood oozed from a deep gash, staining his torn coat and dripping onto the frost-cracked ground.

Beside him ran Liora, a small Feline with tawny ears pinned back, her amber eyes wide with fear.

Her left arm dangled uselessly, a soaked rag tied around a wound that refused to clot. Behind them,

Ursine soldiers bellowed threats, their silhouettes flickering through the haze—hunters closing in on prey.

"They're gaining," Kael gasped, his voice rough as he tripped over a rusted pipe.

Pain lanced through him, but he forced himself upright. "We're not gonna outrun them."

Liora's tail lashed, her claws flexing instinctively.

"Then we make a stand," she said, her tone fierce despite the quiver in it.

"I'd rather die fighting than let them drag us off."

Kael yanked her into the shadow of a toppled factory wall, its steel beams jutting like broken ribs.

He leaned against it, chest heaving, blood pooling at his feet. His gaze flicked to the crimson trail he'd left, then back to her.

Resolve hardened his features.

"No," he said, low and firm.

"You're getting out. I'll lead them off."

Her ears shot up, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "Kael, no—don't you dare say that—"

"Shut up and listen." he snapped, grabbing her shoulders. His claws bit into her jacket, his voice trembling with urgency.

"You're faster. can make it. I'm bleeding out anyway—look at me, Liora. I'm done."

Tears brimmed in her eyes, her breath hitching.

"We swore we'd stay together," she whispered, voice breaking.

"After the camp, after everything—you can't—"

"I'm keeping that swear," he cut in, his own eyes glistening.

"If you live, I'm not really gone. Please run."

The shouts grew louder, a guttural snarl cutting through the wind.

Kael shoved her away, smearing his bloody hand across the wall and dragging it along. The ground as he limped the other way.

"Go!" he roared, voice raw. "Don't you dare stop!"

Liora's sob caught in her throat, but she turned and fled, legs pumping Despite the fire in her muscles.

Behind her, Kael's voice rang out—

"Over here, you filth!"—followed by the clash of metal and a pained yell. She didn't look back.

She couldn't.

Her vision swam as she darted through Chernobog's twisted alleys, Past collapsed smokestacks and shattered windows reflecting the ashen sky.

Blood dripped, a faint trail she couldn't stop, but she pushed on, unresting.

Kael's face haunted her—his rare laughs, the way he'd shield her from the cold. Now lost.

Please, she begged silently, her heart a frantic pulse. Someone save us. Save him.

She stumbled into a desolate square, the remnants of a park swallowed by ruin.

There, on a warped bench amidst the debris, sat a figure. Liora froze, gasping, her gaze locking onto a spill of bluish-silver hair shimmering faintly against the gloom.

Hope clawed at her chest, fragile and wild, as she lurched forward.

"Help," she rasped, voice barely audible. "Please… they're coming."

The figure turned, and Liora's breath stalled.

Where a face should have been was only whiteness—a blinding, featureless expanse.

She staggered, dizzy, her legs giving out.

Then, from that void, a smile bloomed—gentle, unnervingly calm. It seeped into her, unraveling her terror, her grief, her will.

"W-what?" she mumbled, but the world spun.

Darkness crashed over her like a wave, the smile lingering in her fading sight as she crumpled to the ground, unconscious.