Arknight : The Rise of The Grand Detective

The muddy water churned beneath their feet, splashing in wild arcs as Alexander and Grigori clashed in the subterranean hollow.

Her silver blade flashed, parrying a thunderous blow from his iron-clad fist—only for the sword to splinter, shards scattering into the mire with a hiss.

She conjured another from thin air, her smile unshaken, but Grigori roared, smashing it apart again, water erupting around them like a storm's fury.

His Originium-laced power pulsed, a raw, chaotic force that resisted her talents.

She tested her spatial manipulation [Chronos Fold] trying to warp the space around him, but the air around him shimmered and renounced it, the Originium's nature nullifying her control.

Frustration flickered behind her grin, though she never faltered.

Grigori charged like a divine war beast, his massive frame cutting through the water, waves crashing against the jagged walls.

Each strike was a battering ram, yet she danced around him, her blade reforming only to break again.

He snarled, baffled—how could this slight woman evade him, the Steel Titan? His mind drifted, unbidden, to a time long past.

'You were a blade forged for war, Grigori.'

the Ursine officer had said, his voice cold as the emperor's decree echoed in the hall.

"One of the finest. The Steel Titan, they called you—destined to stand among the acknowledged."

Grigori had stood tall, chest swelling with pride, scars gleaming under the torchlight.

The emperor's favour was within reach.

'But the war is over.'

The officer continued, his tone flat.

'Peace has no use for titans. You're a relic now, Volkov. Go rot with the rest.

Laid down. Discarded. Left with nothing.

The memory fuelled his rage.

He'd clawed back power in Chernobog's ruins, his squad twisting into slavers, preying on the weak to rebuild his name. And now, this woman defied him.

With a bellow, he smashed another of Alexander's swords, water exploding upward, drenching them both.

She landed lightly, unbothered, her smile serene.

She'd gauged him—his strength, his weakness. As Grigori panted, mud dripping from his scarred chest, a new sound intruded—boots splashing, rifles cocking.

Soldiers leapt down from the shattered ceiling above, others lining the hole's edge, their Arts igniting in a kaleidoscope of light.

Alexander's eyes flicked to them, then back to Grigori.

She drew a new silver sword, its edge gleaming, and drove it deep into the ground.

The muddy water trembled, then rose, floating in defiance of gravity. The air vibrated, a low hum that set the soldiers' teeth on edge.

They unleashed their arts—firebolts, ice shards, jagged stone—projectiles screaming toward her.

She only smiled.

***

Howard stirred awake in a cramped apartment, the scent of sizzling meat pulling him from sleep.

He shuffled to the kitchen, phone in hand, checking tomorrow's schedule—a meeting with his juniors.

The pan hissed as he flipped the meat, his gaze drifting, empty.

His thoughts settled on Alexander.

Not a girly name, he mused. His naming sense was terrible—

A name that came from another gacha game.

He'd picked it from a historic figure he admired, twisted through the lens of another game's flair.

One phrase defined that character, and it fit her too—the reason he'd let her model his latest skill.

"One-man army."

Howard muttered, the words hanging in the quiet.

***

The barrage of arts crashed where Alexander stood—a maelstrom of searing firebolts, jagged ice lances, and splintered stone shards tearing through the air.

The soldiers above gripped the jagged rim of the hole, their breaths fogging in the damp chill, eyes wide with anticipation of her demise.

Those who'd leapt down steadied their stances in the muddy water, fingers trembling on triggers, their Arts still smouldering in their palms.

A low cheer began to rise among them, a ragged howl of triumph—until the dust cleared.

There she stood, untouched, her hands resting lightly on the hilt of her sword, its blade buried deep in the ground.

The water swirled around her, a shimmering veil, deflecting the onslaught as if it were nothing.

The soldiers' cheers faltered, replaced by sharp gasps and muttered curses. One above stumbled back, his rifle clattering against the stone, while another below paled, his knees buckling as he whispered,

"What… what is she?"

Grigori, momentarily irked by the interruption, snapped his focus back, his scarred chest heaving. His snarl faded, replaced by a flicker of unease as he met her gaze.

"Pathetic," Alexander said, her voice slicing through the chaos, clear and unrelenting.

He bristled, Originium sparks crackling along his fur, but she continued, her tone deepening—ancient, resonant, as if the earth itself spoke through her.

"Thy mind is frail, Titan of Steel. Thou hast fallen, not to foe, but to shadow's embrace.

"A king cast down, grovelling in filth, thy crown naught but ash."

Her hands tightened on the hilt, forcing the sword deeper into the sodden ground. The blade shimmered, then melted, its silver liquefying into the iron-rich mud.

A low rumble stirred the cavern, the air thickening with a vibration that set the soldiers' teeth chattering. Their eyes darted, frantic—some clutching their weapons tighter, others stepping back, boots splashing in retreat.

The water trembled, then rose, droplets hovering like stars in the dim light, casting eerie reflections across the jagged walls.

She named her skill, her voice a proclamation that echoed with timeless power.

"Phalanx Erebos."

A fusion of Originium Arts and her talent, it summoned forth a force.

The rise began slowly, deliberately—a tension that gripped the air like a held breath.

From the floating water, shapes emerged, silhouettes at first, faint and ghostly, rippling in the murk.

Then, with a sound like distant thunder, they solidified. Knights in spectral armour clawed their way up from the mud, their forms forged from shadow and liquid steel.

Water cascaded off their pauldrons, their helms, and their gauntlets, splashing back into the mire with hollow echoes.

Hundreds swelled into thousands, an army birthed from the abyss—some wielding longswords that gleamed with a cold, unearthly light, others hefting spears tipped with jagged barbs, axes notched from forgotten wars, and bows drawn with arrows of mist.

The soldiers froze, their bravado shattering.

One above screamed, a raw, guttural sound, as he scrambled back from the edge, his comrade yanking him by the collar.

Below, a rifle slipped from shaking hands, sinking into the water with a pitiful plop.

Their arts fizzled out, flames guttering, ice melting into the rising tide. Faces drained of colour, they stared as the knights turned as one, their eyeless visors fixed on Grigori, an unyielding tide of judgement.

Alexander drew a final sword from the air, its blade radiant as moonlight, and levelled it at Grigori.

Her smile remained, soft yet piercing, a beacon amidst the growing dark.

"I am the righteous one who stands here."

She declared, her voice carrying the weight of an oath.

"And thou shalt fall."

Grigori's fists clenched, Originium energy flaring, but the cavern seemed to shrink around him, the knights' silent presence a noose tightening with every breath.

The soldiers' terror hung thick, their whispers lost to the rising hum of

Alexander's army is poised to strike.

The knights' armour shimmered, shifting from spectral shadow to a blinding titanium white, their forms gleaming like beacons in the murky underground.

The soldiers, driven by desperation, abandoned their fear and charged, a ragged wave of rifles and flickering arts crashing toward the silent legion.

The air crackled with tension, water splashing under their boots as they roared defiance.

The knights surged forward, a tide of unyielding steel.

One wielding a longsword met a soldier head-on, parrying a bayonet thrust with a flick of its blade before slicing through armour and bone in a single, fluid arc—blood sprayed, mixing with the mud.

Another hefted a spear, lunging with unnatural precision; the tip pierced a soldier's chest mid-step, hoisting him aloft before flinging him into the water with a splash that echoed off the walls.

An axe-wielding knight spun, cleaving through two attackers at once, their bodies crumpling as water erupted around them.

Arrows of mist streaked from the archers, silent and deadly, pinning soldiers to the stone with wet thuds.

The knights moved as one, relentless, their white armour unstained amidst the chaos, cutting down the Ursus remnants with mechanical grace.

Alexander walked slowly toward Grigori, her steps deliberate, water rippling outward with each footfall.

She closed her eyes briefly, her smile softening as her mind drifted to Howard's closest memory of a sword.

A tale of a certain knight king whose sword was named after victory.

When her eyes opened, a pure white energy engulfed her sword, radiating with a steady, ethereal glow.

She'd decided on its name, her first long-lasting blade.

[The Sword of Eternal Light—Kalmung.]

Grigori rose, his scarred chest heaving as he roared, Originium energy surging through him.

Jagged, rock-like growths erupted across his skin, hardening into a craggy armour of stone and steel.

He charged, a juggernaut of raw power, the ground trembling beneath his thunderous steps, water splashing in violent waves.

Time seemed to slow as Alexander took her stance, Kalmung gleaming in her grip.

She swung, a single, effortless motion, and whispered its name.

"White Tower."

A colossal surge of white energy erupted from the blade, a towering beam that split the air with a deafening hum.

It struck Grigori mid-charge, engulfing his massive form in blinding light.

His roar choked off, his stone-clad body disintegrating under the onslaught—flesh, steel, and Originium reduced to ash in an instant.

The force blasted upward, shattering the cavern's ceiling, chunks of rock raining down as daylight pierced the gloom.

Nothing remained of Grigori, the Steel Titan, but a faint echo of his final snarl lost to the wind.

The knights finished their work as the dust settled, the last soldier falling with a gurgling cry, his rifle sinking into the mire.

Silence descended, broken only by the drip of water and the creak of broken stone.

Alexander sheathed Kalmung, its light dimming, and leapt gracefully to the surface, her silver-blue ponytail catching the sun as she emerged from the hole.

She approached the cages, her blade flashing once more—not to destroy, but to free. With precise, gentle cuts, she sliced through the rusted bars, metal clattering to the ground.

The captives flinched, then stared, wide-eyed, as she stepped back.

"You are free now," she said, her voice calm yet resonant, carrying the weight of a promise fulfilled.

To those who stumbled out, blinking in the fervent light that bathed her, she was more than a woman.

Her white-clad knights stood sentinel behind her, their armour glinting like stars, and the radiance of Kalmung seemed to halo her form.

To them, she was a figure from a fairy tale—a white heavenly knight, a saviour woven from dreams they'd long forgotten.

The grime of their captivity fell away in her presence, replaced by a singular thought that burnt in their hearts: to follow her, the chosen one, wherever her path might lead.

The light shone brighter, a beacon in Chernobog's desolation, and they stepped forward, drawn to her as if by fate itself.