The underground chamber burned with chaos. Crimson alarm lights pulsed across the stone walls, throwing jagged red streaks over the panicked congregation. What had once been a unified choir of believers had splintered into desperate clusters—some shouting fragmented prayers into the air, others running in confused circles with wide, terrified eyes.

"The outsider took it!" someone cried, their voice shaking.

"The ledger—Pastor, what should we do!?" another shouted.

"This is a test! The Pastor will save us!" a third yelled, almost hysterical.

Pastor Delrio appeared at the top of the spiral staircase like an executioner stepping onto the gallows. His dark cloak whipped in the hot gusts spewing from broken vents. The serene, charismatic mask he usually wore was gone. In its place was something far more terrifying. His eyes burned not with panic, but with a cold, controlled fury that seemed to freeze the very air.

"Silence."

He didn't need to shout. The word sliced through the chaos like steel against stone, echoing through every crevice of the chamber. Instantly, every sound died. Even the followers' breathing seemed to catch in their throats.

"They took what belongs to us," Delrio said, his voice low and sharp. "Our foundation. Our lifeblood. And you—" He pointed at the trembling acolytes gathered below. "—stood there and let it happen."

A man dropped to his knees, sobbing. Others lowered their eyes, afraid that even looking at him might draw his wrath.

Delrio descended the staircase one deliberate step at a time. Each thud of his boots on the stone echoed like a countdown. When he reached the floor, he turned to his lieutenants hulking enforcers draped in crimson sashes and gave a single command.

"Seal every exit. Scrub every trace. We are no longer a congregation," he said. "We are a war machine now."

The lieutenants moved immediately. Gates clamped down with metallic finality. Torches dimmed. In moments, the sanctuary transformed from a place of worship into a fortified bunker.

Delrio's voice lowered to a near whisper. "Ethan Albarado… Lucas Graves… You think you've won? You've only stepped onto my court."

Miles away, inside the BAC's U.S. Division surveillance wing, hidden cameras installed by informants inside the cult streamed the unfolding chaos onto a wall of black monitors. Romanov Graves stood before the screens with her arms crossed, her face unreadable.

"They've stolen the ledger," she said coolly. "Just as I predicted."

Ron, the man in the gray blazer, leaned back in his chair as if the entire situation amused him. "And that's not bad news. Now the board's visible."

"You think they'll survive what's in it?" Romanov asked without taking her eyes off the footage.

"If Ethan Albarado's involved," Ron replied, a small smirk tugging at his lips, "they won't just survive. They'll light a match."

At the back of the room, the bald old man watched in silence, his hands folded neatly behind him. His quiet presence carried more weight than any threat.

"The Pastor's game begins," he said softly. "And so does ours."

By midnight, the gym was silent except for the steady hum of fluorescent lights and the scratching of pens across paper. The Vorpal team sat gathered around a long wooden table, the stolen ledger opened before them like some forbidden relic. Its yellowed pages were thick with handwritten ledgers, coded transactions, and strange symbols that merged crosses with cipher marks.

Ethan leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, tapping his pen in thought. Lucas stood beside him, eyes scanning the pages with the same intense focus he brought to the court.

"These aren't donations," Lucas murmured. He pointed to a figure scrawled repeatedly in the margins. "This number shows up every few pages."

Evan slid in from the other side, tracing a line of faint red ink. "It's a money trail," he said. "Offshore accounts, shell companies… This isn't just brainwashing. They're moving money like a cartel."

Louie flipped toward the back pages, uncharacteristically silent. When he reached the final sheet, his hand froze. His eyes widened.

"Uh, guys," he said. "Look at this."

The last page was a list of names dozens of them. Some were marked with crosses, others circled. Each name had a brief label beside it: Chosen, Recruit, Lost, Asset. Near the top, written in thick black ink, was a single name:

Coonie Smith – Pending Ascension

Coonie's fists tightened until his knuckles turned white. "They had plans for me," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Even before I stepped in."

In Ethan's peripheral vision, his system interface blinked faintly.

[Mission Progress: 34%]

[Sub-objective Unlocked: Identify "Ascension Program"]

He exhaled slowly, pushed back his chair, and moved to the whiteboard. His pen flew across it as he mapped out names, connections, and timelines.

This wasn't just a cult. It was a full-scale operation and they had just cracked open its vault.

Charlotte leaned against the wall with her arms crossed, silver eyes glinting. "So, what's next, genius?" she asked.

Ethan turned. The usual calm in his face had hardened into sharp resolve. "Next, we move before they can erase this. The cult's scrambling, and Pastor Delrio's furious. This ledger is our playbook. We use it before he rewrites the game."

The team exchanged glances. This was no longer about basketball. They were standing on the edge of a war one involving cults, corporations, and shadows that reached far beyond the court.

Ethan tapped the ledger with the end of his pen. "Tomorrow," he said, "the real season begins."

The underground chamber was a cathedral of shadows. Crimson light pulsed through veins etched into the stone, illuminating the altar like a living heart. Pastor Delrio stood before it with his head bowed and palms pressed flat against the cold surface. His voice was no longer the booming sermon that had once charmed thousands. It was low now, rhythmic and ancient, a chant that made the air itself vibrate.

"Bring me the Ascended," he whispered. "Bring me the Masked One… it's time."

The chamber's massive doors groaned open. From the darkness emerged a figure. Platinum-blonde hair glinted beneath a black hood, and a smooth, featureless mask caught the red light like a bloodstained mirror. Each step he took toward the altar was measured and deliberate, the sound of his boots striking the floor echoing through the silent chamber.

Cloud had arrived.

The atmosphere shifted instantly. Even Delrio straightened his posture, his body tensing despite his attempt to appear in control. Cloud was not a subordinate. He was a storm wearing human skin.

Delrio turned slowly to face him, forcing a smile onto his lips, though his eyes betrayed the faintest flicker of unease. "You've come." he said carefully.

Cloud stopped at the base of the altar steps. His presence filled the chamber like a second gravity, pulling every gaze toward him. The followers lining the walls instinctively lowered their heads not in reverence to Delrio, but to him.

"I heard you called." Cloud replied softly, his voice nearly emotionless.

Delrio clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace around the altar, trying to mask his discomfort with movement. "The ledger has been taken," he explained. "The boy and his team moved faster than expected. If left unchecked, they'll dismantle everything we've built."

Cloud tilted his head slightly. His tone was calm, but it carried a quiet authority that made the Pastor's words sound almost like excuses. "Then I'll retrieve it."

Delrio opened his mouth to elaborate, but Cloud stepped forward, and instinctively the Pastor took half a step back. The mask gave nothing away, but the force behind it was crushing—like a predator walking into another predator's den.

"No one touches him," Cloud murmured.

Delrio's brow furrowed. "Him?"

Cloud's voice deepened, each word deliberate. "Ethan Albarado."

For the first time, Delrio's eyes flickered with intrigue. "You know him." he said slowly.

Cloud turned his gaze away. His hands slid into the pockets of his coat, and the crimson light caught the edge of his mask, painting it with a streak of red. (Ethan… if only you remembered,) he thought. (If only you knew who stands in the dark for you.)

He revealed nothing not to Delrio, not to anyone. Once, he and Ethan had played basketball on sunlit streets, two cousins bound by sweat and laughter. One walked toward the light. The other was dragged into the dark.

Delrio's voice broke through his silence, testing him. "You seem… invested."

Cloud slowly turned back toward him, and the air thickened like a held breath. "Anyone who touches him… dies."

The words were quiet, but they cut through the chamber sharper than any scream. Cultists stiffened. Even Delrio's practiced composure faltered. A bead of sweat slid down his temple as he forced a chuckle.

"Of course," he said lightly. "As you wish. But we can't simply—"

Cloud moved closer until he stood just inches from the Pastor, towering over him despite his stillness. "You move against him without my word," he said, voice cold and precise, "and I'll erase this entire sanctuary."

Delrio froze. For all his charisma and power, he knew the truth: Cloud was above him. Not by rank, but by sheer, undeniable dominance.

Finally, the Pastor lifted his hands in a placating gesture. "Very well," he said with a careful smile. "Ethan is yours to handle. But the ledger—"

"I'll get it back," Cloud interrupted. "My way."

The cultists bowed as Cloud turned, his cloak trailing behind him like a storm cloud rolling through a valley. His footsteps made no sound as he disappeared into the shadows, but the weight of his intent lingered like thunder on the horizon.

Delrio watched him go, jaw tightening with a mixture of irritation and respect. (He's not mine to command,) he thought. (But as long as he protects the boy, his power serves us. For now.)

Beneath that mask, however, Cloud's thoughts were nowhere near loyalty. (Ethan… I won't let them touch you, he vowed. Not while I still breathe.)

Somewhere above ground, Ethan and his team poured over the stolen ledger, unaware of the shadow now moving to intercept every threat in their path not as an enemy, but as family hidden in the dark.

To be continue

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