Arthur had no birth record.
No documentation tied him to any government, nation, or people.
He was a ghost, a figment, a whisper that the restless world could neither claim nor bury.
A phantom who walked the scarred landscapes of civilization, leaving only blood and silence in his wake.
An orphan scavenging through frozen alleyways in the heart of Moscow during the 15th anniversary celebrations of the USSR. An invisible soul unnoticed among the parades, the iron flags, and the thunderous speeches. Forgotten by history before he ever had a chance to exist.
It was then that he was found—dragged from filth and snow by a man who reeked of power and cruelty. A Russian mob boss, a towering figure in the dark underbelly of Soviet streets, who looked at the boy not as a child, but as a tool waiting to be forged.
The man gave him the only thing he could:
A name.
Arthur.
A blade forged without a past, sharpened only for the future to come.
Somewhere deep in the endless expanse of Siberia—
Blood dripped from Arthur’s left arm, each crimson drop hissing softly against the frozen ground.
It stained the untouched snow, painting it in shades of sorrow and violence.
The towering trees loomed behind him like silent sentinels, their blackened trunks disappearing into the vast gray fog.
He stumbled forward, crossing the glass-like surface of a frozen river, clutching his bleeding side with trembling fingers.
His breath came in ragged, misty gasps, each one a desperate struggle against the biting cold. His brown hair, damp with sweat and blood, clung to his forehead. His brown eyes, once sharp and unyielding, now swam with exhaustion and pain.
The black coat he wore—designed to conceal weapons, explosives, and death—was tattered and pierced.
A standard uniform for the elite hitmen of his “father’s” empire, though Arthur had always found the idea foolish.
He needed no hidden guns.
No clever knives.
He carried only one weapon:
A Jian Sword.
Double-edged, with a flattened diamond blade, and a golden hilt engraved with ancient, near-invisible markings that shimmered faintly in the Siberian gloom.
It was beautiful once.
It was elegant, a blade of kings and legends.
Now, it was a piece of shattered art—plunged into his own side, glistening with blood not belonging to others but to himself.
Arthur coughed, a wet, broken sound that echoed across the frozen wasteland. He stumbled again, falling to his knees.
The ice beneath him groaned, reflecting a twisted mirror image: a beautiful face marred by agony. A man who looked more like he belonged on the stages of Paris or Milan rather than in the underworld of death and betrayal.
"Ah... I am so stupid..." he muttered, smiling bitterly, teeth stained red.
Two decades.
Two long, blood-soaked decades of loyalty.
Of servitude.
Of carrying out the will of a man he once naively called "Father."
And in the end?
Drugged.
Beaten.
Thrown into the frozen jaws of Siberia to die like an expendable pawn.
Arthur’s vision blurred. Memories surfaced, one after another, crashing against his mind.
The snowball fights he lost in the orphanage.
The heavy hands of older boys stealing what little he had.
The sharp smile of the mob boss who promised him warmth and instead gave him a sword.
He tightened his hand around the wound, gasping as fresh blood poured down his coat.
Stolen story; please report.
The ice beneath him cracked softly, spiderweb fractures spreading outward.
"Bears are gonna have a feast today... haha...!" he chuckled darkly, the sound hollow in the endless wilderness.
He could already hear them—out there in the distance.
The low rumble of nature's scavengers closing in, drawn by the scent of death.
Arthur’s head dipped, staring at the broken reflection.
He saw himself clearly now—not the invincible killer they had painted him to be.
Not the myth whispered in fear across continents.
Just a broken orphan, pretending to be a weapon.
"Fucking hell... 'Father,' pfft! What a lame excuse of a parental figure," he spat, hatred burning hotter than the wound in his side.
He had fought for him.
Killed for him.
Sacrificed everything—
Everyone.
He had fought in the Winter War, his blade whispering through the snow-covered forests of Finland.
It was there that he first tasted fear—real fear—at the hands of a man named Simo H?yh?.
The White Death.
A ghost wielding nothing but an old rifle and iron sights, who almost ended Arthur's story before it even truly began.
Simo spared him—
Or perhaps simply missed.
Arthur never knew.
But the lesson was carved into his bones:
There was always someone better.
Someone faster.
Someone deadlier.
It made him fight harder.
Train longer.
Become a phantom among men.
He fought until the previous statement proved untrue.
He was...no,he is the fastest,the strongest,the deadliest,the worst and greatest killer that will ever be born on this sorry planet.
He fought through the hell of World War II, selling his blade to the highest bidder, uncaring of sides or flags.
It was during those blood-drenched years that he earned the name:
[THE GREATEST MURDERER]
During the Cold War, he became the silent edge of shadow wars.
Toppling governments.
Assassinating revolutionaries.
Planting seeds of chaos wherever he was ordered to.
His "father" grew rich beyond imagining, weaving an empire of blood worth seventeen billion dollars.
Built on Arthur’s back.
Built on the corpses of men who never saw the sword until it pierced their hearts.
Now, that empire was crumbling.
Rotting from the inside.
And Arthur?
Arthur was dying alone in a nameless river, surrounded by frozen silence.
"A fitting end for a nameless orphan," he whispered into the icy wind.
With a final, shaking breath, he raised his bloodied fist and slammed it into the ice beneath him.
Cracks exploded outward, a spiderweb of fragility breaking apart the river's frozen skin.
He plunged into the abyss.
The freezing water welcomed him like an old friend.
It devoured him, pulling him deeper into darkness.
Ice sealed above him, trapping him within a tomb of glass.
His body slowed.
His mind dulled.
Memories drifted past his fading consciousness:
The first smile he ever gave.
The first life he ever took.
The first time he realized he was utterly alone.
'At least... I saw Sputnik...,' he thought, smiling faintly.
He had watched the silver sphere launch into the heavens the night before—the beginning of humanity reaching toward the stars.
A moment of beauty in a lifetime of blood.
'I... need to apologize to h-'
The thought died as his lungs failed.
The water entered his mouth.
His heart slowed.
Stopped.
Five days later, a poor farmer boy would find his body, frozen beneath the river ice.
The news would spread like wildfire:
[October 5th, 1957 — The Greatest Mystery Man in Modern History Found Dead!]
Governments panicked.
Files were burned.
Operations were canceled.
Enemies and allies alike breathed easier knowing that the Phantom had finally fallen.
The Russian mob, deprived of its sword, crumbled into infighting and ruin.
The Godfather who had once commanded fear across oceans was shot in the back by his own lieutenant.
The vast empire, built over decades, collapsed into dust and forgotten blood.
Seventeen billion dollars.
Tens of thousands of assassinations.
Entire wars shifted by a single man's silent blade.
All of it ended on a forgotten river in Siberia.
Or so the world thought.
Because phantoms do not die so easily.
Legends do not freeze and die so simply. Especially legends like Arthur.
Arthur opened his eyes.
A stone ceiling.
Water dripping somewhere.
Moss attached to stone.
A cave of some sort.
His eyes slowly blinked and he awoke with a startled expression.
He looked down at his hands.
'This....what is this place?' he questioned.
He died in a frozen river. Why was he in a cave.
He slowly looked around.
He then looked at his hands and body.
He was wearing peculiar robes that resembled ancient chinese clothing made for martial arts.
He was....malnourished as well.
As if he had been training without food for almost 10 weeks.
He looked beside him.
A sword similar to the one he had in his past life but severely more dull because of a lack of proper care and rust.
He held it by it's handle.
And the moment he did a torrent of memories flooded his mind.
'Wha.....what is happening?!!'
