A moonless sky loomed above the disturbingly quiet city of New-Paris. Most would expect a megapolis of that size, a few million residents, to be bustling with activity on a warm Friday night but there was little noise to be heard. The windows were bolted shut, the doors locked tight, and the few courageous enough to wander the streets made sure to look back twice before turning a corner.

Even the rodents, usually so active and relentless in its assault of humanity's most glorious accomplishment were laying low. However, it would be foolish to think that New-Paris always hung around itself this aura of unrelenting gloom. In the day, the streets were full of children playing happily, of merchants peddling whatever their craft fancied and visitors looking to experience the splendour of one of Europe's last gems. But the night was different.

The night was home to the lawless, the most heinous of them all, the cruellest among the wicked dregs that wandered where the watchful eye of the law couldn't see. As terrifying as those criminals could be, none of them could evoke, by their name alone, as much sheer terror as the Ravens could. Assassins famed for the little regard they had for human life, they were first known for the various attempts they made to topple the Order, most of which ended in a bloodbath. To some, they were revolutionary heroes, fighting the oppressive regime that had ruled most of the world for the past eight hundred years. To others, they were butchers who would stop at nothing to bring down the Order. However, to most, they were merely a legend; a gentle yet deadly whisper on a warm Friday night.

Despite the apparent fear that the night instilled in the citizens of New-Paris, a few establishments were still open to those who were brave enough to venture in the streets. One of those was a tavern whose old fashioned signboard had been rendered illegible by the elements for so long even the current owner had forgotten what it used to be called. To the patrons and the local community, it was known as the Den; a refuge for those who needed a drink. The brick building stood in sharp contrast to the rest of the neighbourhood which had been renovated a few years back to accommodate the growing population. As such, the surrounding area boasted mostly tall and sleek apartment complex and multipurpose office buildings over individual shops.

However, the Den was an exception. It was one of the few things form the original Paris to survive the war, and as such, it was considered a relic of some sort. It also endeared itself to the locals, mostly lower class workers, by having very affordable pricing despite alcohol being severely taxed by the Order. The interior also mimicked old establishments by having a fireplace, somewhat of a rarity in this age of fantastical advancements in both the technological field and the medical field.

Currently, there were around forty patrons quietly enjoying a drink while a tall man sat beside the crackling fireplace telling a well-known tale regarding the Ravens. He had chosen this topic as the night drew to a close, knowing full well that hearing of the Ravens would instill an underlying fear in those listening to his stories as they walked the short distance back home. He loved seeing them act tough in front of friends and lovers despite the slight shaking of their legs. He was a skilled storyteller, and despite the somewhat childish nature of such a tale, he was able to weave a story so realistic that some swore the shadows themselves shivered in fear.

At the back of the tavern were two hooded figures slowly sipping a drink. Anywhere else in the world their attire might be seen as somewhat conspicuous, but in New-Paris it wasn't rare for people to prefer staying anonymous as they dealt with their occupations. The watchful eye of the Order was ever so present, and some would sooner hide than allow it to control their every movement. The two men were listening to the storyteller weave his grandiose masterpiece as they shared an amused smirk. The lankier one of the two stood at an impressive 205 centimetre though his usual slouched posture might make him seem shorter than he was. The other's height might seem less impressive with a nearly 25-centimetre difference but his heavy build and defined musculature made up for it. The taller one leaned over to the other and whispered:

"Hey Amon, don't you think he's exaggerating a bit too much? I mean, I don't remember ever fighting an entire squadron of guards as explosives were set off all around me. Though we were in a bit of trouble that one time in Berlin when we were surrounded and had to breach a wall to escape.

-And whose fault do you think that was? Replied Amon with an exasperated sigh. Anyway, you shouldn't lend too much of an ear to him. They're just stories after all; there's no way he was there to know the full truth.

-But doesn't it leave a bad taste in your mouth? I don't want to appear like a bloodthirsty killer.

-Aren't you?

-Hmph. The only reason you can say that is because he hasn't named you personally yet.

-I have to give him credit where it's due though; Bel the Terrible has a nice ring to it. It makes you sound like a crazed emperor.

-Being an emperor sounds good; having unlimited power over the people, making even the blue sea bend to my every whim!

-Stop daydreaming. That kind of life isn't for us; we are bound to the shadows. Speaking of which, we've got a mission to do."

Bel let out a dissatisfied growl as he downed his beer. Amon knew better than to let him drink his fill. Not only would it cost a fortune but he would probably go on a drunken rampage, and he wasn't confident that he could stop him. After all, despite his terrible character and his utter lack of a moral compass, Bel was one of the best fighters to walk this earth. Amon left the money for their drinks on the table as he dragged the still dissatisfied Bel outside. No one in the tavern seemed to pay attention to them, despite it being unusual for people to leave on their own.

Usually, the patrons would depart as a group to mitigate the risk of being assaulted by one of the many small-time robbers that plagued the neighbourhood. However, what they wouldn't know is that the two men who just a moment ago were peacefully drinking were the ones discussed in the legends the storyteller used to frighten the masses. They were Ravens, killing machines unleashed upon the Order to bring chaos in pursuit of an objective so elusive yet so appealing: freedom.

As he felt the warm breeze wash upon his face, Amon drew a cold smirk. Tonight they would likely dye the streets with the blood of their target, and he could feel Bel by his side licking his lips in anticipation at the mere thought of the act. Amon felt the left side of his waist, still covered by the long dark blue cloak and felt reassured when his hand gripped the handle of his weapon.

It was the favoured weapon of both soldiers and brigands as the whole blade part could be kept in the handle itself. A powerful electrical impulse would propel the multiple chevron-like parts that constituted the blade out of the handle once activated, and that same electrical impulse would keep a specially made wire that was attached to said chevron-like edges under tension while the weapon was in use. Since the metal was made of a recently discovered alloy, it was unlikely to break, even when facing extreme shocks. As for the wire, it was also a discovery from the Order that allowed for a finished product that was both flexible and possessed incredible tensile strength. This weapon was dubbed the "retractable sword," and since its creation, many replicas were made and sold outside the Order's main forces.

Guns and the like were abandoned a long time ago when their firepower couldn't keep up with the way the Order's medical science improved the body. Before the war, nearly eight hundred years ago, humans lived up to seventy-five years old on average. But with the way the Order altered the human genome, they could now live up to nearly two hundred and fifty years old. Somehow, the Order found a way to slow the ageing process while still allowing the growth period of a child to last about as long as it did before. They also manage to improve strength, reflexes and endurance significantly. But that was only for the average citizens.

To soldiers and members of outside organizations possessing medical facilities, such as the Ravens, this boost could be improved even further with either the use of more advanced genetics, for those whose bodies could support it, or nanotechnologies that allowed for mind-bending abilities. In the face of such advancements regarding the human body, guns were discarded in favour of weapons that could exploit this newfound strength. That being said, there were still some firearms in existence, but they were mostly rather large and heavy and primarily designed to be stationary.

Amon took a deep breath, savouring the last instant of tranquillity they would have for the foreseeable future as he and Bel made their way deeper into the city. Their objective was the head of the city guard, and neither of them would rest until they brought him down, no matter the cost.