09-25-2024, 11:35 PM
Prophecy
The air inside Thornbrooke manor was heavy with the scent of burning wood and parchment. This scene was a testament to the centuries of secrets it had witnessed within its stone walls. In the study, a fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows on the walls and the floor that danced like restless spirits across the room. The Enigma, ensconced in the body of Elias Veil sat hunched over a large oak desk, his eyes scanning the pages of a newly discovered manuscript.
Through the town, a dense fog clung to the desolate, cobblestone streets. Since the arrival of Enigma into the town of Thornbrooke, people dared not come out of their homes because of the strange occurrences that had happened. Whispers of dark magic and unseen forces spread through the town like wildfire drawing fear in the minds of the residents of Thornbrooke. But, no one dared investigate further, fearful of not returning if they did.
Inside the manor, the air was heavy. The weight of centuries seemed to press down on the room. Old Man Hawthorne sat in a rocking chair by the fire, his gaze seemed to be far away from the fire by which he sat. Hawthorne knew that Enigma was the only way to save the world, as he believed. He had known the face of the man that Enigma bore, Elias Veil, and knew that he was strong enough to be the embodiment of the darkness that Enigma was. The darkness that Lady Nocturna required to fulfill her mission.
The gaze of Hawthrone turned to the manuscript on the desk. Enigma’s fingers tracing across the old document that laid on the massive oak desk, its cover a patchwork of timeworn leather, cracked and peeling from centuries of neglect. Dark, cryptic symbols adorned its surface, swirling and interwoven in patterns that seemed to shift when viewed from different angles, as if the very language of the book was alive, shifting in response to the gaze of the reader. Dust, thick as a forgotten memory, clung to the edges, disturbed only by the careful touch of Enigma’s fingers as he turned each fragile page.
It had been unearthed in a hidden alcove far beneath Thornbrook Manor, buried deep within the ancient catacombs that sprawled like a web beneath the town. The alcove itself had been concealed for untold generations, sealed behind a wall of crumbling stone, almost as if the very earth sought to keep the manuscript and its secrets hidden from the world above. But Old Man Hawthorne, with his obsessive devotion and relentless pursuit of the past, had uncovered the chamber, revealing the manuscript’s long-forgotten resting place.
Now, in the dim glow of the flickering firelight, Enigma bent over the ancient text, his eyes scanning the delicate, yellowed parchment. The words, written in a language older than memory, seemed to hum with a power that transcended time. The ink had long since faded to a deep, rusty brown, yet the symbols still pulsed with energy, as though infused with the magic of the ages. Every line, every curve of the script, seemed to radiate a dark, latent force, beckoning Enigma deeper into the mysteries it held.
As he read, the prophecy unfolded like a whispered promise from the past. It spoke of shadows, not merely as the absence of light, but as entities—forces that moved unseen, shaping the world from the darkness. Power, it claimed, lay not in the obvious strength of kings and warriors, but in the hands of those who could command the shadows, bend them to their will. This power was tied to Thornbrook itself, bound to the land and its ancient bloodlines, a destiny entwined with the town’s very foundations.
The words described a figure—one who would rise from the shadows, a soul destined to claim this power and use it to reshape the world. The prophecy hinted at something greater, something far beyond the trivial ambitions of men. It spoke of a force waiting to be awakened, a force that could unravel reality itself. The one destined to control this power, the manuscript claimed, would not only rule over Thornbrook but would stand on the precipice of dominion over life and death, light and dark.
Yet, within the prophecy’s promises of power, there lay a warning, subtle but unmistakable. A duality, a hidden presence, would be intertwined with the chosen one’s fate. Another soul, bound by blood and time, could rise to challenge the dark ascendant. This duality, though barely mentioned, seemed to linger in the air, a reminder that the path to ultimate power was fraught with peril and betrayal, and that even in victory, one could never fully escape the past.
Enigma’s hand hovered over the page, his eyes narrowing as the significance of the prophecy sank in. The words seemed to speak directly to him, to his current state—ensconced in the body of Elias Veil, yet not entirely alone. The dormant presence of Elias, faint but undeniable, tugged at the corners of his mind, a constant, infuriating reminder of the body’s original owner.
But this prophecy… this ancient, powerful text… it offered more than mere insight. It offered a way forward. If the Heart of Veil, the artifact the prophecy spoke of, truly existed, then it held the key to severing that lingering connection, to ensuring that Enigma’s control over Elias’ body was absolute and eternal.
The air around him seemed to thrum with anticipation, as though the very walls of Thornbrook Manor awaited his next move. With a final glance at the swirling symbols on the page, Enigma snapped the manuscript shut, the force of his action causing a gust of air that sent the remaining dust scattering into the flickering firelight.
The prophecy was clear: power was his for the taking, but it came with a cost—a cost Enigma was more than willing to pay.
The heavy thud of the manuscript closing reverberated through the dimly lit study, echoing off the stone walls like a distant, fading heartbeat. For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, as if the air itself was waiting for what would come next. Enigma’s eyes, cold and calculating, gleamed in the flickering firelight, reflecting the dark thoughts swirling in his mind. The ancient prophecy, now burned into his memory, was not merely a warning—it was a call to action.
Outside, Thornbrook remained cloaked in silence, the fog still clinging to the narrow streets, twisting and coiling like spectral fingers. The townspeople had no inkling of the storm brewing within the manor, no understanding of the forces Enigma had set into motion. Their fears, rooted in whispers of dark magic, were but shadows of the truth. They could never comprehend the depth of the power that now pulsed beneath their feet, or the magnitude of what was to come.
Enigma rose from his chair, his movements fluid yet deliberate, as though the very air around him was his to command. His eyes flicked toward the windows, where the fog pressed against the glass like a living thing, eager to seep into every corner of Thornbrook. He knew what had to be done. The Heart of Veil—hidden deep within the catacombs—was the key, the final piece that would cement his dominance over both Thornbrook and the fragile soul of Elias Veil.
He stepped toward the door, his black coat billowing slightly behind him, like the wings of some dark, fallen angel. As he moved, the shadows in the room seemed to follow, drawn to him like moths to a flame. His thoughts raced, not with doubt, but with cold certainty. If the prophecy was true—and every bone in his body told him it was—then he stood at the cusp of something far greater than the townsfolk’s fearful murmurs. This was a new era—an era of power, of control, of darkness.
Reaching the threshold of the study, Enigma paused, casting a glance over his shoulder toward the desk where the manuscript now lay closed. His lips curled into a slight smile, a mix of satisfaction and anticipation. He had long sought a way to cement his control over Elias Veil’s body, and now, the answer had presented itself in the ancient script of Thornbrook’s past. But more than that—it had given him a vision of what could be. The catacombs would yield their secrets, and with the Heart of Veil in his grasp, there would be no more barriers between him and ultimate power.
As he descended the creaking wooden stairs of Thornbrook Manor, the oppressive silence was broken only by the distant crackle of the fire and the faint rustling of leaves against the windows. Outside, the mist continued to writhe, thickening as though drawn to the malevolent energy that Enigma now exuded. Thornbrook’s very atmosphere seemed to shift, growing heavier, darker, in anticipation of the coming storm.
Enigma reached the entrance hall and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The cold night air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and decay. He stepped outside, his boots crunching on the gravel path that led toward the town. Thornbrook’s streets were empty, its inhabitants locked away in their homes, unaware of the ancient forces stirring beneath their feet.
With a low, determined whisper, Enigma called out into the night, his voice barely more than a breath, but full of command. “Hawthorne.”
From the shadows at the edge of the manor’s grounds, Old Man Hawthorne emerged, his frail form wrapped in a long, tattered cloak. His eyes, wide and eager, gleamed with the madness of obsession. He had spent years unearthing the secrets of Thornbrook, and now, at Enigma’s side, he would witness the culmination of all his work.
“My lord,” Hawthorne rasped, bowing slightly. “It is time?”
Enigma nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Prepare for the descent. We go to the catacombs. The Heart of Veil awaits.”
Hawthorne’s face twisted into a grim smile, and without another word, he scurried off into the night, eager to begin the next stage of their plan.
As the old man disappeared into the mist, Enigma stood still for a moment, breathing in the cold, damp air. The town of Thornbrook, nestled in its quiet, forgotten corner of the world, had no idea that its fate was sealed. Soon, the prophecy would be fulfilled, and the power bound within the Heart of Veil would be his.
And Elias Veil, that faint, flickering presence lurking somewhere deep within his mind, would be silenced forever.
With that final thought, Enigma turned and strode forward, his figure soon swallowed by the fog, as the darkened streets of Thornbrook seemed to close in behind him, sealing the path to a future shaped by shadows and power.
The mist clung to Enigma as he moved deeper into the heart of Thornbrook, enveloping him like a cloak. The narrow, cobblestone streets, once full of life, now felt like the veins of a dying creature, pulsing faintly in the dim light of a few scattered lanterns. His boots struck the ground with an unwavering rhythm, each step bringing him closer to the inevitable confrontation with the ancient force that lay beneath the town.
Old Man Hawthorne had disappeared ahead of him, his decrepit form moving swiftly through the fog like a wraith, gathering the necessary tools for their descent into the catacombs. Enigma did not concern himself with the old man’s haste; Hawthorne knew better than to test his patience. For now, the ancient scholar would play his part, but once the Heart of Veil was in Enigma’s hands, even Hawthorne’s usefulness would come into question.
As he walked, Enigma’s mind drifted back to the manuscript’s words. The prophecy had not been merely an account of past events—it was a guide, a map to the future. Yet, buried within its cryptic verses was a subtle warning, one that gnawed at the edges of his consciousness. The prophecy spoke of a soul bound to Thornbrook, tied by blood to the artifact. It was this soul, Elias Veil, that lingered, haunting Enigma’s every move like a distant whisper.
But Enigma was not concerned. Veil’s consciousness was fractured, too weak to pose a real threat, and soon, once the Heart of Veil was in his possession, any connection to the former owner of this body would be severed. Still, the weight of the prophecy pressed on him, a reminder that destiny was not easily bent to one’s will. But Enigma was nothing if not determined to defy the inevitable, to break the bonds of fate and forge his own path.
Reaching the outskirts of Thornbrook, Enigma stood at the edge of the old cemetery. It was a forgotten place, overgrown and left to decay like much of the town’s history. The tombstones, weathered by centuries of neglect, jutted from the ground like jagged teeth. And beyond them, concealed beneath layers of moss and stone, lay the entrance to the catacombs.
Enigma’s pulse quickened, not with fear, but with a deep, primal hunger. This was where the veil between life and death grew thin, where power had once thrived and could be reborn.
A rustle in the mist announced Hawthorne’s return. He appeared at Enigma’s side, carrying a worn satchel filled with ancient scrolls, talismans, and tools of their dark craft.
“The entrance is ready,” Hawthorne croaked, his voice trembling with excitement. “The wards are weak, my lord. We should have no trouble breaching them.”
Enigma nodded, his eyes fixed on the looming crypt at the far edge of the cemetery. “Good. Once we are inside, there can be no hesitation, Hawthorne. The Heart of Veil must be ours tonight.”
The old man’s gnarled hands clutched the satchel tightly as he nodded in agreement. “Of course, my lord. I have prepared the rites. The catacombs will yield to your power.”
Without another word, they moved toward the crypt. The fog swirled around them as though alive, guiding them toward their destination. The door to the crypt was a massive stone slab, engraved with ancient symbols that had long since faded into obscurity. Yet, even now, they hummed faintly with a residual magic—old, but not forgotten.
Hawthorne stepped forward, pulling a weathered talisman from his satchel. He muttered an incantation under his breath, his voice a low, rasping chant that seemed to resonate with the crypt’s stones. Slowly, the massive door creaked open, revealing a dark stairway that led down into the bowels of the earth.
Enigma felt a surge of satisfaction. The entrance to the catacombs, sealed for generations, had opened at his command. With a nod to Hawthorne, he descended into the darkness, the weight of the earth pressing down on him as the air grew thick with the scent of damp stone and decay.
The stairway spiraled downward, deeper than Enigma had expected. The walls, lined with ancient carvings, told a story—a forgotten history of Thornbrook’s founding, steeped in ritual and sacrifice. Enigma felt the pulse of magic growing stronger with each step, the energy of the catacombs calling to him, like a beast awakening from centuries of slumber.
At last, they reached the bottom, emerging into a vast chamber lit only by the faint glow of bioluminescent moss clinging to the walls. The air was colder here, sharper, as though time itself had frozen. Before them, a large stone altar stood in the center of the room, its surface slick with moisture and covered in intricate carvings.
And there, resting upon the altar, was the Heart of Veil.
Enigma’s breath caught in his throat. The artifact was smaller than he had imagined, a stone the size of his fist, glowing with a deep, ethereal light that seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat. He could feel its power from across the room, a raw, untamed force that promised everything he had sought.
But as he stepped closer, the words of the prophecy echoed in his mind once more, the warning of the soul that might yet rise. For the first time, doubt crept into Enigma’s thoughts. Could it be that Veil’s soul, bound to this artifact by blood and magic, still held some claim to it?
“No,” Enigma muttered to himself, shaking off the thought. He would not be swayed by superstition. The Heart of Veil was his, and with it, his control over this body—and over Thornbrook—would be absolute.
He reached out, his fingers brushing the stone’s cool surface. As Enigma’s fingertips grazed the surface of the Heart of Veil, a surge of energy shot through him, more potent than anything he had ever experienced. His vision blurred momentarily, the air around him crackling with raw power. It was as though the very essence of the artifact was seeking to merge with his own, a current of dark magic intertwining with his soul.
But as that power flooded him, something else stirred—something buried deep within the recesses of Elias Veil’s mind. A faint resistance, a whisper of consciousness that had lain dormant for too long.
For the briefest of moments, Enigma felt it—a presence, weak but undeniable, pushing against his control. Elias Veil. The name that now felt foreign to him clawed at the edges of his thoughts, a fragment of the man whose body he had stolen. And with that resistance came the echo of the prophecy, the warning of a soul bound to the Heart by blood.
A low growl rumbled from Enigma’s throat as he tightened his grip on the Heart. “You will not have this,” he hissed, his voice sharp with venom. “This body, this power—it belongs to me now.”
But the moment of resistance was not over. A sudden flash of memories assaulted him—fragments of Elias Veil’s life, torn from the recesses of his mind and thrust into Enigma’s awareness. Visions of Thornbrook as it had once been, vibrant and full of life, before the darkness crept in. A mother’s soft voice, speaking of destiny and sacrifice. A young boy standing at the gates of the catacombs, afraid of the shadows that seemed to reach for him.
And then, a final image—Elias Veil, standing in this very chamber, staring at the Heart of Veil, his hand outstretched just as Enigma’s was now. The realization struck Enigma like a blow: Elias had been here before, had stood on the precipice of claiming the artifact, only to turn away.
“Fool,” Enigma spat, his voice echoing in the silent chamber. “You had the power within your grasp, and you let it slip away. But I will not make the same mistake.”
He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath as he summoned his will. With a surge of determination, he pushed back against the lingering presence of Elias Veil, forcing it deeper into the recesses of his mind. The resistance faltered, weakened, and finally, it vanished altogether.
When Enigma opened his eyes again, the Heart of Veil pulsed in his hand, its power fully aligned with his own. He felt stronger, more connected to the ancient magic that flowed beneath Thornbrook. The prophecy was his to control now, its warnings meaningless in the face of his resolve.
Behind him, Hawthorne watched with bated breath, his eyes wide with awe. He had sensed the struggle, the brief flicker of doubt in his master’s movements, but now he could see that Enigma had triumphed.
“My lord,” Hawthorne croaked, stepping forward cautiously. “The Heart… it is yours. The power of Thornbrook is yours to command.”
Enigma turned slowly, his eyes glowing with the same eerie light as the artifact in his hand. He no longer felt any trace of Elias Veil within him, no whisper of the past to haunt his steps. Thornbrook’s ancient power was his now—its destiny rewritten in his name.
“The prophecy has served its purpose,” Enigma said, his voice cold and commanding. “But it no longer controls me. I am beyond fate now.”
He turned his gaze toward the darkened corridors that stretched beyond the chamber, the catacombs whispering with secrets yet to be uncovered. Thornbrook would soon awaken to the full force of the power that lay beneath its streets, and with the Heart of Veil in his possession, there would be no stopping what came next.
“Come, Hawthorne,” Enigma commanded, his voice a low growl. “We have much to prepare for. Thornbrook will soon witness the dawn of true darkness.”
Hawthorne bowed deeply, his skeletal frame trembling with a mix of reverence and fear. “Yes, my lord. All will be as you command.”
As they ascended the stairway from the catacombs, leaving the cold and damp behind them, Enigma’s thoughts churned with anticipation. The power coursing through him was intoxicating, but it was not enough. The Heart of Veil was only the beginning. Thornbrook, and all who resided within its walls, would soon learn what it meant to be at the mercy of true darkness.
And somewhere, deep within the depths of his mind, the faintest flicker of Elias Veil’s consciousness stirred once more, buried beneath layers of Enigma’s will but not yet extinguished. For now, Enigma’s grip on Thornbrook was unchallenged, but the prophecy had whispered of more than just shadows—it had whispered of a reckoning yet to come.
Just as Enigma prepared Thornbrooke for the reckoning that was to come, he knew that there was another reckoning to come. A reckoning that began at SCW Rise to Greatness. At Rise to Greatness, Enigma started a reckoning that no one can contain. A reckoning that extends beyond the realm of Supreme Championship Wrestling.
The Enigma stands among his followers, the Shadowfall, in Thornbrooke manor as he recalls the power that he obtained when he grabbed the Heart of Veil, even though that was years ago, the power is still coming from it. Power that he knows if it is completely unleashed would put an end to life as we know it.
“At Rise to Greatness, the world bore witness to a tiny dose of the power that everyone has waited to be unleashed.”
A voice boomed from the darkness, reverberating through the ancient, decaying halls of Thornbrooke Manor. The sound echoed off the cracked stone walls, wrapping itself around the empty corridors like an invisible force. The voice, though unseen, was unmistakable—The Enigma.
“And yet…” Enigma’s voice dripped with sinister amusement. “That was only a taste. The world believes they’ve seen everything I’m capable of, but they know nothing. The fire has only just begun to rise.”
The flickering remnants of candlelight cast twisted shadows across the ancient walls of Thornbrooke Manor. The air, heavy with the scent of decay and history, seemed to pulse with a dark energy, as though the very structure of the manor fed on Enigma’s words.
“They think they understand what it means to face true darkness,” Enigma’s voice continued, low and threatening, echoing off the cracked stone. “But what they have seen… what SCW believes to be the peak of my power… it is nothing. Nothing compared to what lies beneath.”
Enigma stepped forward, his figure blending with the shadows, his presence filling the room with a suffocating intensity. His eyes, glowing faintly in the dim light, seemed to pierce the very fabric of reality, as though they could see beyond time itself, into the abyss.
Enigma’s voice reverberates through the decaying halls of Thornbrooke Manor, dripping with cold certainty.
“CHBK, you think that by suspending me, you’ve somehow gained control. You believe that SCW is safe, that you’ve locked me away like some common threat. But you’ve made a fatal mistake.”
He moved slowly through the room, his figure blending seamlessly with the shadows, his presence a dark force pulsating in the flickering candlelight. The air itself seemed to shudder with each word.
“I cannot be contained by your rules, by your authority. I am not bound by your suspensions, your fleeting notions of power. You think SCW is safe from me? No. The only thing you’ve done is set me free from your game, allowing the darkness to grow without restraint.”
Enigma’s eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, the faint gleam cutting through the room like a blade.
“The flames I set at Rise to Greatness were just the beginning, a taste of what’s to come. But what you witnessed… it was nothing. A mere flicker. You’ve only delayed the inevitable.”
His voice lowered, taking on an almost menacing calm.
“CHBK, your authority means nothing to me. I do not answer to you. I do not answer to you or SCW. I exist beyond your control, beyond your laws, and every second you believe you’ve stopped me, the darkness festers. You’ve given me time—time to become stronger, time for the abyss to deepen.”
He pauses, his grin widening as he envisioned the chaos that awaited.
“You cannot suspend what you do not own, what you cannot control. And when I decide to return… it won’t just be a ring that burns. No, CHBK, this time, it will be the world you think you’ve built that goes up in flames.”
The ancient walls of Thornbrooke seemed to tremble, as if the very manor could sense the storm Enigma was preparing to unleash. His figure, already fading into the shadows, was a reminder of the inevitable truth he had spoken.
“Your suspension is nothing, CHBK. You cannot stop what’s coming. I will rise, and SCW will fall into darkness. I am not bound by you.”
And with that, Enigma disappeared, swallowed by the very darkness he commanded, leaving behind an ominous silence—one that promised a reckoning far greater than anyone could imagine.
The silence that followed Enigma’s disappearance was deafening, the very air thick with the promise of chaos. Thornbrooke Manor, long forgotten by time, seemed to pulse with the energy of his dark words, as if the walls themselves understood the gravity of what was about to unfold.
Enigma’s voice, though now unseen, seemed to hang in the very atmosphere, twisting and curling through the shadows.
“CHBK,” his voice echoed again, low and dangerous, as though he were speaking directly to the man himself. “You think you’ve done something noble, don’t you? That by suspending me, you’ve protected your precious SCW… protected Deanna Frost from what’s coming. But you’ve only postponed the inevitable.”
The flicker of distant candlelight cast fleeting shadows across the room, reflecting the cold smirk that tugged at Enigma’s lips.
“You believe you’ve saved her from my wrath, shielded her from the darkness. But in reality, CHBK, all you’ve done is set her up for something far worse.”
His footsteps echoed ominously through the manor as he continued, his tone now dripping with mockery.
“Your suspension is nothing more than a delay, a mere inconvenience. And all it’s done is allowed the darkness to grow stronger. When I return, I won’t come for Deanna Frost immediately. No. I’ll bide my time, and when I do come for her, it won’t be the punishment you think you’ve prevented.”
Enigma’s gaze seemed to pierce through the manor’s crumbling walls, as if seeing far beyond the halls of Thornbrooke and into the very soul of SCW.
“Deanna Frost, your so-called champion… she’s marked, CHBK. Whether you like it or not, her fate is already sealed. You’ve only made it worse by giving me time to grow in the shadows. She’s not safe from me—she’s being primed for something greater.”
The air grew colder as Enigma’s voice dropped lower, more sinister.
“You’ve set her up for something far more than just punishment, CHBK. You’ve set her up for destruction. And when I return, she will face not just the flames of retribution, but the full weight of everything I’ve become.”
A dark laugh, low and chilling, reverberates through the room.
“When I come for her, it won’t be just a match, a contest of skill. No, it will be a reckoning. Deanna Frost will fall not because of her failures, but because you, CHBK, thought you could protect her from me. She will burn because of your arrogance.”
The laughter faded, but the threat lingered like a poison in the air.
“Deanna, you want me because of what I did to Jessica, because of the torture I’ve brought to your family. You claim yourself to be a victim, but you are merely a pawn in my game. You wanted Apocalypse to be the place and it’s fitting, because Apocalypse will be the demise of Deanna Frost. You are willing to risk everything to fight me, and it is everything that you will lose. This Sunday at SCW Apocalypse, the world will bear witness to the end of Deanna Frost.”
“You see this, Deanna? Do you see this, CHBK?” Enigma holds up the Heart of Veil. “This has more power than either of you know what to do with. This holds the power of life and death. This holds a power that is greater than I. A power that if unleashed on SCW, would surely bring demise to the entire roster. This is why CHBK, I do not follow your mortal rules and regulations. This is why, Deanna, your time is limited. This is why, SCW, your future is in grave danger.”
With that, the room fell into a deep, oppressive silence, the only sound left the faint crackling of dying embers. The darkness of Thornbrooke Manor held its breath, waiting for the storm that would soon engulf them all.
The air inside Thornbrooke manor was heavy with the scent of burning wood and parchment. This scene was a testament to the centuries of secrets it had witnessed within its stone walls. In the study, a fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows on the walls and the floor that danced like restless spirits across the room. The Enigma, ensconced in the body of Elias Veil sat hunched over a large oak desk, his eyes scanning the pages of a newly discovered manuscript.
Through the town, a dense fog clung to the desolate, cobblestone streets. Since the arrival of Enigma into the town of Thornbrooke, people dared not come out of their homes because of the strange occurrences that had happened. Whispers of dark magic and unseen forces spread through the town like wildfire drawing fear in the minds of the residents of Thornbrooke. But, no one dared investigate further, fearful of not returning if they did.
Inside the manor, the air was heavy. The weight of centuries seemed to press down on the room. Old Man Hawthorne sat in a rocking chair by the fire, his gaze seemed to be far away from the fire by which he sat. Hawthorne knew that Enigma was the only way to save the world, as he believed. He had known the face of the man that Enigma bore, Elias Veil, and knew that he was strong enough to be the embodiment of the darkness that Enigma was. The darkness that Lady Nocturna required to fulfill her mission.
The gaze of Hawthrone turned to the manuscript on the desk. Enigma’s fingers tracing across the old document that laid on the massive oak desk, its cover a patchwork of timeworn leather, cracked and peeling from centuries of neglect. Dark, cryptic symbols adorned its surface, swirling and interwoven in patterns that seemed to shift when viewed from different angles, as if the very language of the book was alive, shifting in response to the gaze of the reader. Dust, thick as a forgotten memory, clung to the edges, disturbed only by the careful touch of Enigma’s fingers as he turned each fragile page.
It had been unearthed in a hidden alcove far beneath Thornbrook Manor, buried deep within the ancient catacombs that sprawled like a web beneath the town. The alcove itself had been concealed for untold generations, sealed behind a wall of crumbling stone, almost as if the very earth sought to keep the manuscript and its secrets hidden from the world above. But Old Man Hawthorne, with his obsessive devotion and relentless pursuit of the past, had uncovered the chamber, revealing the manuscript’s long-forgotten resting place.
Now, in the dim glow of the flickering firelight, Enigma bent over the ancient text, his eyes scanning the delicate, yellowed parchment. The words, written in a language older than memory, seemed to hum with a power that transcended time. The ink had long since faded to a deep, rusty brown, yet the symbols still pulsed with energy, as though infused with the magic of the ages. Every line, every curve of the script, seemed to radiate a dark, latent force, beckoning Enigma deeper into the mysteries it held.
As he read, the prophecy unfolded like a whispered promise from the past. It spoke of shadows, not merely as the absence of light, but as entities—forces that moved unseen, shaping the world from the darkness. Power, it claimed, lay not in the obvious strength of kings and warriors, but in the hands of those who could command the shadows, bend them to their will. This power was tied to Thornbrook itself, bound to the land and its ancient bloodlines, a destiny entwined with the town’s very foundations.
The words described a figure—one who would rise from the shadows, a soul destined to claim this power and use it to reshape the world. The prophecy hinted at something greater, something far beyond the trivial ambitions of men. It spoke of a force waiting to be awakened, a force that could unravel reality itself. The one destined to control this power, the manuscript claimed, would not only rule over Thornbrook but would stand on the precipice of dominion over life and death, light and dark.
Yet, within the prophecy’s promises of power, there lay a warning, subtle but unmistakable. A duality, a hidden presence, would be intertwined with the chosen one’s fate. Another soul, bound by blood and time, could rise to challenge the dark ascendant. This duality, though barely mentioned, seemed to linger in the air, a reminder that the path to ultimate power was fraught with peril and betrayal, and that even in victory, one could never fully escape the past.
Enigma’s hand hovered over the page, his eyes narrowing as the significance of the prophecy sank in. The words seemed to speak directly to him, to his current state—ensconced in the body of Elias Veil, yet not entirely alone. The dormant presence of Elias, faint but undeniable, tugged at the corners of his mind, a constant, infuriating reminder of the body’s original owner.
But this prophecy… this ancient, powerful text… it offered more than mere insight. It offered a way forward. If the Heart of Veil, the artifact the prophecy spoke of, truly existed, then it held the key to severing that lingering connection, to ensuring that Enigma’s control over Elias’ body was absolute and eternal.
The air around him seemed to thrum with anticipation, as though the very walls of Thornbrook Manor awaited his next move. With a final glance at the swirling symbols on the page, Enigma snapped the manuscript shut, the force of his action causing a gust of air that sent the remaining dust scattering into the flickering firelight.
The prophecy was clear: power was his for the taking, but it came with a cost—a cost Enigma was more than willing to pay.
The heavy thud of the manuscript closing reverberated through the dimly lit study, echoing off the stone walls like a distant, fading heartbeat. For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, as if the air itself was waiting for what would come next. Enigma’s eyes, cold and calculating, gleamed in the flickering firelight, reflecting the dark thoughts swirling in his mind. The ancient prophecy, now burned into his memory, was not merely a warning—it was a call to action.
Outside, Thornbrook remained cloaked in silence, the fog still clinging to the narrow streets, twisting and coiling like spectral fingers. The townspeople had no inkling of the storm brewing within the manor, no understanding of the forces Enigma had set into motion. Their fears, rooted in whispers of dark magic, were but shadows of the truth. They could never comprehend the depth of the power that now pulsed beneath their feet, or the magnitude of what was to come.
Enigma rose from his chair, his movements fluid yet deliberate, as though the very air around him was his to command. His eyes flicked toward the windows, where the fog pressed against the glass like a living thing, eager to seep into every corner of Thornbrook. He knew what had to be done. The Heart of Veil—hidden deep within the catacombs—was the key, the final piece that would cement his dominance over both Thornbrook and the fragile soul of Elias Veil.
He stepped toward the door, his black coat billowing slightly behind him, like the wings of some dark, fallen angel. As he moved, the shadows in the room seemed to follow, drawn to him like moths to a flame. His thoughts raced, not with doubt, but with cold certainty. If the prophecy was true—and every bone in his body told him it was—then he stood at the cusp of something far greater than the townsfolk’s fearful murmurs. This was a new era—an era of power, of control, of darkness.
Reaching the threshold of the study, Enigma paused, casting a glance over his shoulder toward the desk where the manuscript now lay closed. His lips curled into a slight smile, a mix of satisfaction and anticipation. He had long sought a way to cement his control over Elias Veil’s body, and now, the answer had presented itself in the ancient script of Thornbrook’s past. But more than that—it had given him a vision of what could be. The catacombs would yield their secrets, and with the Heart of Veil in his grasp, there would be no more barriers between him and ultimate power.
As he descended the creaking wooden stairs of Thornbrook Manor, the oppressive silence was broken only by the distant crackle of the fire and the faint rustling of leaves against the windows. Outside, the mist continued to writhe, thickening as though drawn to the malevolent energy that Enigma now exuded. Thornbrook’s very atmosphere seemed to shift, growing heavier, darker, in anticipation of the coming storm.
Enigma reached the entrance hall and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The cold night air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and decay. He stepped outside, his boots crunching on the gravel path that led toward the town. Thornbrook’s streets were empty, its inhabitants locked away in their homes, unaware of the ancient forces stirring beneath their feet.
With a low, determined whisper, Enigma called out into the night, his voice barely more than a breath, but full of command. “Hawthorne.”
From the shadows at the edge of the manor’s grounds, Old Man Hawthorne emerged, his frail form wrapped in a long, tattered cloak. His eyes, wide and eager, gleamed with the madness of obsession. He had spent years unearthing the secrets of Thornbrook, and now, at Enigma’s side, he would witness the culmination of all his work.
“My lord,” Hawthorne rasped, bowing slightly. “It is time?”
Enigma nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Prepare for the descent. We go to the catacombs. The Heart of Veil awaits.”
Hawthorne’s face twisted into a grim smile, and without another word, he scurried off into the night, eager to begin the next stage of their plan.
As the old man disappeared into the mist, Enigma stood still for a moment, breathing in the cold, damp air. The town of Thornbrook, nestled in its quiet, forgotten corner of the world, had no idea that its fate was sealed. Soon, the prophecy would be fulfilled, and the power bound within the Heart of Veil would be his.
And Elias Veil, that faint, flickering presence lurking somewhere deep within his mind, would be silenced forever.
With that final thought, Enigma turned and strode forward, his figure soon swallowed by the fog, as the darkened streets of Thornbrook seemed to close in behind him, sealing the path to a future shaped by shadows and power.
The mist clung to Enigma as he moved deeper into the heart of Thornbrook, enveloping him like a cloak. The narrow, cobblestone streets, once full of life, now felt like the veins of a dying creature, pulsing faintly in the dim light of a few scattered lanterns. His boots struck the ground with an unwavering rhythm, each step bringing him closer to the inevitable confrontation with the ancient force that lay beneath the town.
Old Man Hawthorne had disappeared ahead of him, his decrepit form moving swiftly through the fog like a wraith, gathering the necessary tools for their descent into the catacombs. Enigma did not concern himself with the old man’s haste; Hawthorne knew better than to test his patience. For now, the ancient scholar would play his part, but once the Heart of Veil was in Enigma’s hands, even Hawthorne’s usefulness would come into question.
As he walked, Enigma’s mind drifted back to the manuscript’s words. The prophecy had not been merely an account of past events—it was a guide, a map to the future. Yet, buried within its cryptic verses was a subtle warning, one that gnawed at the edges of his consciousness. The prophecy spoke of a soul bound to Thornbrook, tied by blood to the artifact. It was this soul, Elias Veil, that lingered, haunting Enigma’s every move like a distant whisper.
But Enigma was not concerned. Veil’s consciousness was fractured, too weak to pose a real threat, and soon, once the Heart of Veil was in his possession, any connection to the former owner of this body would be severed. Still, the weight of the prophecy pressed on him, a reminder that destiny was not easily bent to one’s will. But Enigma was nothing if not determined to defy the inevitable, to break the bonds of fate and forge his own path.
Reaching the outskirts of Thornbrook, Enigma stood at the edge of the old cemetery. It was a forgotten place, overgrown and left to decay like much of the town’s history. The tombstones, weathered by centuries of neglect, jutted from the ground like jagged teeth. And beyond them, concealed beneath layers of moss and stone, lay the entrance to the catacombs.
Enigma’s pulse quickened, not with fear, but with a deep, primal hunger. This was where the veil between life and death grew thin, where power had once thrived and could be reborn.
A rustle in the mist announced Hawthorne’s return. He appeared at Enigma’s side, carrying a worn satchel filled with ancient scrolls, talismans, and tools of their dark craft.
“The entrance is ready,” Hawthorne croaked, his voice trembling with excitement. “The wards are weak, my lord. We should have no trouble breaching them.”
Enigma nodded, his eyes fixed on the looming crypt at the far edge of the cemetery. “Good. Once we are inside, there can be no hesitation, Hawthorne. The Heart of Veil must be ours tonight.”
The old man’s gnarled hands clutched the satchel tightly as he nodded in agreement. “Of course, my lord. I have prepared the rites. The catacombs will yield to your power.”
Without another word, they moved toward the crypt. The fog swirled around them as though alive, guiding them toward their destination. The door to the crypt was a massive stone slab, engraved with ancient symbols that had long since faded into obscurity. Yet, even now, they hummed faintly with a residual magic—old, but not forgotten.
Hawthorne stepped forward, pulling a weathered talisman from his satchel. He muttered an incantation under his breath, his voice a low, rasping chant that seemed to resonate with the crypt’s stones. Slowly, the massive door creaked open, revealing a dark stairway that led down into the bowels of the earth.
Enigma felt a surge of satisfaction. The entrance to the catacombs, sealed for generations, had opened at his command. With a nod to Hawthorne, he descended into the darkness, the weight of the earth pressing down on him as the air grew thick with the scent of damp stone and decay.
The stairway spiraled downward, deeper than Enigma had expected. The walls, lined with ancient carvings, told a story—a forgotten history of Thornbrook’s founding, steeped in ritual and sacrifice. Enigma felt the pulse of magic growing stronger with each step, the energy of the catacombs calling to him, like a beast awakening from centuries of slumber.
At last, they reached the bottom, emerging into a vast chamber lit only by the faint glow of bioluminescent moss clinging to the walls. The air was colder here, sharper, as though time itself had frozen. Before them, a large stone altar stood in the center of the room, its surface slick with moisture and covered in intricate carvings.
And there, resting upon the altar, was the Heart of Veil.
Enigma’s breath caught in his throat. The artifact was smaller than he had imagined, a stone the size of his fist, glowing with a deep, ethereal light that seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat. He could feel its power from across the room, a raw, untamed force that promised everything he had sought.
But as he stepped closer, the words of the prophecy echoed in his mind once more, the warning of the soul that might yet rise. For the first time, doubt crept into Enigma’s thoughts. Could it be that Veil’s soul, bound to this artifact by blood and magic, still held some claim to it?
“No,” Enigma muttered to himself, shaking off the thought. He would not be swayed by superstition. The Heart of Veil was his, and with it, his control over this body—and over Thornbrook—would be absolute.
He reached out, his fingers brushing the stone’s cool surface. As Enigma’s fingertips grazed the surface of the Heart of Veil, a surge of energy shot through him, more potent than anything he had ever experienced. His vision blurred momentarily, the air around him crackling with raw power. It was as though the very essence of the artifact was seeking to merge with his own, a current of dark magic intertwining with his soul.
But as that power flooded him, something else stirred—something buried deep within the recesses of Elias Veil’s mind. A faint resistance, a whisper of consciousness that had lain dormant for too long.
For the briefest of moments, Enigma felt it—a presence, weak but undeniable, pushing against his control. Elias Veil. The name that now felt foreign to him clawed at the edges of his thoughts, a fragment of the man whose body he had stolen. And with that resistance came the echo of the prophecy, the warning of a soul bound to the Heart by blood.
A low growl rumbled from Enigma’s throat as he tightened his grip on the Heart. “You will not have this,” he hissed, his voice sharp with venom. “This body, this power—it belongs to me now.”
But the moment of resistance was not over. A sudden flash of memories assaulted him—fragments of Elias Veil’s life, torn from the recesses of his mind and thrust into Enigma’s awareness. Visions of Thornbrook as it had once been, vibrant and full of life, before the darkness crept in. A mother’s soft voice, speaking of destiny and sacrifice. A young boy standing at the gates of the catacombs, afraid of the shadows that seemed to reach for him.
And then, a final image—Elias Veil, standing in this very chamber, staring at the Heart of Veil, his hand outstretched just as Enigma’s was now. The realization struck Enigma like a blow: Elias had been here before, had stood on the precipice of claiming the artifact, only to turn away.
“Fool,” Enigma spat, his voice echoing in the silent chamber. “You had the power within your grasp, and you let it slip away. But I will not make the same mistake.”
He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath as he summoned his will. With a surge of determination, he pushed back against the lingering presence of Elias Veil, forcing it deeper into the recesses of his mind. The resistance faltered, weakened, and finally, it vanished altogether.
When Enigma opened his eyes again, the Heart of Veil pulsed in his hand, its power fully aligned with his own. He felt stronger, more connected to the ancient magic that flowed beneath Thornbrook. The prophecy was his to control now, its warnings meaningless in the face of his resolve.
Behind him, Hawthorne watched with bated breath, his eyes wide with awe. He had sensed the struggle, the brief flicker of doubt in his master’s movements, but now he could see that Enigma had triumphed.
“My lord,” Hawthorne croaked, stepping forward cautiously. “The Heart… it is yours. The power of Thornbrook is yours to command.”
Enigma turned slowly, his eyes glowing with the same eerie light as the artifact in his hand. He no longer felt any trace of Elias Veil within him, no whisper of the past to haunt his steps. Thornbrook’s ancient power was his now—its destiny rewritten in his name.
“The prophecy has served its purpose,” Enigma said, his voice cold and commanding. “But it no longer controls me. I am beyond fate now.”
He turned his gaze toward the darkened corridors that stretched beyond the chamber, the catacombs whispering with secrets yet to be uncovered. Thornbrook would soon awaken to the full force of the power that lay beneath its streets, and with the Heart of Veil in his possession, there would be no stopping what came next.
“Come, Hawthorne,” Enigma commanded, his voice a low growl. “We have much to prepare for. Thornbrook will soon witness the dawn of true darkness.”
Hawthorne bowed deeply, his skeletal frame trembling with a mix of reverence and fear. “Yes, my lord. All will be as you command.”
As they ascended the stairway from the catacombs, leaving the cold and damp behind them, Enigma’s thoughts churned with anticipation. The power coursing through him was intoxicating, but it was not enough. The Heart of Veil was only the beginning. Thornbrook, and all who resided within its walls, would soon learn what it meant to be at the mercy of true darkness.
And somewhere, deep within the depths of his mind, the faintest flicker of Elias Veil’s consciousness stirred once more, buried beneath layers of Enigma’s will but not yet extinguished. For now, Enigma’s grip on Thornbrook was unchallenged, but the prophecy had whispered of more than just shadows—it had whispered of a reckoning yet to come.
Just as Enigma prepared Thornbrooke for the reckoning that was to come, he knew that there was another reckoning to come. A reckoning that began at SCW Rise to Greatness. At Rise to Greatness, Enigma started a reckoning that no one can contain. A reckoning that extends beyond the realm of Supreme Championship Wrestling.
The Enigma stands among his followers, the Shadowfall, in Thornbrooke manor as he recalls the power that he obtained when he grabbed the Heart of Veil, even though that was years ago, the power is still coming from it. Power that he knows if it is completely unleashed would put an end to life as we know it.
“At Rise to Greatness, the world bore witness to a tiny dose of the power that everyone has waited to be unleashed.”
A voice boomed from the darkness, reverberating through the ancient, decaying halls of Thornbrooke Manor. The sound echoed off the cracked stone walls, wrapping itself around the empty corridors like an invisible force. The voice, though unseen, was unmistakable—The Enigma.
“And yet…” Enigma’s voice dripped with sinister amusement. “That was only a taste. The world believes they’ve seen everything I’m capable of, but they know nothing. The fire has only just begun to rise.”
The flickering remnants of candlelight cast twisted shadows across the ancient walls of Thornbrooke Manor. The air, heavy with the scent of decay and history, seemed to pulse with a dark energy, as though the very structure of the manor fed on Enigma’s words.
“They think they understand what it means to face true darkness,” Enigma’s voice continued, low and threatening, echoing off the cracked stone. “But what they have seen… what SCW believes to be the peak of my power… it is nothing. Nothing compared to what lies beneath.”
Enigma stepped forward, his figure blending with the shadows, his presence filling the room with a suffocating intensity. His eyes, glowing faintly in the dim light, seemed to pierce the very fabric of reality, as though they could see beyond time itself, into the abyss.
Enigma’s voice reverberates through the decaying halls of Thornbrooke Manor, dripping with cold certainty.
“CHBK, you think that by suspending me, you’ve somehow gained control. You believe that SCW is safe, that you’ve locked me away like some common threat. But you’ve made a fatal mistake.”
He moved slowly through the room, his figure blending seamlessly with the shadows, his presence a dark force pulsating in the flickering candlelight. The air itself seemed to shudder with each word.
“I cannot be contained by your rules, by your authority. I am not bound by your suspensions, your fleeting notions of power. You think SCW is safe from me? No. The only thing you’ve done is set me free from your game, allowing the darkness to grow without restraint.”
Enigma’s eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, the faint gleam cutting through the room like a blade.
“The flames I set at Rise to Greatness were just the beginning, a taste of what’s to come. But what you witnessed… it was nothing. A mere flicker. You’ve only delayed the inevitable.”
His voice lowered, taking on an almost menacing calm.
“CHBK, your authority means nothing to me. I do not answer to you. I do not answer to you or SCW. I exist beyond your control, beyond your laws, and every second you believe you’ve stopped me, the darkness festers. You’ve given me time—time to become stronger, time for the abyss to deepen.”
He pauses, his grin widening as he envisioned the chaos that awaited.
“You cannot suspend what you do not own, what you cannot control. And when I decide to return… it won’t just be a ring that burns. No, CHBK, this time, it will be the world you think you’ve built that goes up in flames.”
The ancient walls of Thornbrooke seemed to tremble, as if the very manor could sense the storm Enigma was preparing to unleash. His figure, already fading into the shadows, was a reminder of the inevitable truth he had spoken.
“Your suspension is nothing, CHBK. You cannot stop what’s coming. I will rise, and SCW will fall into darkness. I am not bound by you.”
And with that, Enigma disappeared, swallowed by the very darkness he commanded, leaving behind an ominous silence—one that promised a reckoning far greater than anyone could imagine.
The silence that followed Enigma’s disappearance was deafening, the very air thick with the promise of chaos. Thornbrooke Manor, long forgotten by time, seemed to pulse with the energy of his dark words, as if the walls themselves understood the gravity of what was about to unfold.
Enigma’s voice, though now unseen, seemed to hang in the very atmosphere, twisting and curling through the shadows.
“CHBK,” his voice echoed again, low and dangerous, as though he were speaking directly to the man himself. “You think you’ve done something noble, don’t you? That by suspending me, you’ve protected your precious SCW… protected Deanna Frost from what’s coming. But you’ve only postponed the inevitable.”
The flicker of distant candlelight cast fleeting shadows across the room, reflecting the cold smirk that tugged at Enigma’s lips.
“You believe you’ve saved her from my wrath, shielded her from the darkness. But in reality, CHBK, all you’ve done is set her up for something far worse.”
His footsteps echoed ominously through the manor as he continued, his tone now dripping with mockery.
“Your suspension is nothing more than a delay, a mere inconvenience. And all it’s done is allowed the darkness to grow stronger. When I return, I won’t come for Deanna Frost immediately. No. I’ll bide my time, and when I do come for her, it won’t be the punishment you think you’ve prevented.”
Enigma’s gaze seemed to pierce through the manor’s crumbling walls, as if seeing far beyond the halls of Thornbrooke and into the very soul of SCW.
“Deanna Frost, your so-called champion… she’s marked, CHBK. Whether you like it or not, her fate is already sealed. You’ve only made it worse by giving me time to grow in the shadows. She’s not safe from me—she’s being primed for something greater.”
The air grew colder as Enigma’s voice dropped lower, more sinister.
“You’ve set her up for something far more than just punishment, CHBK. You’ve set her up for destruction. And when I return, she will face not just the flames of retribution, but the full weight of everything I’ve become.”
A dark laugh, low and chilling, reverberates through the room.
“When I come for her, it won’t be just a match, a contest of skill. No, it will be a reckoning. Deanna Frost will fall not because of her failures, but because you, CHBK, thought you could protect her from me. She will burn because of your arrogance.”
The laughter faded, but the threat lingered like a poison in the air.
“Deanna, you want me because of what I did to Jessica, because of the torture I’ve brought to your family. You claim yourself to be a victim, but you are merely a pawn in my game. You wanted Apocalypse to be the place and it’s fitting, because Apocalypse will be the demise of Deanna Frost. You are willing to risk everything to fight me, and it is everything that you will lose. This Sunday at SCW Apocalypse, the world will bear witness to the end of Deanna Frost.”
“You see this, Deanna? Do you see this, CHBK?” Enigma holds up the Heart of Veil. “This has more power than either of you know what to do with. This holds the power of life and death. This holds a power that is greater than I. A power that if unleashed on SCW, would surely bring demise to the entire roster. This is why CHBK, I do not follow your mortal rules and regulations. This is why, Deanna, your time is limited. This is why, SCW, your future is in grave danger.”
With that, the room fell into a deep, oppressive silence, the only sound left the faint crackling of dying embers. The darkness of Thornbrooke Manor held its breath, waiting for the storm that would soon engulf them all.
SCW Record
8-2
Current SCW Television Champion
8-2
Current SCW Television Champion