The name Black Corp had once echoed through the heart of Metropolis as a symbol of ambition and industry. Second only to LexCorp, it had stood tall for decades—its wealth built on the backs of construction empires and cutting-edge automobile manufacturing. From the soaring skyline to the thunderous engines on the streets, Black Corp had left its mark.
But behind the shining glass towers and polished boardrooms, vultures circled.
Since the tragic death of Elijah and Seraphina Black, the parents of Ashborn Black, the company had been steered not by blood, but by the will of the board. Until Ashborn came of age, or until he too died, the decision-making remained suspended—awaiting the legal shift of power to the two uncles.
But the uncles were dead now. Both of them. And with their sudden demise, so too vanished the planned transfer of power.
A new guardian was required. But Ashborn had no intention of being shackled by bureaucracy or drawing attention to himself. He had other plans. Plans rooted in shadows.
Two days after the purge, the nation woke to tragedy.
News outlets blared across every screen:
"Entire Black Family Found Dead in Gotham."
"Murder or Message? Black Family Massacre Rocks Metropolis Elite."
"Ashborn Black and Uncle Arthur Only Survivors of the Gotham Slaughter."
Their bodies—unrecognizable, mutilated, burned nearly beyond identification—were found dumped in the outskirts of Gotham. The scene was horrific. Bones shattered, skin torn, blood soaked into the dark earth. The kind of brutality that spoke of a message, not a mere crime.
According to the police report, only Ashborn and Arthur Black had been spared. Arthur, having stayed behind to care for the 'sickly' Ashborn, was now the grieving patriarch of a family wiped from existence.
And Arthur wept well. Because Arthur… was Ashborn.
The Shadow Monarch had simply taken the man's form through his shapeshifting ability—every wrinkle, every mannerism, every trembling sob in front of the cameras. He played the devastated uncle with haunting precision. A man who had lost his brother, his wife, and both daughters in one vile stroke of violence.
The investigation dragged on with no real answers. No fingerprints. No digital traces. No signs of motive except a vague connection to organized crime. Some speculated that a Gotham-based crime syndicate had struck, enraged by Black Corp's plans to construct several high-end buildings in their turf. With the family dead and the Gotham project scrapped, the theory made sense.
But truth, as always, remained buried in the dark.
With the guardianship rendered irrelevant and no surviving claimants to challenge him, Arthur Black—Ashborn in disguise—was granted control of Black Corp. Legal, clean, unquestioned.
And his first act as the new head? He buried the name Black Corp.
From its ashes, a new monolith rose. Shadow Corp.
The change made waves across every major financial outlet. Analysts debated the implications. Reporters asked why such a drastic rebranding had occurred so suddenly.
A week later, Arthur Black finally answered during a quiet press interview, voice low and eyes dimmed by fabricated grief.
"Ashborn… wanted this. After losing his parents, the two that built this legacy, he said Black Corp is hollow. A shadow of what it once was. He asked if we could rename it—to honor what's left. Just a broken-hearted child's wish, I suppose. And how could I say no?"
The image was perfect. A boy lost in sorrow. An uncle honoring his orphaned nephew's wishes.
The narrative spread like wildfire, painted in mourning and sentimentality. Investors stayed. Sympathy flowed. Public trust remained.
Behind it all, Ashborn smiled. The shadow now wore a mask. And the world… believed it.
___________
Ashborn had seen too much in his former life. Too much death. Too much power. Too much emptiness.
The system had carved into him a legacy drenched in blood, commanding him to conquer, to destroy, to become a monarch of shadows in a broken lifeless world. And he had done it. He had stood atop a mountain of corpses, crowned by lightning and silence. Billions dead. Centuries of endless war.
He was tired of that. In this new world, he had no desire to wage wars or be conqueror. No hunger for domination. He craved something far more simple. Enjoyment.
So, Ashborn designed a life for himself with a singular vision—he would live like a human. He would work, enjoy, and indulge in the mortal pleasures this world offered. No missions. No systems. No endless war.
But that didn't mean stagnation.
To ensure Shadow Corp remained dominant and untouchable, Ashborn began collecting shadows, not of soldiers or assassins, but of the greatest minds in this era. Scientists, engineers, economists, doctors. He extracted them from the forgotten dead, snatching up every intellect the world buried in obscurity.
Biologists who once played with the edges of life. Chemists whose formulas held many revelations. Tech pioneers and financial geniuses. Each one reduced to pure skill and intelligence, their personalities erased. Perfect tools. Silent, tireless, and bound to his will.
Under fake identities and fabricated backstories, their groundbreaking work was quietly filtered into Shadow Corp's pipeline. Products, patents, and advancements flowed like water, and no one outside of him had a clue.
And it worked.
In just five years, Shadow Corp exploded into new industries; medicine, energy, and software development. Medical breakthroughs pushed the company to the forefront of biotech. Revolutionary battery designs and sustainable energy tech drew global attention. Their software branch released tools years ahead of competitors.
News outlets sang praises of Arthur Black, the man who endured the loss of his entire family and still carried forward the legacy. A resilient soul, they called him. A genius guardian to his young nephew.
And then, the second tragedy struck.
On the eve of Ashborn's eighteenth birthday, Arthur Black, his own disguised persona, was reported dead in a catastrophic accident inside Shadow Corp's energy laboratory. The company had been working on a new high-capacity battery system when something went catastrophically wrong.
The entire lab was incinerated in an instant.
No bodies were recovered. Only ash remained. Among the dead,Arthur Black, beloved head of Shadow Corp.
The public mourned. News anchors called it a cursed family legacy.
And Ashborn? He buried Arthur's mask for good.
The next morning, Ashborn Black walked into the towering Shadow Corp building not as a boy… but as its new master.
The board had seen opportunity in the loss. A young heir. No degree. No experience. No Arthur to shield him. It was time to wrest back control.
One board member stepped forward, speaking in syrupy words about his deep friendship with Arthur, about how the board stood ready to help Ashborn during this difficult transition.
Ashborn listened with a calm expression.
Then he laughed.
"Friendship?" he echoed coldly. "Jack Everstone, you lobbied to cut R&D funding last quarter. Arthur had to personally override your vote."
The man's face drained of color.
Ashborn's smile never reached his eyes. "Don't lie to me. I've known everything this company does—every project, every budget, every backdoor deal. I let Arthur play his part, but don't confuse the mask for the mind beneath."
A heavy silence fell over the boardroom.
Then Ashborn turned to the rest of them. "Shadow Corp continues. As it is. No changes."
They didn't argue. Not after that.
They had watched Arthur carry the company through its golden age. But now, in the presence of this young man—this eighteen-year-old who radiated calm power and unflinching control—they began to see the truth.
Ashborn wasn't Arthur's successor. He was the one behind Arthur's success.
Efficient. Ruthless. Brilliant. Whispers began to circulate. Ashborn proved himself to everyone quickly? Everyone viewed him as a prodigy with a boundless future.
Under Ashborn's control, the Shadow Corp grew much faster than before and began to catch up with LexCorp.