Zawish the Unseen –: The Rise of Arwaah
Novel Format – Approx. 2,500+ words (continued upon request)
The jungle was still, unnaturally so. Wind rustled dying leaves above the clearing where moments ago Zawish had fought Tarkorr, the vicious astral hound of the Mirror Void. The scent of scorched roots lingered, a reminder of the battle's brutality. Zawish stood in silence, the black glove of Dar Metal on his right hand pulsing gently with contained energy. His chest rose and fell steadily, but inside him, unease twisted like a storm waiting to break.
Then, the quiet was shattered—not by a scream, not by a beast—but by the sterile tone of a broadcast feed.
"…breaking news out of the Kaladesh region…"
Zawish turned his head slowly. Overhead, small drones hovered just above the treetops, their lenses gleaming. Holographic screens flickered into existence in the air around him, displaying a series of news anchors, each more dramatic than the last.
"The masked entity known only as 'Zawish' has once again been spotted near a site of mass destruction."
"Government officials urge civilians to report sightings and avoid direct contact."
"Is Zawish the hero we need, or the destroyer we've feared?"
Zawish narrowed his eyes. The footage they used was selectively cropped, altered, moments taken entirely out of context—healing wounds edited out, civilians removed from frame. They made him look like a monster.
"I never asked for glory," he muttered. "But this?"
A high-pitched, modulated voice boomed from the largest drone. "People of Earth… I am Arwaah."
The drones adjusted midair, spinning to project a tall, sharply dressed man onto every screen. He wore a spotless white suit and an easy smile that seemed at home in politics or propaganda.
"I am not a god. Not an alien. I am one of you. And I am tired."
His tone softened with practiced charisma.
"Tired of fear. Tired of uncertainty. Tired of waiting for a being beyond our comprehension to decide if we live or die."
The image zoomed in on Arwaah's face, lit softly from beneath. His eyes, a deep and calculating brown, looked directly into the lens.
"You've trusted aliens, mutants, cosmic gamblers… and now, this one—Zawish. What do we really know about him?"
Zawish's fists tightened. The Dar Metal glove sparked faintly, responding to the tension rising in his veins.
"I've fought for them. Bled for them. Burned for them," he growled. "And now I'm their enemy?"
The holograms didn't flinch.
Arwaah continued. "He claims to be our protector. But he is judge, jury, and executioner. Earth deserves better than a masked ghost."
The feed shifted again—edited footage of Zawish's fights played in slow motion: a moment where he crushed a villain's chest, slowed and saturated with red to look like murder; a scene of him lifting a city bus—but edited just before the children climbed out, making it look like he flung it at civilians.
"You bastard," Zawish whispered.
Above the projection, Arwaah lifted a single hand.
"This is a call to awaken. Earth must govern itself. Trust itself. We will not kneel again."
The drones dispersed with a hum, leaving Zawish alone in the clearing.
No cosmic beast. No monster.
Just lies.
The next day, New Kaladesh was on fire.
Not from war, but from protest. Marchers filled the streets holding signs reading: "Zawish = Doom." "Protect Earth." "Unmask the Monster."
Hovercabs and solar trams were abandoned as people gathered near a towering structure at the city's center—a black monolith clad in polished steel and pulsing signal lights. Arwaah's broadcast headquarters. The "Lighthouse of Clarity."
Zawish landed on a rooftop, pulling his hood tighter as he watched from the shadows. His heart pounded, not with rage—but with sorrow. He had stood against entities who could blink suns out of existence, who twisted time, who murdered children for fuel. But this… this was worse.
This was humanity turning on its own hope.
Without hesitation, he descended into the crowd. As he walked, people parted—but not with awe. With fear. With hate.
Children cried. Mothers pulled them away. A man shouted, "Murderer!" and threw a bottle at his chest. It shattered against the Dar Metal, harmless. Zawish didn't flinch.
When he reached the gates of the Lighthouse, private guards in sleek body armor blocked his path. They weren't cosmic warriors. They were ex-cops, ex-soldiers. Just men with stun rifles and purpose.
Zawish raised his hand. "I don't want to hurt anyone."
"Open fire," a voice said through their earpieces.
The first round of bullets hit his energy field like stones against glass. He sighed and flicked a hand—magnetics twisted, and their weapons spiraled into the sky.
The guards charged.
Zawish danced among them—not to kill, not to maim, but to disable. He disarmed, unbalanced, and grounded each one with clinical precision. One fell into a trash bin. One collapsed under the weight of his own frozen exosuit. Another tried to punch Zawish and hit an illusion, falling head-first into a concrete wall.
And then the intercom crackled. Arwaah's voice, low and smooth, came from every speaker.
"You're putting on quite a show, shadow boy."
Zawish looked up, eyes narrowing.
From a balcony high above the protest tower, Arwaah stepped forward, a glass of wine in hand and a calm smile on his face.
"You came," Arwaah said, as if they were old friends.
"Had to," Zawish replied. "You slander me, turn the world against me, and now you're surprised I show up?"
"I'm not surprised," Arwaah said. "I'm pleased. You're doing exactly what I hoped. Because now they're all watching."
He gestured to the massive screen above the tower.
Zawish glanced up—and saw himself, surrounded by fallen guards, standing above civilians too afraid to breathe.
"Tell me," Arwaah called, "do you even realize how terrifying you look?"
"I only fight monsters," Zawish replied, his voice like gravel over thunder.
Arwaah spread his arms. "And today, I'm the monster?"
"No," Zawish said, stepping forward. "You're worse."
He flew directly into the tower.
Alarms blared. Security bots activated. Zawish broke through them like paper puppets, until he reached the top floor—Arwaah's command room. White marble. Wall-to-wall monitors. A skyline view.
Arwaah waited there alone, sipping tea.
"You won't kill me," Arwaah said.
Zawish didn't respond.
"You can't," he continued. "Because if you do, you prove every word I said was true."
Zawish stepped closer. "I don't need to kill you. I just need to expose you."
He raised his glove and touched the mainframe.
A surge of Dar energy traveled through the system. Within seconds, every screen, every signal, every satellite hijacked. Not by lies. But truth.
The raw footage.
Zawish saving children from a building collapse. Zawish tending to a wounded enemy. Zawish weeping after failing to save a village from a timequake.
The people of Earth watched.
Some dropped their signs. Some dropped their jaws.
In the streets below, the crowd fell into stunned silence.
And on the balcony, Arwaah's hands trembled.
"You… idiot…" he hissed. "You ruined everything—"
"No," Zawish said. "I fixed one thing."
Arwaah lunged with a hidden dagger—Dar alloy, poisoned, designed for gods.
Zawish caught his wrist mid-swing.
"I've killed beings stronger than gravity," he said softly. "But you? You'll just get a trial."
He turned away.
Arwaah fell to his knees, breathing heavily as police drones hovered nearby. They scanned, confirmed identity, and began the arrest procedure.
Zawish stood on the edge of the balcony, looking down at the sea of humans watching.
He raised a single hand.
Not to demand loyalty.
But to remind them—he was still there.
But as he walked away, he didn't hear Arwaah's final whisper—spoken into a hidden mic on his collar.
"If I fall… he rises."
In a distant chamber—somewhere outside known time—a mirror sparked to life.
And in its surface… Zawish stared back.
But this one… grinned.