"Reborn in the Movie Universe: Continuation"

[3RD PERSON POV]

[SOUTH KOREA, SEOUL]

Seoul lay blanketed in an unusual hush, the city's vibrant pulse softened to a gentle thrum in the early morning hours. Neon signs glowed faintly in the mist, casting delicate hues of pink and blue over the deserted streets, their colors blending like soft brushstrokes on the stillness. Towering skyscrapers loomed overhead, standing as silent sentinels with their glassy facades catching the faint reflections of city lights. Most windows were dark, save for an occasional office light, flickering like distant stars in the heart of Seoul's steel-and-glass skyline.

In the narrow alleyways, street food stalls stood dormant, their metal countertops gleaming under the glow of the streetlights. The aroma of earlier cooking still lingered, mingling with the crispness of the night air, a reminder of the city's bustling hours past. Somewhere distant, a faint echo of music drifted from a hidden club, muffled and almost ghostly, fading into the quiet. Along the Han River, the water flowed with a gentle murmur, brushing softly beneath the bridges as it mirrored the distant lights of the high rises, twinkling like scattered gems against the shadowed banks.

In a tucked-away, leafy neighborhood, a house stood quietly under the cover of trees, its minimalist elegance blending seamlessly with the calm around it. The building's facade—a harmonious blend of natural wood and raw concrete—emanated warmth, even in the cold hours before dawn. Clean, modern lines framed by ivy-laced walls gave it an inviting look, almost as though the house itself was part of the serene landscape.

Inside the quiet room of the house, a man sits alone, his shoulders subtly hunched over the soft glow of his desk lamp, completely absorbed in his work. His hand glides over a thick sheet of paper, the mechanical pencil held with practiced ease, every stroke deliberate and filled with intent. Shadows deepen and soften beneath his touch, forming characters, faces, and scenes that only he can fully envision. His gaze is sharp, piercing, as if he's not merely drawing but rather drawing from a world only he can see—one that exists vividly in his mind, waiting to be etched into reality.

The desk before him is a quiet chaos, cluttered yet curiously organized, each item a tool of his trade placed just so, reflecting the cadence of his creative process. Piles of sketchpads and storyboard sheets are stacked in an orderly mess to one side, ready to be shuffled through at a moment's inspiration. Rulers, inking pens, erasers, and scraps of tracing paper lie scattered within arm's reach, each an extension of his art, ready to respond to the demands of his imagination.

Above the desk, a corkboard displays pinned sheets of hastily drawn sketches and rough concepts. The edges of these papers curl slightly, worn by his constant revisions, each smudge and crease bearing witness to the evolution of his ideas. Some sheets have faded with time, ink smudged by the press of his fingers or a drop of coffee—souvenirs from countless late nights spent bringing this world to life. His eyes often drift to these sketches, his gaze softening for a moment, as if he's piecing together fragments of a story yet to be told.

Beside him, brightly colored sticky notes pepper the wall and desk, each one bearing reminders, plot points, and snippets of dialogue—small fragments of his imagination waiting to be pieced together. These little bursts of color punctuate the otherwise serene atmosphere of the room, serving as visual cues to the vibrant world he's constructing, each note a promise of the adventures that lie ahead.

Nearby, a wide-screen laptop glows softly, its light casting a calming blue hue across the desk. The screen is alive with his latest digital panel layout, displaying layered sketches, references from previous chapters, and a meticulously arranged timeline of panels that capture every nuance of his story. He glances at the graphics tablet next to it, ready for final edits, but for now, he seems captivated by the traditional art, relishing the tactile connection between pencil and paper—the weight of the tool in his hand, the feel of the paper beneath.

At the edge of the desk sits a half-empty cup of coffee, forgotten yet symbolically rich, the remnants of his last sip cooling slowly. The deep, roasted aroma lingers faintly, a testament to the hours he's poured into his craft, reminding him of both the joy and solitude that accompanies his work. It speaks of late nights and early mornings, of inspiration that strikes at odd hours, and the comfort found in caffeinated sips as he loses himself in his art.

The room itself is lined with bookshelves, each shelf brimming with volumes of art books, manga, and manhwa. Their spines, creased from years of reference, hold the secrets and inspirations that have shaped his journey. Some books lay open on the sofa nearby, showcasing anatomy studies or detailed action sequences, their pages fluttering slightly with the occasional draft, guiding his hand as he works.

The silence envelops him, broken only by the soft scratch of pencil on paper, the rustle of turning pages, and the occasional click of the pen as he pauses to add details to his notes. He is Jun—a famous Webtoon and manhwa artist, an elite member of BLACK LOTUS. He finds solace in this space, a sanctuary where his imagination runs wild, where the lines between reality and fantasy blur. Why he chose this path, why he continues to create— for the joy of storytelling and the life he shares with his wife in the bustling heart of Seoul, it's been two years since they married.

Currently, Jun was immersed in his work, pouring his heart into the new manhwa he intended to publish. His focus sharpened with every stroke of the pencil until the door creaked open, and a soft figure stepped in. It was his wife, Mi-Na, a warm smile illuminating her face.

"Don't you want to sleep? It's already 3:30 AM," she said gently, her voice a soothing balm in the quiet room.

Jun paused, glancing up from his sketches. "You're not sleeping either?"

Mi-Na walked over and perched herself beside him, her presence a comforting weight. "I just woke up to drink some water. Anyway, let's go to bed; it's way too late."

"Just a minute. I'm almost done," he replied, his pencil continuing to dance across the page.

"What are you writing, anyway?" Mi-Na inquired, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

With a smile, Jun replied, "It's my new Webtoon, Tower of God."

"Tower of God?" Mi-Na echoed, her brow furrowing in confusion.

Jun nodded, eager to explain. "It centers around a boy named Bam."

"'Bam' means 'night' or 'chestnut,' right?" she interjected, a spark of recognition lighting her expression.

Hearing Mi-Na's question, Jun nodded, his excitement bubbling as he continued, "He's spent most of his life trapped beneath a vast and mysterious Tower, with only his close friend, Rachel, to keep him company. When Rachel enters the Tower, Bam is devastated. Somehow, he manages to open the door. Now, he will go any distance to see Rachel again, even if it means dying. When he enters the Tower, he meets allies who will help him ascend."

Mi-Na's eyes sparkled with interest. "That sounds really intriguing," she said, her smile genuine.

"I know, right? That's why…" But before Jun could finish, his phone, resting on the cluttered table, chimed with a notification. They both exchanged curious glances.

"Message at a time like this?" Mi-Na remarked.

Jun picked up his phone, and as he opened the screen, a black Lotus emblem flashed across the display, along with an address and time. A grin spread across his face. He placed the phone back down.

"What happened?" Mi-Na asked, her curiosity piqued.

Jun leaned back, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. "A friend messaged me."

"Friend message?" Mi-Na echoed, her head tilting slightly in confusion.

He met her gaze, his smile widening. "Let's go to Paris."

"Wait, what? So sudden?" Mi-Na's surprise was palpable as her mind raced.

"It's just a little get-together of friends," Jun replied, his tone casual yet enticing.

"Friends in Paris?" she asked, eyebrows knitted together, bewilderment evident on her face.

Jun chuckled softly, enjoying the playful mystery he had created. He loved how her eyes searched his for answers, yet he didn't give in.

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[JAPAN, TOKYO]

In the heart of Tokyo, the city awakens gently, bathed in the soft glow of early morning light. The streets, usually bustling with life, lie quiet, wrapped in a serene stillness that envelops the metropolis. Neon signs flicker their last vibrant hues before surrendering to the dawn, their reflections shimmering in the shallow puddles left by the previous night's rain. As the first rays of sunlight pierce through the high-rise buildings, casting long shadows across the asphalt, the air carries a fresh, invigorating scent—damp earth mingling with the faint aroma of street food still lingering from the night before.

The occasional rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze whispers secrets of the city, while the distant sound of a train gliding silently along its tracks adds a rhythmic undertone to the tranquility.

In a spacious traditional Japanese house on the outskirts of the city, Raizo stood on a training ground, embodying focus and discipline. He was an elite member of BLACK LOTUS. The wooden structure of the house, with its sliding shoji doors and tatami mats, served as a stark contrast to the intensity of the scene unfolding outside.

Before him, a diverse group of men and women trained with unwavering determination. They moved in unison, their bodies gliding through the air as they practiced various martial arts forms. The sunlight caught the sheen of sweat glistening on their brows, illuminating their focused expressions. Each strike and block resonated with purpose, a reflection of their dedication to honing their skills. Raizo watched closely, his sharp eyes assessing their movements, noting the strengths and weaknesses in their techniques.

With a commanding presence, he stepped forward, the sound of his footsteps soft against the polished wooden floor. "Focus on your breathing," he instructed, his voice steady and calm, cutting through the morning air like a blade. "Feel the energy flow through your body. Every movement has a purpose."

The trainees paused, their attention shifting to Raizo. He exuded an aura of authority tempered by a deep-seated compassion. His own training had not only forged his physical strength but also his understanding of the mind-body connection, a lesson he now imparted to his students.

"Now, let's combine what you've learned," he continued, gesturing to a pair of students. "Show me your best techniques. Remember, it's not about power alone; it's about precision and control."

The two stepped forward, their movements synchronized, as they demonstrated a series of swift punches and fluid kicks.

As the training continued, a group of well-built men and women entered the grounds. Their presence drew immediate attention, and the room grew quiet, each trainee pausing mid-movement. Raizo's gaze shifted to the group, noticing one man approaching him, holding out a phone with a slight bow of respect.

"Raizo-sama, it's an important message," the man said politely, extending the phone.

Raizo took the device, his expression as calm and unreadable as always. On the screen, a familiar emblem flashed—a black lotus, sleek and striking, accompanied by an address and a date. He studied the message for a brief moment, his eyes sharp but his face betraying nothing. Closing the phone, he handed it back to the man with quiet composure and looked out across the training ground, his mind already considering what lay ahead.

The man before him, sensing the weight of the message, asked with careful respect, "What is your order for us, Raizo-sama?"

Raizo's gaze returned to him, his voice steady. "For now, focus on your training. I'll be leaving for Paris next month." His words were calm, but they carried a weight of finality, underscoring the importance of preparation.

The man gave a respectful nod and turned to leave, gesturing for the others to follow. As they departed, Raizo's attention returned to the trainees before him. He took a steady breath, feeling the quiet resolve settle within him. The group sensed his calm authority, and soon, they resumed their movements with renewed focus, each motion disciplined, each stance grounded.

(A/N: Hey guys, can you suggest some background details about Raizo? I mean, he is from Tokyo, so I'm all ears for any suggestions!)

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[RUSSIA, MOSCOW]

Moscow in the evening carries a certain mystique, an old-world charm mingling with modern vibrance. Beneath the sprawling sky, the cityscape glows, every building and monument outlined in lights that reflect off the Moscow River, casting soft glimmers across the water's calm surface. The Kremlin walls stand formidable yet beautiful, their red bricks bathed in a golden hue, while St. Basil's Cathedral towers nearby, its colorful domes surreal against the night sky, like a vivid dream frozen in stone.

Around Red Square, people stroll—some hurrying home, others simply savoring the moment, wrapped in scarves against the crisp night air. Cafés and kiosks stay open late, their warm light spilling onto the cobblestone streets where locals and tourists alike clutch steaming cups of tea or coffee. The aroma of fresh pastries wafts through the air, mingling with the scent of roasted nuts and the faint, cool freshness of snow that has settled earlier in the season.

The hum of conversations, punctuated by bursts of laughter, drifts from outdoor terraces, where friends share stories and strangers exchange glances, caught in the spell of the night. Musicians play softly on nearby street corners, their melodies weaving through the city, adding to the vibrant yet intimate mood. A couple leans against a railing, gazing out over the river, lost in the warmth of each other's presence, while a group of friends playfully jostles each other, their joy infectious.

Further out, the streets buzz with a quiet, subdued energy, a city settling down for the night but refusing to sleep entirely. High-rise buildings form a glowing skyline, their windows like scattered stars against the darkened silhouettes. Cars glide along the broad avenues, their headlights tracing lines of movement, a reminder that in Moscow, life continues to pulse, even as night deepens.

But the environment is a little different in a large luxurious mansion. The once-grand mansion lay in ruins, its opulence now a distant memory beneath the chaotic aftermath of violence. An oppressive scent of blood permeated the air, thick and cloying, mixing with the remnants of luxury that had once characterized the home. Ornate furniture was overturned, and priceless vases lay shattered, their fragments glittering like cruel stars scattered across the floor. The muted sounds of the outside world faded away, replaced by the haunting stillness of death that enveloped the room.

The living room, once a sanctuary of elegance, now served as a grim battlefield. Dead bodies lay sprawled across the floor, two of them have naga tattoos on their bodies. Blood flowed freely around them, pooling in dark red rivulets, a stark reminder of the violence that had transpired.

At the center of this madness stood Arthur Bishop, a figure of raw intensity amid the chaos. His clothes were tattered and soaked with crimson, each stain a testament to the brutal skirmish that had unfolded. Cuts and bruises marred his skin, evidence of the fight he had fought. The room seemed to pulse with his heavy breaths, each exhale filled with a simmering rage. Around him stood his team, three men and two women, they all are members of BLACK LOTUS.

Before Arthur, a man knelt, arms and legs broken, the agony etched on his face like a mask of despair. Blood seeped from various wounds, pooling beneath him, a stark reminder of his impending fate. Arthur's gaze fixed on this broken man, an unsettling calm radiating from him as he raised his gun, the weight of it steady in his hand. The world around them blurred; it was just him and this man, the rest of reality fading into the background.

"Now speak," Arthur said, his voice low and controlled, as if the very act of uttering those words granted him power over life and death. The man's eyes widened, a flicker of fear igniting in their depths. He trembled, knowing the gravity of the situation, the weight of the gun aimed directly at his head.

"Please," the man rasped, desperation tainting his voice. "I can—"

"Spare me your pleas," Arthur interrupted, his tone cold as steel. He felt a surge of adrenaline coursing through him, a rush that ignited the anger simmering just beneath the surface. "You know what I want. Speak"

The air was thick with tension, punctuated only by the ragged breaths of the man kneeling before Arthur. His fear was palpable, a living thing that wrapped around them, mingling with the scent of blood that soaked into the carpet beneath them. Arthur's gun remained steady, a silent promise of the fate that awaited him should he falter.

"I didn't know much," the man whimpered, his voice barely rising above a whisper. "I'm just a businessman."

Arthur's patience thinned, the calmness in his voice concealing a storm of anger. "I didn't want to hear your nonsense. Speak—who are those people, especially those with snake tattoos?"

The man's gaze darted to the bodies scattered around the room, a flicker of panic crossing his features. "Those people are members of a secret society," he stammered, desperation lacing his words.

Arthur's brow furrowed slightly. "What is this secret society?"

The man shook his head, wincing as the movement sent fresh pain shooting through his limbs. "I don't know what it is. I swear. It's an organization—powerful. And those with snake tattoos… they're members of the Naga clan."

At the mention of the Naga clan, Arthur's interest piqued. He raised an eyebrow, the gun lowering just a fraction as he sought clarity amidst the chaos. "What is the Naga clan?"

"I don't know!" the man pleaded, his voice trembling with fear. "As I said, I'm just a businessman! I deal with contracts, trade, nothing more! They approached me for assistance."

"Why were they here to meet you?" Arthur pressed, narrowing his eyes, his voice a sharp edge of urgency.

The man gulped, his voice shaking. "They wanted my help. They're searching for a person with an UNALOME tattoo as a birthmark. They're searching not just in Moscow, but all around Russia—or maybe the whole world."

"What is UNALOME, and why are they searching for that person?" Arthur demanded, his voice a steady blade cutting through the tense air.

The man's eyes widened with terror, desperation flooding his features. "I don't know anything! What I know, I've already told you! Please, let me go! I don't want to die!"

Before he could finish his plea, Arthur's patience snapped like a taut wire. The gun fired, the shot echoing in the hollow expanse of the mansion. Silence fell, heavy and suffocating. The man's body crumpled to the floor, his life extinguished in an instant.

Arthur felt a strange emptiness wash over him. He lowered himself onto the plush sofa, the fabric stained with the remnants of violence, and let out a long, weary sigh. The weight of the world pressed down on him like an iron shroud.

One of his subordinates, a sharp-eyed woman, stood nearby, her expression somber as she surveyed the aftermath. "Boss, it seems the situation is not as simple as we thought," she said, glancing at the body of the man with the naga tattoo, now lifeless and still.

Arthur's gaze followed hers. "You're right. This situation is serious," he replied, his voice low and contemplative. "Those people aren't normal. They have super speed, super strength. It's our fortune that there were just two of them, and they didn't seem experienced in battle."

He leaned back against the sofa, the cushions cradling him but offering little comfort. "This is going to be a huge headache," he murmured, frustration threading through his tone. The Naga clan and this secret society Arthur could feel the storm brewing on the horizon.

With a heavy sigh, He looked up at the clock hanging on the wall—9:30 PM. The hour felt late, yet the night was still young, filled with unseen dangers and unanswered questions.

As Arthur settled into the worn embrace of the sofa, the silence was shattered by the sharp trill of a notification on his phone. He pulled it out, the screen illuminating with the emblem of Black Lotus—its address and time glaring back at him. He exhaled slowly, keeping his expression neutral, but inside, a storm brewed.

Suddenly one of his subordinates, a tall man with a steady gaze, broke the stillness. "Boss, reinforcements are here."

"They took their time, huh?" Arthur replied, a hint of dry humor slipping through his calm facade.

Moments later, figures clad in black entered the room, faces obscured by masks and hoods. They moved with purpose, a quiet efficiency that spoke of training and experience. A woman stepped forward, her voice low but firm. "Sorry for the late arrival, sir."

Arthur met her gaze, his tone unwavering. "I want an explanation later. For now, take the lead."

Before he could utter another word, dizziness swept over him like a dark tide, and he fall unconscious. The woman's reflexes were instantaneous; she rushed to catch him, her grip strong and steady. "Quickly, to the headquarters!" she ordered, urgency slicing through her calm demeanor.

The others sprang into action, efficiently gathering the injured subordinates, their movements fluid and practiced. Within moments, the house that had witnessed chaos was empty, the air still heavy with the scent of blood and desperation. They vanished into the night like phantoms, leaving behind no trace of their presence, as if they had never been there in the first place.

(A/N: If you'd like to support me, please use this UPI: omgadekar29@oksbi "Om Gadekar". If you do, please let me know your webnovel name so I can recognize you.)

(Word's Count:3688)