Gharin Anhak Zanjoahir

I was born from whispers and shadows. Some say I emerged from the depths of a forgotten system, a place where the stars themselves dared not shine. Others claim my name is nothing but a mask, a lie woven by the void that gave me life. Let them speak. The truth is far more elusive than their feeble speculations. I am not a name to be spoken lightly.

The traces of my journey across the galaxy are shrouded in darkness, erased by my own hand. Those foolish enough to try to follow me have vanished, consumed by the emptiness, as though the void itself swallowed their very existence. I am no ordinary man; I am a shadow drifting among the stars, a specter whose intentions remain cloaked in the abyss.

My name has become a symbol of disappearances, betrayals, and forgotten secrets. But whose secrets are they? Mine? Or the remnants of those I obliterated in my pursuit? Am I a hunter? A fugitive? Even I have stopped asking. It doesn’t matter. The fear etched into the faces of those who dare to cross me tells me all I need to know. My fleet may be small, but my influence commands forces that defy reason itself.

I live for the shadows. The rest? It’s meaningless.

I am cold, relentless, and silent. Death trails my every move. No one has seen me. No one has heard me. They only feel me, when the cold of the void grips their souls, when the stars dim as I pass.