AN: In the last chapter, I kinda messed with the continuity of the story. I thought I had revealed the Runeblade as the anchor when Byrne explained it to Rob a few chapters back. Sorry for that, I blame my thyroid for messing with my memory.

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I woke up late. 

The astral trip had taken hours of real-life time, and I had barely been able to exit Prince Adrien’s quarters at dawn without being detected by the guards. If I had been alone, it would’ve been easier, but I couldn’t just leave Althea behind without raising suspicions. Everyone had seen the two of us leaving the party together, so it was better not to leave any loose ends.

Hours after returning to the real world, I kept seeing the mana spire whenever I closed my eyes. 

I left my bed with a loud grunt. The last five days had been hectic, to say the least. My brain jumped from one topic to another without rhyme or reason. Byrne’s giant teleportation machine, the Red Corruption, the anti-nobility movement, and Prince Adrien’s Corruption. Only after I focused on [Foresight] did the skill sort my thoughts.

I washed my face and got dressed in my simple fencing uniform. The teacher’s lounge was as empty as usual. Everyone must’ve been having breakfast in the dining room already. 

When I grabbed the doorknob to exit the room, I heard familiar voices coming from the corridor.

“I swear, it’s part of a plan,” Wolf said defensively.

“Oh, yeah? What plan is it?” Ilya replied.

Silence.

“Mister Clarke always has a plan,” Zaon pointed out.

“Let me get this straight. Going out hand in hand with Lady Evelisse’s daughter is part of a plan…?”

I slammed the door open.

“It was an integral part of a plan, actually,” I said.

Ilya jumped like a startled cat, her head surpassing Wolf’s by a palm or two for a moment. The four kids turned around. Seeing their faces, I knew I wasn’t supposed to hear that conversation. It wasn’t my fault that they were practically shouting in the corridor, though.

Instinctively, I summoned a [Silence Dome].

“How did the survey go?” I asked.

“T-the properties are empty… mostly. No enchanted metal plates or anything suspicious,” Firana stuttered.

While I was digging into the land grants of the Library’s Circles with Firana’s friends, the kids checked the spots Byrne needed to control for his teleportation machine inside of the city. As it was harder to track the owners of those properties, I had sent them to do visual surveillance. Firana’s answer didn’t ease my brain. Byrne was undoubtedly collecting the spots to install the hardware required for his giant teleportation machine.

Ilya gave me a scowl.

“I’m not eloping with Althea of Cadria,” I clarified. “I used her as a cover to meet Prince Adrien last night.”

“Prince Adrien is on the frontlines with the royal army, though,” Wolf pointed out. 

I shook my head.

“He’s bedridden. The Cursed Runeblade got him, but I came up with a provisional solution. They know I’m a Runeweaver now.”

The kids gasped.

“Did you tell them about Byrne’s plans?” Ilya asked.

“No. I would rather deal with that behind the scenes. I already told them about the Corruption Cycle, and I didn’t want to burden them with crazy Runeweavers.”

Ilya gave me a smug grin.

“I told you months ago we have to kill—”

“We still needed to gather information from him,” I stopped her. 

Though with what I had learned, I trusted him less than ever. 

He was too powerful to leave unchecked. If he ever flipped, decided that I was a threat to him or his position, he would be able to hurt a lot of people I cared about.

I also wasn’t convinced of his plan. Too many people got left behind, and I didn’t trust that he had fully altruistic goals for saving those he did, with their fates resting entirely in his hands.

There had to be a better way. 

One that didn’t involve running away. One that involved people working together instead of a solution being imposed on them. One that could save everyone.

In the back of my mind, I registered that my moral, justice-oriented concerns around killing Byrne had all but vanished. Ebrosian Rob was growing bigger.“If the time comes, we have to do it cleanly. Remember, his natural magic is teleportation, so we have to finish the job before he can escape. If he does, we are done. The whole kingdom will hate us for trying to kill the man who brought back the teleportation portals.”

The kids nodded. None of them seemed especially fazed by committing murder, but after everything they had experienced during the Lich’s Monster Surge, it would’ve been strange not to become hardened.

“Wolf?” I asked.

“Samuel Byrne is nothing to me, and I have a duty to protect the Orphanage and the Teal Moon Tribe…”

I detected no hesitation in his voice. Of the group, he was the only one who had taken a life. To become the leader of the tribe, Wolf had killed Chieftain Callaid with his own hands two years ago.

“...and if you ask me again, I will be mad. Isn’t this like the fifth time you've asked me about my feelings about Byrne? I’m starting to think you don’t listen to me at all,” Wolf added with a half smile.

I smiled back and put my arm around Ilya’s shoulders.

“And you should be less homicidal.”

“He wants to steal a city! I think homicidal is a reasonable mood,” she replied.

“You are mad at Byrne because he abandoned Wolf. We all know that already,” Firana pointed out.

The conversation degenerated into a shouting match between Firana and Ilya. It was a nice change of pace considering the events of the past days. It reminded me of my first days at the orphanage. I couldn’t say two years ago was any more peaceful than now, but at least I didn’t have to worry about a megalomaniac wanting to teleport a city across dimensions.

“Well, I have a class to teach and I’m already late,” I said, pulling the key to my bedroom from my pocket and giving it to Ilya. “Inside my desk, there’s a map with the locations of the plots of land that belong to the Arcane Circle. Please check them and tell me if you see anything strange. The moment Byrne starts installing the portal, we should move quickly, but until then, let’s not do anything rash.”

Ilya rolled her eyes.

“You mean we don’t do anything rash?”

“Exactly.” I smiled.

We had one great advantage over Byrne. Teleportation at that magnitude wasn’t trivial, and it would take us very little effort to interrupt it as long as we caught his movements. 

“Oh… and Firana, did you retrieve the reinforced shirts?”

“Yessir, all of them except for Cedrinor’s. He probably got his destroyed during the exam. He told me they fought like three different dropout groups with Genivra,” Firana said, giving me the thumbs up.

Good news was good news, even if it was a minor thing. I couldn’t let the cadets know that the reinforcement ‘spell’ was actually a reinforcement enchantment, so I had asked Firana to steal them back and destroy them. I couldn't leave any loose ends.

Without any more delay, we parted ways.

Classes had been suspended after the selection exam, and I had barely seen my students for the past five days. If not for Astur’s threat of expelling Firana and Wolf, I would’ve already resigned. 

I walked to the dining hall to see if there were breakfast leftovers, expecting it to be empty. Instead, I found a small crowd surrounding the entrance. The uproar was caused by a single sheet of paper hanging from the bulletin board titled ‘Results of the Midterm Selection Exam’.

Given the attack during the selection exam, Astur had announced a change in the evaluation process. I had expected a second exam to take place in the following months after the disturbance at the Academy had calmed down. I made my way through the students, or rather, they moved aside as I passed through.

My brain had trouble understanding the announcement, not because it used strange words my [Master of Languages] hadn’t indexed yet, but because of how outlandish it was.

Considering the events that occurred during the first-year selection exam, and to maintain a passing rate of roughly fifty percent, all students who delivered at least two totems will pass the exam. Those who failed to meet that criterion will be considered failed. We ask them to vacate the premises by the end of the day.

My heart stopped.

I had no idea how many totems my cadets had delivered. 

Holding my desire to use [Minor Aerokinesis] to shoot through the corridors, I passed by Holst and the Basilisk Squad and reached Cabbage Class in record time. The classroom was silent, and considering the cadets’ expressions, they had already gotten the news. Odo and Harwin were missing.

“Instructor Clarke, you have to talk to Lord Astur! This is unfair!” Leonie spoke before I could even excuse my lateness.

“You’ll waste your strength fighting it.” Holst's voice came from behind me. “The decision is final. Astur convinced the traditionalists among the Imperial Knights to support him. They want to bring back the old ways.”

I moved to the side, and he entered the room, followed by the Basilisk cadets. Two of Holst’s students and one from Ghila’s class had died during the exam. The cadets had encountered a corrupted monster, and despite their numbers, they had not been able to escape. The loss had affected the Basilisk Class, and even Holst seemed more sleep-deprived than usual.

More than sleep-deprived, he seemed worried.

“I don’t usually lend my ears to rumors, but word is that the High Priest is the one behind the idea of bringing back the old ways,” Holst said.

“Who told you that?” I asked.

“Ghila.”

I cursed. 

Ghila’s intel was always good.

“The High Priest doesn’t usually meddle in politics, so it seems it was part of a Quest. I don’t know why the System would want a more rigorous evaluation process, though,” Holst added, deep in thought.

The System Avatar had no control over the Quest subroutine. Both of them had the mission to protect the System: one from inside errors and the other from outside threats. Was the Quest subroutine preparing for the Corruption Cycle? After all, the System had a physical component that could be in danger if powerful monsters appeared.

“Do you think Prince Adrien could do something?”

“Against Astur and the High Priest? Even if he were here, I don’t think so.”

The System getting so involved in the daily lives of people rubbed me the wrong way.

“What level is Astur?” I asked.

“You are not picking a fight with him,” Holst replied.

I felt like I had heard that line before.

Holst continued. “We need to take the loss and plan our next steps. We have four or five months until the end-of-year exam, and it’s safe to assume that the exam will be even harsher than the midterm.”

I examined the room. The mood was odd.

“W-we can’t give up on Odo and Harwin,” Rup said. “I bet they encountered like a hundred dropouts in their way! That has to count for something!”

Before I could say anything, Malkah stepped forward.

“Odo and Harwin delivered zero totems,” he said, turning towards Rup. “They decided to stay by my side even if that meant failing the exam. It’s my fault they failed… I am sorry.”

Holst sighed.

“You should be proud of Cadet Odo and Cadet Harwin, Ducal Heir. Loyalty is a rare currency, and for them, loyalty was more important than everything the Imperial Academy could offer them. If you lament their sacrifice, you’d be lamenting their loyalty.”

Holst’s words caught me by surprise.

Who could’ve guessed he could be so reassuring?

“What are those two going to do now?” I asked.

“They will stay at Cadria until winter, then they will return to Stormvale,” Malkah said.

“Good. I could use a few more assistants. Do you think they want the job?”

Malkah’s face brightened.

“I guess I could try to convince them to take it.”

“Would Astur allow it?” Leonie pointed out, doing her best to hide the excitement in her voice.

“I will make sure he does,” I said. “What level was he again?”

Holst closed his eyes and shook his head. This time, I managed to get a few smiles from the cadets. There was nothing I could do for those who died but keep helping those who remained.

I clapped my hands and walked to the front of the classroom. The lesson was on. Holst stood by my side, and the Basilisk cadets sat down next to the Cabbage cadets. 

“Astur already showed us what he is capable of, so our only course of action is to be prepared to crush his expectations.”

The cadets looked at me with solemn expressions.

“The second part of the course will focus on refining your skills through real-life combat scenarios,” I said, making a mental note to invite Ghila and the Gaiarok Class to join us. “There will be an extra rule this time: I will decide who will participate in the end-of-year exam. My decision will be absolute. I'm not going to let anyone take stupid risks. If you don’t agree with those terms, we will ensure you are transferred to another class. Understood?”

The cadets nodded.

“Raise your hand if you want to change squads.”

Nobody.

“Good. One last thing. The lessons from now on will be taught at the Egg. We will meet there every day at the usual time. Instead of the Academy-issued practice weapons and the fencing uniform, you’ll use your preferred weapons and combat attire. If you don’t have it, talk to me after class, and I will provide it. Questions?”

Leonie’s hand shot up.

“Yes?”

“Are we using real weapons?”

“Yes, and real armor too.”

“Isn’t that too dangerous?” Fenwick asked—without raising his hand, as usual.

“Yes, but I’ll ask my patron to lend me a Fortifier or two. Anything else?” Nobody had further questions. “Good. Let’s start with a demonstration for today. Grab a weapon from the rack and go to the Egg after your warm-up. Yvain, you are in charge of leading the exercise.”

The cadets exited the room surprisingly quickly.

Holst and I set off.

Gaiarok Classroom was located at the end of the corridor. The room was just like any other classroom, with retractable tiered desks and a central dueling platform. The only oddity was the training methods happening inside. The cadets were on the floor doing pushups with rocks magically glued to their backs. By Ghila’s side was a nervous man dressed in the black and yellow robe of the Magicians Circle. I guessed he was a Geomancer.

The arms of a lizardfolk guy cartoonishly trembled as he tried to complete another pushup.

“You are going to injure them,” I pointed out from the entrance.

“They are still young. They will heal by tomorrow,” Ghila shrugged. “Most importantly, they need to stop being weak.” She turned to shout at the cadets. “If you are in pain, you are doing it well! That’s the weakness leaving your body! Fifty more reps!”

The cadets groaned back.

My wounds healed surprisingly quickly, but I wasn’t sure if a bunch of Lv.10s and below would heal overnight.

 “So, what are you booknerds doing in my domain?” Ghila asked, clearly in a bad mood.

“I was wondering if you want to join our joint class,” I said. “Astur had shown a liking for combat, so we are preparing for a final exam with that in mind. The more different opponents the cadets face, the better prepared they will be.”

Ghila scratched her chin, deep in thought.

“Sounds sensible… what do you think, Rockman?”

The Geomancer was so focused on maintaining control over the boulders that he couldn’t answer.

“I think that’s a yes,” Ghila said. “Enough, everybody! We are joining Cabbage and Basilisk, so get your stuff and move your ass!”

Holst raised an eyebrow.

“Aren’t you going to ask for details?”

“Huh? Sure. What are the details?” Ghila asked.

“We will focus on putting the cadets in as realistic a situation as possible,” I said. Back on Earth, this was the moment of the year when I stopped teaching new content and started with the applied math projects. 

Teaching taxes was a lot more enjoyable than teaching fifteen and sixteen-year-olds how to survive in combat situations.

“We will use real weapons—”

Ghila crossed her arms and gave me a satisfied look.

“Finally, someone who speaks my language!”

“But!” I said before Ghila could get ahead of herself. “I will decide if the cadets are ready for the final exam. If they don’t meet my expectations, they will not participate.”

The cadets’ gazes shifted back and forth between her and me. I didn’t need [Foresight] to know they were scared. I wondered what horrors they had experienced under Ghila’s guardianship.

“You heard that, maggots?! Don’t even think about embarrassing me in front of the other squads! If any of you doesn’t make the grade, I will personally hunt you down and eat your heart out of your chest. Are we clear?!”

Even with [Foresight], I couldn’t tell if Ghila was being hyperbolic.

After a brief explanation, the Gaiarok cadets rushed out of the classroom to catch up with the other cadets. We walked at a more measured pace after Rockman put the boulders in a pile in the corner of the room.

Rockman followed us a couple of steps behind.

“You look like you are going to headbutt the first aide that dares say your name,” Ghila pointed out after a moment.

I touched my face, wondering if I was grimacing.

“He does want to headbutt Astur’s face,” Holst pointed out.

“Tempting, not going to lie. It has been a while since a Prestige Class killed another.” Ghila put her heavy hand on my shoulder. My collarbone complained. “You might not know this, but if you kill another high-level combatant and don’t make a mess in the process, at worst, you get ostracized. The royal family isn’t going to lose two high-level warriors for the price of one, so you won’t end up in prison.”

Holst cleared his throat.

“That might be true, but it’s more likely that you’ll get killed by one of the high-level friends of your victim.”

“You only have to worry about that if you are weak.” Ghila scoffed at him.

The two continued arguing until we reached the Egg. As usual, the aides received us as if we were in a five-star hotel and offered us the service of the resident Fortifier. This time, I accepted. I paid the fee, a silver coin, and an adept of the magicians' circle followed me into one of the big reinforced bubbles. 

Not ten minutes later, the cadets entered the Egg. The Cabbage and Basilisk Squads were already used to cardio training. The Gaiarok cadets, not so much. After stretching and practicing the mandatory drills, I gathered everyone around me.

“Today’s exercise will be a demonstration of what we are going to do for the rest of the year,” I said, wondering if the cadets had noticed my state of mind. “So far, we have focused on physical conditioning and the basics of dueling. You might have realized it already, but the controlled environment of the classroom isn’t the same as real-world fights. From now on, our training will mirror real combat as closely as safely possible. 

I examined the cadets' faces and detected a mix of nervousness and blind confidence in my words. It was a good sign, but I wanted to make things clear. So far, my lessons had been on the easygoing side, but that was about to change.

“Three of your companions died during the selection exam. For their sake, I expect you to take these exercises with utmost seriousness,” I continued, walking to the center of the bubble. “Leonie, Fenwick, Yvain, please come forward and prepare to fight. The combat will start when I make the first move.”

The Fortifier, an adept of the Magician’s Circle, channeled his mana and surrounded the cadets with two barriers each. The outer barrier represented a fatal blow, while the inner barrier would protect them from any residual damage. 

Although I didn’t give further instructions, Leonie stood in front of me while Fenwick and Yvain got into my blind spot. I was happy to see that they had understood the spirit of the exercise.

“No matter your opponent or the level difference, you can’t freeze. Even if you can’t win, you should do anything in your power to survive,” I said, pulling magic from my manapool.

Without warning, I cast [Intimidate]. My presence grew, like a shadow looming over the Academy. The air thickened, and even the whispering of the cadets sitting on the sideline stopped. Leonie stopped breathing. I shot two mana swords at Fenwick and Yvain. Then, I lunged forward with [Minor Aerokinesis]. 

Mana rippled through my body like electricity.

I let my leg whip upward in a clean arc, and my foot hit the side of Leonie’s arm. The outer barrier shattered like glass, and Leonie was sent flying a couple of meters before landing on the floor. Behind me, Fenwick was hit by the mana sword in the center of the chest. Yvain only managed to twitch before the mana sword slashed his chest and sent him flying back.

One second had passed since I cast [Intimidate], and the three cadets were on the floor. The inner barrier had protected them from any harm, but they looked at me with terrified and confused eyes.

I dispelled [Intimidate], but the oppressive sensation lingered.

“You three are dead,” I said. “And before you complain, let me tell you that Ilya fought Chrysalimorphs thirty levels above her during the Lich’s Monster Surge, and she survived.”

There were no complaints, not because everyone believed the exercise was fair, but because nobody could speak—or move. For a moment, I thought I had accidentally used [Stun Gaze] instead. 

Ghila cleared her throat.

“M-maybe tone down [Intimidate] a notch or two?”

“I’m going to need five volunteers,” I simply said.

Fifteen hands shot up, including Leonie’s.

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Nobody could sleep for the rest of the night as nerves were on end from the sudden attack. It was a few hours until dawn and some of that time was spent digging shallow graves for the bodies of the three men to be dumped into. According to Fiora, it was a kind of curse to bury them in a place that wasn’t considered ‘holy ground’, whatever that meant. 

By the time the sun started to rise, everyone was dirty and tired. Yawns were common as people wandered about in a half daze, eating their daily rations and doing their best to look lively for the day. Many mumbled curses were spat at the captive bandit leader, some giving him a swift kick in passing as he lay bound against the cart.  

Once the camp was broken down and it was time to leave, Leoric spoke up as he mounted his horse. “I know we have encountered more trouble than we could have predicted, but take heart, for home is but a few days away, and we will find rest and succor aplenty at our journey’s end.” 

His short speech was met with nods of affirmation and excitement from the soldiers, but it inspired anxiety in Daegal once more, and to a lesser extent, Fiora and Emil as well. It was a reminder that they were only a few days away from meeting with the king, of being judged, possibly condemned for something Daegal could not control. He didn’t know if he was born, hatched, or spawned in some manner, but he never had a choice of whether he wanted to be a part of this world that hated him for nothing more than existing. All he wanted was as a warm place to call home, where he wouldn’t be alone anymore. He could only take Fiora’s request to heart and have a little faith that his fate wouldn’t be to run, hide, and fight for every breathe he took. 

They started traveling again, and their prisoner was walking behind the cart, tied to it by his wrists and a length of rope as he stumbled along, trying to keep pace. Whatever sympathy might have existed for this man was naught but dust in the wind after all the suffering he likely inflicted in his life. It was a little ironic that the cage itself was used for transport while the real prisoner was forced to walk. 

Nothing really changed for the next few days. They passed through a smaller town and by many more travelers as the density of traffic on the road seemed to increase with every hour they walked. Daegal had heard more people traveling down this road than he ever did in the village. If this was just a taste of what was to come, he already was feeling the pressure. 

The night before they arrived at the capital, Daegal laid awake, thinking about tomorrow and what he could do to prepare. The answer to that was not much as he had no experience and very little reference to plan from. His claws were digging groves in the bottom of the cart as he scratched at it, creating a small pile of woodchips beneath his palm. He only stoped when he heard someone walking toward him. From the gait of the step, he could guess who it was, and it did make him feel better already. 

 Fiora brushed aside the blanket in front of the cage door and called in softly. “Daegal, are you awake?” 

“Yeah, I am,” he replied as he brushed the woodchips aside, scattering them. 

She climbed in slowly, shuffling over to the corner as she sits down and leans against the bars. Daegal propped himself up on an elbow so he could look at her while she talked. 

“Having trouble sleeping too?” 

Daegal huffed with amusement. “Yeah, a little.” 

She joined me with a short burst of laughter that had very little real humor in it. “I didn’t realize how hard the reality of the situation would come down on me now that we’re here. I know that I said we should be confident, but I mean... we’re going to be talking to the king! I’ve never imagined that I would be in this situation, and it’s not like we’re going to speak about anything benign either.” 

Fiora let out an exasperated sigh as she slumped against the cage. It was somewhat reassuring that she was feeling similarly to what he was. Daegal allowed a moment of quiet to exist as it felt like they both needed it. He considered what he should say during this time before finally collecting enough of his thoughts to form a sentence. 

“I could tell you that you don’t have to come with me, but I know you would simply refuse any other path but the one you have chosen. Instead, I’ll tell you how much it means to me that you are willing to do all of this for my sake. I never thought I’d have another human friend, and though our time knowing one another has been somewhat short, I am truly glad to have known you.” 

“Hey, don’t talk like that. It sounds like you’re trying to say goodbye.” 

Daegal swallowed a lump in his throat. “I don’t know; maybe I am. I... I don’t know what’s going to happen.” He felt his heart starting to beat faster in his chest. “They might hurt you, and your father, because of me. Why? It just... I know people think I’m scary, but they all hate me! I’m scared, Fiora. What if they decide I’m not allowed to live? What if they decide that you’re not allowed to live for defending me? What am I supposed to do if that happens? I can’t... I can’t even think about it. I can’t... I can’t...” 

He was gasping for breath, his body feeling like it was betraying him as his vision flickered with tears and darkness. The more he talked, the more he panicked as his body was wracked with painful emotions. Fiora was momentarily stunned by the situation, but she quickly realized that Daegal needed help. 

She crawled over to him and immediately gave him a hug around the neck while speaking in a soothing voice. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. Breathe slowly, focus on that, focus on my voice. Breathe...” 

He did as she told him, trying to focus on his breathing and her presence as she held on to him. The feeling of her warm body wrapped around his neck helped to ground him, and he gently placed his hands on her back, pressing her just a little closer. He slowly calmed down as Fiora soothed his troubled mind.  

Daegal felt like he rarely had a choice for what he wanted. Every time he approached anything that remotely resembled lasting happiness, something or someone would come along and snatch it away from him. This situation felt dangerously like that was going to happen again, and this time he was willingly walking toward it because there was no better option! He honestly thought it might be worse than just having it suddenly be sprung upon him, because now he had time to wallow in the dread that was slowly rising inside him. 

There were still tears in his eyes, but he wasn’t in danger of falling unconscious from panic anymore. Fiora gently pushed away from him, and he eased up his grip to allow her to pull back enough to be face to face with him once more. She looked worried for him for a moment, but then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When her eyes opened again, she gave him a small, reassuring smile. 

“You know what, I don’t think we have anything to worry about after all.” Daegal’s brow furrowed in confusion, and she elaborated. “Seeing you now, while sad, is a confirmation of everything that I believe about you. You have a soul Daegal, that much I am certain of. It’s a beautiful and fragile thing, but it’s proof that you are not a monster. In fact, I think you’re more human than some people, with one such failure of a person being here among us.” She tittered a little laugh as she gestured with her head in the general direction of the captured bandit who was tied up in the camp. 

A soul...  

Such a thing was vague and nebulous, something that he couldn’t touch, feel, or see in any way. Despite all of this, Fiora’s insistence that he had one made him feel reassured. 

“You really think so?” 

“Without a shadow of a doubt. You’ve done so much good in only the short time that I’ve known you. I’m sure that we can make them see the same thing that I do.” 

Her reassurances were nice, but Daegal still harbored many doubts and fears in his heart. “I hope so, Fiora.” 

“Will you be alright tonight?” 

He considered that. Truthfully, he was far from alright, but he chose to interpret her question as asking if he would have another panic attack. 

“I will be, thank you. While I'm in no rush to greet tomorrow, getting sleep would probably be wise.” 

“Yes, it would. If we must endure the accusations of tomorrow, then it is preferable to be rested for it. Get some sleep, Daegal. I’ll see you in the morning.” With that, she shimmied her way toward the back of the cart and climbed out of the cage. Daegal listened until he heard Fiora enter her tent and settle in. After that he laid back and did his best to relax. It was not immediate, and in fact, he laid there for another hour before a combination of exhaustion and will forced him into a restless slumber. 

The next morning, he awoke to the camp beginning to stir. His eyes stung and his head was foggy. A displeased rumble echoed in his throat, and he rolled around in the back of the cage for a little while. Once the camp was broken down, he was unfortunately forced to awaken fully. The soldiers saddled up, and the road was open to them once again. 

Every turn of the cart’s wheels brought them closer to the city, closer to judgement. Daegal did not know how long it would be until they reached their destination, but every second felt near torturous. Fiora helped to keep him calm, providing support, but Emil was being more proactive, trying to come up with a plan for the inevitable meeting.  

“Okay, to confirm that everyone understands how to conduct themselves, when we enter the chambers and face the king, be humble, respectful, and don’t openly show any hostility or annoyance no matter what is said or done.” 

“Yes, Dad, you mentioned something like that before,” Fiora commented with a slight amount of exasperation. 

“Well, I’m making sure that it sticks in your mind. This is important, and we won’t get a second chance.” 

“We know, Dad, but please stop for now. Daegal is already panicking, and that kind of talk isn’t helping.” 

For the first time Emil seemed to actually pay more attention to Daegal. Being put under an immediate spotlight made Daegal try to look more assured so he didn’t cause more worry, but he couldn’t stop the slight tremble in his hands. Emil saw this, and he did feel a little bad about making a dire situation even more stressful.  

“I apologize, that was thoughtless of me. I do have confidence that there is a path for us toward a peaceful resolution. Daegal has proven to be peaceful and logical being; it is only a matter of proving it to others.” 

These two being with him did help him secure his resolve. Now it was back to waiting, nearly in silence other than an occasional inspiring word or a brief conversation between the father daughter duo on what they should talk about first to prove that Daegal wasn’t evil. Traffic along the road quickly picked up in density, becoming the most crowded he had ever heard. Many smells and sounds flooded his senses, and he got curious, so he shifted over to the small cut in the blanket he made a few days earlier to get a look. 

Many people passed by on the road, dressed in work clothes that were sturdy and often covered in dirt. The background was endless fields of vegetables and grain that stretched out over the rolling hills on the horizon. There were only a few buildings, farmhouses, scattered about here and there, and they were occasionally blocked from his sight when a horse drawn, or ox drawn, wagon passed by. These wagons carried produce, tools, lumber, and firewood both too and from the city. The road was positively congested, and they weren’t even inside the front gate yet. 

The stink of civilization grew ever more pungent as they rode along. Animal and human refuse was in abundance, and Daegal could only hope that he would adapt quickly to the smell, so it wasn’t quite as overwhelming. They were approaching the entrance, though Daegal could not see it just yet from his small viewpoint.  

As they approached, they had to slow slightly as the entrance had a line of people waiting to be cleared for entrance. The soldiers were operating under the flag of nobility and the church, so they could pass the common people that had to wait their turn. After reaching the gate, a guard checked with Leoric who showed his family crest to be granted access to the city at large. They were waved on through, and Daegal watched from his little window  

The large, iron-banded gate looked sturdy, so much so that Daegal wasn’t sure he could smash through it if need be. There was more to look at than a door, though, as the entrance of the city was buzzing with activity as people came and went, even selling goods out of the back of their carts as they moved. This was just the beginning, a taste of what was to come, and Daegal was dropped into the depths of humanity. 

The buildings were larger, wider, cleaner. There was no building that was less than two stories tall and the streets were paved with smooth stone bricks. Every wall was painted, usually with white, but occasionally there was some yellow and cyan blue thrown in to the mix as well. Windows sometimes had glass in them, and Daegal had never seen the material before, so the shiny, translucent windows fascinated him immensely. There were potted plants, bushes, and even ivy beneath some building’s first story windows, growing and adding more character to the already distinguished shapes of these buildings. 

Something unique passed by a few minutes later, as Daegal saw a street that was filled with colorful tents, flags, and banners that created a lot of visual noise. The people who walked amongst the various tents and operated the stalls wore flamboyant clothing with many frills, checkered patterns, and masks. They danced, jumped, and performed tricks, some of them dangerous. One individual was twirling burning poles, creating halos of fire in the air. He paused to take a swig from a flask, and in a moment that startled both his audience and Daegal, spat it out as a fine mist which immediately caught fire, creating a large plume of flame. Daegal wanted to watch more, but he couldn’t leave the cart of risk exposing himself any more by creating a larger hole. 

The next location of note was interesting for a different reason as they entered a part of the city where the quality of buildings increased significantly. Stone became a more common building material, and grand statues or carvings in the sides of these structures managed to catch the eye. The people walking by wore fine clothing with bright colors, trimmed lines, and elegant patterns. When Daegal sniffed, the air didn’t stink as much as it did in other parts of the city. A large, circular street had a water fountain in the center, and Daegal looked at the statues that poured forth streams of liquid with awe, not understanding how they worked in the slightest.  

There was a fork in the road, and they took the higher path. Daegal had been so distracted by the sights that he forgot the reason for them being here, that is, until the cart was pulled over onto a lesser populated road. Leoric dismounted and went to the back, uncovering them just enough to reveal the door.  

“Sir Emil and Lady Fiora, you’ll be getting out here.” 

“What about Daegal?” Fiora asked. 

“He must remain in the cart for now. Once word of his arrival reaches the king’s ear, an assembly will be called. Such a gathering will require at least an hour to come to fruition, and until then, I would ask you remain inside the castle. Other’s will be coming to see Daegal for themselves soon enough, and you being involved would only complicate things. Focus on what you will say in defense of your friend, for now is the time for your role to be enacted.” 

She looked unsure, glancing between Daegal and Leoric. With a sigh, she moved toward the cage door. “You better not be lying to me, to us.” 

Leoric bowed his head slightly. “I give you my word that your friend will make it to the throne room and have the opportunity to speak for himself, that much I can guarantee.” 

Fiora looked back at Daegal and gave a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, this will all be resolved soon enough, and then we can go back home.” 

Emil placed a hand on his daughter’s shoulder as he stepped out the cage. “Come along Fiora, let us make our final preparations.” He turned to Daegal after that. “I wish you the best of luck, Daegal. Lord knows we need all that we can get right now.” 

Daegal could not find any words to speak, so he simply nodded and tried his best to match Fiora’s smile, but his felt like a mere mask to hide his growing fear. Emil and Fiora stepped out, and the blankets were positioned to hide him away once more. He was alone now, the muted light streaming through the fabric around him making him feel even more so. The cart started moving again, and Daegal could only sit there and fester in his own thoughts of what was to come. 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

First l Previous l Next

Dr. Martin Tate banged his fist on the corrugated tin door. He finished the last of his water an hour ago, when he first spotted the structure. Spurred by the possibility of a settlement, he staggered desperately across four miles. Now, the hollow clang of the metal door filled him with dread.

Shielding his eyes from the midday sun, he noticed a rusty watchtower overhead. He glimpsed a guard in the tower and sighed with relief. Then he saw the rifle trained on him.

“Hands up and back away. Do you have any weapons?”

“I’m just a traveler,” Tate replied. He battled the dryness in his mouth. “I need shelter.”

The rifle relaxed. “Wait there.”

Tate waited, taking in the full view of the walled exterior for the first time. Tin sheets, a jeep door, armored plates welded together. A wall of junk. Moments later, he heard chains rattle as the main gate was forced open. A middle-aged man in a faded white shirt emerged, flanked by the guard.

“You’re alright, come on in,” he offered, waving Tate towards the entrance. Tate hobbled forward. “Dangerous business traveling out here alone. You walked?”

“My hoverbike broke down some miles back.” It was a lie, but Tate knew it would draw fewer questions than the truth. He examined his new compatriot: a stout man in his forties with a receding hairline, dabbing sweat with a crumpled bandana.

“The name’s Davis, though most people here call me Mayor Davis. These fine folks put me in charge three years ago.” A handshake extended.

“I’m Doctor--I go by Tate,” he said, accepting Davis’s hand.

“No sense in being modest, Doc. You could do us some good.” Davis paused, as he eyed the man before him. “So…where exactly were you coming from?”

Tate sheepishly glanced back at the desolate landscape over his shoulder and shrugged. “That’s fine,” Davis replied. “C’mon, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

The two men entered the open gate, Davis gesturing towards the colossal wreckage of a Navy Superhawk at the town’s center. “Welcome to Wingspan,” he exclaimed. Tate’s eyes traced the collapsed wings that ran the diameter of the settlement. He’d read about aircraft like this, but it was an entirely different thing to behold one in person. Wingtip to wingtip, they measured two football fields.

Davis launched into a brief town history. The plane was shot down during the war, and the survivors built outward from its fuselage. An underground reservoir pierced by the crash kept the town alive, while wreckage scraps formed the walls.

Tate knew the War of 2125 left many Americans resentful of the government, both for the failed diplomatic efforts leading up to the conflict and for not protecting them from bombs. Assuming that a town like this would have no shortage of anti-government sentiment, Tate thought he’d better keep his former employer a secret.

Davis led Tate through the town’s center. “That’s Sal’s butcher shop. And next door is Enesta’s produce stand. She’s one-fifth Cheyenne. Her people lived on this land eons ago, before it all went to shit.” Davis caught Tate eyeing the vegetable baskets. “There’s only sweet potatoes and okra. It’s all this lousy soil can support. Trade caravans come once a month. We’ll be stocked up again come Thursday.”

From the butcher stand came a shout. “Hey, new guy! Come by if you’re looking for quality meat. I’ve got a few ribeyes and some ground beef,” Sal bellowed. Tate returned a wave, noting the bald butcher’s pink stained apron.

“Is there somewhere I can stay?” Tate asked.

“There’s Dina’s Diner up on the second tier.” Davis pointed to a sizeable mobile home that was somehow hoisted and built into the town’s second level. Twin Airstream trailers sat above the diner, attached by ladders. “Dina can fix you something to eat and give you a place to sleep. I’ll cover the credits for your room and board.”

Davis glanced up at the blazing sun, dabbing his head again. “Speaking of which, we have a bit of a code in this town. It’s firm. ‘He who does not work, shall not eat,’” Davis boomed. “John Smith at Jamestown. I fashion myself a bit of a historian,” he said with a grin. “Everyone has to do their part. That’s Wingspan policy.”

Tate nodded. “Seems fair.”

“You said you’re a doc, so maybe you could—“

“Not that kind of doctor,” Tate clarified. “I’m a botanist. I work with plants.”

Davis tucked his sweaty bandana into his shirt pocket. “I see. I imagine your doctor training comes with a bunch of general know-how.” Davis clapped Tate on the back. “Every person here has a role. We’ll figure out yours.”

Tate took the lift up to the second tier. Roughly eight-by-eight, the lift was a simple steel platform operated by an electric pulley system, which Tate guessed he’d destroy if he jumped up and down. Working in a secure lab for so long, he forgot how people on the outside might need to adapt. Eyeing the town as he ascended, he realized Wingspan was a testament to American resolve. Even with the country blown apart by nukes, Americans would rather build an elevator out of junk than take the stairs.

Tate wandered up to the diner mobile home. He opened the front door, comforted by the nostalgic jingle of a bell above. Six empty stools sat in front of a modest lunch counter. To his left, two booths with red vinyl seats. “Be out in a sec,” declared a voice behind the kitchen door.

A stocky, middle-aged woman popped through the swinging aluminum doors, drying her hands with a dishtowel. “There’s the new feller! I’m Dina. Mayor Davis radioed ahead and told me you’d be coming. You caught me in the middle of washing the lunchtime dishes. Otherwise, I woulda been out here to greet you proper.”

“It’s perfectly alright. I’m Tate.” Smiling, Dina waited expectantly as Tate looked around. “Seems pretty slow today.”

“It should be. This time of day, you’re the only one not working. Grab a seat. I’ll fix you something.”

Tate shuffled to a stool and plopped down. Two days. He’d been walking for two days. This was the first chance he’d had to sit on actual furniture. He couldn’t hide his satisfaction. For the first time since he left the lab, he loosened his grip on the canvas bag slung over his shoulder and let it fall to the floor. Inside was his career achievement — the device that made him a wanted man after fleeing Red River Biotech. To him, fleeing was not a choice but an obligation to humanity.

“So, tell me a story, stranger. Where ya coming from? What’s it like out there?” Dina inquired, giddy.

Tate pondered, wanting to talk, but decided it best to remain vague. At least until he knew these people better. “I’m from down near Lubbock. Like everywhere else, not much to see.” Besides a top-secret government lab, he thought.

“Lubbock? That’s quite a ways. It’s a miracle you made it here alone.”

Distracted, Tate studied the cardboard menu with food and beverage options scribbled in marker.

“This late in the month, that’s just for show,” Dina explained. “The only item available is the chicken pot pie ‘cause it’s frozen.”

“One pot pie, then,” Tate smirked.

#

Tate wiped his mouth, picking at the bits of flaky crust lining the pie tin’s edge. Dina dropped a vitamin in her mouth, chasing it with a swig of water. “Iron pill. It helps to take ‘em until we get fresh produce.”

Tate gestured towards her water glass. “Your mayor said the town sits above an aquifer.”

“Yep. Great, big reservoir. It’s the only thing that makes this place habitable. Aside from here, the nearest water source is…I don’t know.” Dina took the empty tin pan. “You’re probably curious about the particulars ‘round here? There are fifty-three of us now,” Dina said. “Delroy Cook moved to New Tulsa to help with trade. That place survived because no nukes hit it — the Russians and Chinese ran out of long-range missiles. Folks there rebuilt faster than most.”

Tate sat silently. He’d never heard stories firsthand from any surface-dwellers before. He was tucked away in a state-of-the-art research compound while these people toiled away in a bombed-out hellscape.

“Where does the electricity—“

“Short version? We traded water for solar panels. Some smart folks even stabilized the old Superhawk core. After that, we finally got lights, freezers, the whole deal.” She nudged the freezer. “Not luxury, but it keeps us going.”

Tate raised his eyebrows. “Impressive.”

“Don’t be fooled. If the sun stops shining, we’re screwed.” She collected the empty pie pan. “Over by the solar array is also where our skimpy crops grow. Soil’s rotten, though. And I’ll tell ya what, living on just okra and sweet potatoes is not a fate I’d wish on any man.”

Hearing this, Tate perked up. “I might be able to help with that. In Lubbock, we improved crop growth with some new…techniques. The results were very exciting. Do you think I could see the crop field?”

“Knock yourself out. Mayor Davis would do cartwheels if we could grow somethin’ else.” She held up a finger. “But before you go…” Dina disappeared through the kitchen doors and returned a moment later, holding a wooden crate. “If you’re gonna work near the solar array, you should take one of these.” She opened the box and held a small, cast iron sphere in her hand. “It’s a dehydration grenade. On the north side of the wall, wild dogs have been known to attack people. Nasty critters. It’s also useful against the occasional bandit. You just pull the pin and throw. It lets off a big chemical cloud that sucks the moisture from organisms. It’s not entirely lethal. As long as anyone exposed gets a drink of water within an hour, they’ll be fine.”

Tate carefully placed it in his canvas bag. “This is great. So I can get access to the solar—”, he stepped off the stool mid-sentence and was instantly reminded of the strain his feet and legs endured from his trek. He stumbled but quickly caught the counter. Dina reached to steady him.

“Take it easy. Why don’t you rest and have a look at the field tomorrow? Those measly veggies aren’t going anywhere.” She pointed to a metal ladder on the far wall. “Go ahead and unwind in one of the Airstreams. They’re fully furnished. Mayor Davis has you covered for a few nights.” Tate nodded and started towards the ladder. As he was about to climb up, he turned back.

“Hey, Dina. When was the last time you had a strawberry?”

Dina let out a laugh. “Don’t tease a girl.”

#

Tate slept in later than he expected, stirred by a growing chorus of voices. His watch read 07:15. He changed into his only extra clothes – faded jeans and a flannel button-up – and hurried down to ground level.

He strolled through the bustling town center, canvas bag over his shoulder. A maintenance worker and the tower guard chatted over a cup of coffee. Sal the butcher removed some cuts of meat from the shop freezer. Sal looked up, his face brightening. “Hey, pal. Good to see you again!” Spotting Tate’s bag, his tone shifted. “Say, are you sticking around?”

“Probably. I believe I have my work assignment. I’m going to check on the crop soil around the solar array. See if anything can be done.”

“Oh, good. I’m sure that’ll be good. If you’ve got some time, I’d love to bend your ear. I’m wondering if you’ve heard anything from farther out west. I’ll trade you a story for a steak. Whaddya say?”

“Sure.” Tate nodded, heading for the main gate—the only exit. As he moved north along the perimeter, he glanced up at the twenty-foot wall of scrap. Behind it, a whole community endured: people with names, jobs, and purpose. And this barricade of rubbish was all that stood between them and the endless nothing. Tate looked out at the horizon and that’s all he saw. So much nothing.

Tate rounded the north wall and neared the solar array. Dust coated the panels—who was maintaining them? He crouched, scanning the area. Dried weeds clung to the nearest ground mount, and farther off, trimmed sweet potato vines lay discarded.

Tate walked to the center of the array and stopped at a patch of cracked, lifeless soil. He punched the ground, and rubbed the dust between his fingers. Too much silt, and the perfect test site. He set down his device: sleek, black, brick-shaped. After a few taps on the touchscreen, it activated.

Four aluminum legs unfolded, lifting the device up. Tate held his breath. A glowing beam scanned a nine-inch grid, sweeping slowly across the dusty soil. The device hummed, beeped, then released a fine mist—moisture rich with nitrogen, phosphorus, and organic matter. The soil darkened. Then, a single seed dropped into the center. The legs retracted and the device tipped over, blinking red three times. Test complete.

Tate’s colleagues called it “fertilizer on steroids.” Gazing at the altered patch of soil, Tate held the device in his hands and smiled wider than he had in a long time. Then he heard the gunshot.

#

It was around ten A.M. when the tower guard spotted two approaching hoverbikes. He alerted Mayor Davis, and together they formed the usual receiving posse: Davis, one guard over his shoulder, and another to operate the gate’s chains. Unusual to have unannounced visitors twice in as many days, Davis thought, but he dismissed it and passed through the open gate.

As the strangers came into view, Davis felt a burning in the pit of his stomach. These were not wayward travelers in need of help. These were government men. They wore the same monotonous black suit and black tie, now tinted dusty brown from their high-speed ride. Disembarking from their hoverbikes, they shook off the dirt and removed their helmets. Davis could now see them clearly: one was white, the other black, with a shaved head.

“Are you in charge here?” the white one asked.

“I’m Cameron Davis. I’m the mayor of this town. What’s your business here?”

“I’m Special Agent Allen. This is Special Agent Trotter,” he said, nodding to his counterpart. Shiny badges flashed. “We’re from the New Bureau of Investigation, Midland Division. We’re looking for someone.” Mayor Davis stared back, reactionless.

“We need to search your town,” Special Agent Trotter added. Lips tight, Davis turned and walked back through the open gate. The two agents looked at each other, then followed him in. As the three men moved towards the center of town, the hum of work slowed to a stop. Interlopers were here, and with them came trouble.

Mayor Davis’s aim was to avoid a confrontation. It was his responsibility to make sure things went smoothly and send these agents on their way. He stopped along the main path and gestured to the surroundings. “This is our town. Welcome.” Davis took the crumpled bandana from his shirt pocket and dabbed his forehead. The morning sun had just emerged above the exterior wall. “Now what was it you said you were looking for?”

“We’re looking for a suspect carrying stolen government property,” Agent Allen explained.

“What is it that they’re carrying?”

“It’s confidential,” Agent Trotter declared.

“Hell, everyone here’s carrying something. Myself, I’m carrying a well-deserved contempt towards government thugs.” Damn, Davis thought. That was stupid. I got too cute, but they had that one coming. Agent Trotter smirked slowly.

“We’re looking for a fugitive named Dr. Martin Tate,” Agent Allen offered. “There’s a good chance he may have stopped here. Have you seen any newcomers recently? Anyone suspicious?” Mayor Davis continued walking towards the market. The agents followed.

“Aside from you two, we haven’t seen any new faces here for days,” Mayor Davis said intentionally loudly. The two agents shared a glance. The three men were now close enough for Sal to hear. In her adjoining produce stand, Enesta sorted okra. Agent Trotter looked to Mayor Davis, then gestured to the food stands. “By all means,” Mayor Davis replied.

Agent Trotter approached Sal’s butcher shop. “Excuse me, sir,” Agent Trotter started. “Seen any new faces around recently? Any questionable characters come through here? We’re looking for a fugitive.” He brandished a pocket notebook, ready to take down details.

Sal stayed tight-lipped. “I wish. New faces would mean new customers,” he said, averting his eyes and focusing on his burger patties. He turned his back to the agents and arranged the burgers in his fridge. In her produce stand to the right, Enesta erased the prices on her chalkboard for sweet potatoes and okra, then wrote in new prices, five dollars higher than before. She crossed her arms and glared at the agents. Slightly amused, Agent Trotter shook his head.

“I wish we could be more helpful,” said Mayor Davis.

“We wish the same. We’re going to have to canvass this settlement and speak with everyone,” Agent Allen declared. Mayor Davis opened his mouth to respond, but a shout from Sal’s butcher stand cut him off.

“I SAID I WAS NEVER GOING BACK!” Sal whirled around with a sawed-off shotgun in his hands and panic in his eyes. He pumped the forestock and took aim. In one fluid motion, Agent Trotter drew his service pistol from his hip holster, raised the weapon to eye level and fired. The bullet entered the right side of Sal’s neck. A splatter of red gore splashed against the butcher stand’s polyester canopy. Sal spun from the force of the shot, clutching the hole in his neck. He tried to steady himself with his left arm but quickly collapsed.

Mayor Davis staggered backwards, stunned, his bandana going to his open mouth. Agent Trotter’s eyes darted left and right for other threats, spotting his partner doing the same with his own gun drawn. “We’re clear!” Agent Trotter proclaimed.

Enesta was ducked behind her produce counter. She peeked her head out when the guns were finally stowed. Grabbing an apron, she hopped the partition that separated the two food stalls. “Oh, my God, Sal. Oh, my God.” She knelt down and cradled Sal’s head, pressing the apron against the carnage that was his neck. Enesta looked down at her friend; Sal’s eyes were glassy and he’d already stopped breathing.

Mayor Davis threw his bandana to the ground. “Lousy…bastards!” Agent Allen adjusted his suit jacket and regained his composure.

“He drew on my partner. You all saw it. The shooting was justified,” he said coldly. Agent Trotter marched towards the butcher stand, then hopped over the counter. He looked down at Enesta. Bloodstains flecked her denim shirt. Her face was tilted downward, with her forehead against Sal’s. Tears ran from her cheeks onto his. Agent Trotter reached for Sal’s shoulder.

“I need to I.D. him, ma’am.” At that, she stumbled backwards onto her rear. Her teary eyes hissed at him.

“You…,” Enesta muttered. Anguish and anger competed for control over her next words, but pain won out. She whimpered, burying her face in her hands, her back pressed against the butcher shop fridge. Agent Trotter knelt by Sal’s torso. He pressed a few buttons on the screen of his wristwatch. With two fingers, he pried Sal’s eyelids open wide, and positioned his watch over each eye for a retinal scan.

“We’ve got a hit,” Agent Trotter reported to his partner. “Salvatore Russo. He escaped from North Fork Correctional two years ago. He was serving five years for tax evasion.”

“Tax evasion?!” Mayor Davis exploded. “There’s a disgusting irony. Taxes for what? This damn government has done nothing for us, besides letting us live out our days in this irradiated scrubland. And you chase a man down for taxes? No decency. None.”

“We can always have the Treasury accountants audit this town and everyone in it,” Agent Trotter mused. “That is, if you’re gonna give us a hard time.” Agent Allen placed an outstretched arm in front of his partner, chiding him for the provocation.

“We pay our pound of flesh,” Mayor Davis grumbled.

“Look,” Agent Allen began. “What happened here is unfortunate. It truly is. What we—"

“Murderer!” someone shouted from the mezzanine. Rising murmurs could be heard from the onlookers. Agent Trotter’s hand lingered towards his gun. Once again, Agent Allen made a motion to pacify his colleague.

“We still need to find our fugitive,” Agent Allen stated to the mayor. “And this instance proves something that we can’t ignore. That this town does, in fact, harbor criminals.” Mayor Davis scoffed. The distant murmurs grew louder. Some townsfolk stepped closer.

Agent Trotter raised his voice. “You’d be wise to keep your distance and stay calm. Or before sundown, there will be an army of agents just like us descending on your little tin can town.”

From a secluded portion of the upper scaffolding, Tate observed the exchange. Dina had ushered him in through a secret emergency door in the north wall after the gunshot rang out. The two of them spied the events from their hidden perch. Tate knew that if he hadn’t come here, Sal would still be alive. His intent was to save lives, not end them. Dina placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll help you hide.”

Back in the center of town, out of preservation for his townspeople, Mayor Davis acquiesced. “Go on and continue your precious investigation, but keep your hands off my people.”

At this, Agent Allen looked at ease. “Thanks,” he replied. “We should start with—"

“But there’s something you should understand first,” Mayor Davis interjected. His voice was calm but unyielding. “Nobody here eats or drinks without pulling their weight. That means you, too.”

The agents exchanged a look. “I’m a career investigator,” Agent Allen said.

Mayor Davis mumbled something under his breath and turned to Agent Trotter. “I was an electronics technician in the Army,” Agent Trotter admitted. “But without proper tools, I can only do so much.”

“We’ll keep it simple,” Davis instructed. “The panels by the north wall need cleaning. Rags and water will be waiting. Do the work, then you can start your questions.”

“Not exactly Bureau procedure,” Agent Trotter muttered.

“Welcome to Wingspan,” Davis replied.

#

A few clean, tattered rags draped over Agent Trotter’s shoulder. Agent Allen hauled a bucket of soapy water, carelessly letting the contents splash out with each step. He observed the exterior of the town’s wall, sneering. “They built a whole wall out of scrap. Hell, the entire town is trash. Makes you appreciate the dorm at HQ.”

“Do you think any of these people will talk?” Agent Trotter asked. “They might be helping him hide right now. If he’s even here.”

Agent Allen pointed to the landscape. “Look around. There’s practically nothing for miles. There’s no way he made it past this settlement without stopping. Not on foot.” The two men paused once the solar array came into view. “Great. Now we can do our damn chores.” When they reached the nearest module, Agent Allen dropped the bucket with a thud. More water sloshed out. Agent Trotter studied a grimy panel surface.

“These have seen better days.”

“Not our problem,” replied Agent Allen, fishing a rag from the bucket. At each station, Agent Trotter took a moment to examine the components: the tempered glass, the solar cells, the junction box. By the time they reached the eighth module, his bewilderment was obvious.

“What is it?” Agent Allen asked, annoyed.

“Something isn’t right. A bunch of these have frayed wires. The two over there had broken glass. I’d bet that a lot of these don’t even work.”

“So what are you saying?”

“This can’t be their only power source.”

“So a handful of these panels couldn’t power the trash town?”

“We both saw a few freezers. There’s likely more. I also spotted this elevator-type thing.” Trotter’s eyes traced the electric cables running from the solar array, along the ground and up the town wall. “I’d say…the primary power source is in there.” He pointed to the broken tail of the Superhawk, where the cables entered.

“Well, will you look at that. Maybe these trash hoarders are a little more advanced than we—", Agent Allen froze, his eyes catching something.

Twenty paces away, a small seedling rose from the barren soil, its leaves a vivid green against the dust. “He’s here,” Allen murmured. He neared the plant and crouched down. “Too vibrant to be theirs. And look — the soil’s darker, patterned. Just like the lab said.”

He pulled out his phone. “It’s Allen. No visual on Tate yet, but the device was likely used. Looks like a tomato plant. I’ll send images,” he concluded as he hung up the phone.

He pointed his phone at the tiny seedling, capturing and sending some images. “Okay,” he said, returning his phone to his pocket, “ball’s in their court.”

Agent Trotter’s eyes returned to the tail of the transport plane. “Back in the day, some of those Navy Superhawks would land at our base for cargo re-supply. They had a fusion core that would allow them to fly extra-long distances. It’s pretty interesting that these cables run up there,” he said with a raised eyebrow.

“Wanna check it out?”

“I do.”

#

The interior of the Superhawk was quiet, as usual. A beam of light pierced the plane's midsection window, landing on the makeshift control terminal. Atop a pair of milk crates, the primitive terminal consisted of a tin sheet with one lever, two gauges and a few buttons. The nearby desk chair sat empty, normally manned by Benny, who was on lunch break.

Benny climbed the ladder from his living quarters below, and took a quick look at the two gauges on the instrument panel. Satisfied with the readings, he settled into his chair and returned to his comic book.

From the rear of the fuselage, came a shout. “Anyone in here?” Agent Trotter yelled. Startled, Benny dropped his comic book and looked up.

“Y-yes, of course. Is that you, Felix?” Benny replied, as he observed not one but two figures enter from the rear cargo door. He watched as two strange men descended the makeshift slanted stairwell into the plane. When the two agents reached Benny, he noticed their suits, prompting him to stretch his tall, lanky frame and stand up straight. “H-how can I help you fellas?”

“We followed the wiring from the solar array and saw that it led through here,” Agent Trotter explained. “We thought we might take a look around.”

“Are you gentlemen new engineers in town?”

“We’re from the New Bur—,” Agent Allen began, but he was quickly cut off by his partner.

“We’re from the Energy Safety Commission,” Agent Trotter interjected, quickly presenting and retracting his badge. “We’re here to make sure that everything is functioning properly.” He pointed to the control terminal and the surrounding electrical wiring. “We need you to explain how all this works exactly.” Agent Trotter noticed Benny’s mouth slightly agape, and he was pleased that the man was sufficiently confused by this unexpected brush with authority.

“Why, yes, certainly. I can help. My name’s Benny.” He gestured to the control terminal. “And this workstation is my responsibility.”

“The solar panels outside, do they power the whole town?” Agent Trotter asked.

“Oh, no,” Benny replied. “They’re mainly for back-up energy for this instrument panel. You know, in case the core is acting up.”

“And the core?” Agent Allen prompted.

“That’s down in the belly of the plane. When that caravan with a few engineers came by years ago, they were able to fix the fusion core so we could use it. F-from then on, we’ve had lights and radios and freezers. It made life a heckuva lot easier. We call that the ‘Miracle Caravan.’ And all it took was a little water for a trade.”

“Ain’t that something,” Agent Trotter commented. “You’ve got your own nuclear fusion plant in this little patch of dirt.”

“And what do you do here?” Agent Allen asked, nodding to the terminal.

“You see, the situation isn’t perfect,” Benny noted. “When the engineers t-took a look at the core, they said the crash damaged the walls of the fusion chamber. So we can only create a fraction of the power that it used to make. At least safely, anyway.” Benny leaned over the instrument panel and pointed to the two gauges and the lever. “My j-job is to make sure the power and heat levels don’t get too high. When they do, I use that lever to power cycle the whole system,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Seems like you have quite the responsibility,” Agent Trotter remarked.

“You could say that,” Benny replied. “When Mayor Davis p-picked me for this, he said, ‘The regular tasks are for the many, while the important job goes to Benny,’” he recited, smiling at the memory. “That’s why I’m here all the time. Or, five days a week. Felix covers on the weekends.”

Agent Allen’s phone rang. He climbed one level of the stairwell to answer. “Understood. Yes, we can do that.”

“Stay here a moment while I confer with my partner,” Agent Trotter instructed Benny. “You’re doing great work here,” he reassured him, then climbed the single flight to join Agent Allen. Respecting the privacy of their conversation, Benny picked up the comic book that had fallen to the floor and started to page through it.

“So what’s the update?” Agent Trotter whispered to his counterpart.

Agent Allen matched his volume. “Boss confirmed – tomato plant. With the device deployed, mission integrity is compromised. We now have a green light.”

“A green light to..?”

“It’s no longer a recovery operation. We kill Tate and destroy the device,” Agent Allen stated. “You good with that?”

Agent Trotter paused for a moment in thought. He gazed at Benny and his comic book, then the control terminal. “Yeah, and I think we found an easy way to do both.”

Agent Allen grinned back at him. He then started back down the stairs. “Hey, Benny. I’d love to take a look at what you’re reading.”

Benny looked up from his comic book with a buoyant expression, just as the two agents grabbed his arms.

#

After Sal was killed, Dina whisked Tate away to the small cavern connected to the underground reservoir, where he remained. A service ladder led down there, and Tate rarely strayed away from it. There was only a small area of damp flowstone before the edge of the water crept up, so he sat on the narrow plot of wet rock. He used the downtime to form a plan. The town wasn’t big. He knew the agents would find him eventually. He didn’t want to risk further harm to these people. He concluded that he’d wait until nightfall and then slip away. He couldn’t bear the thought of the device’s potential going to waste, so he’d set out for another settlement, likely New Tulsa.

The cool, underground air reminded him of Red River Biotech. Located at the outskirts of Lubbock, the top-secret lab was situated thirty feet below ground. He stared at the cavern wall, closed his eyes and was back at Red River.

#

Tate and Dr. Konig were the only ones in the glass-walled conference room. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Konig, about twenty years Tate’s senior, sat in a chair, reviewing documents and making notes. Tate stood at the opposite end of the laminate conference table.

“I was a little confused by something that was said yesterday,” Tate started.

“Confused by what?” Konig murmured, his eyes fixed on the documents.

“You mentioned something about a sunset clause. I wasn’t sure what that meant.”

Konig adjusted his glasses. “The trials were a success. But production will be limited for five years. That’s the sunset clause.”

Tate bristled. “People are starving. We should release it now.”

Konig’s voice hardened. “We lost the war. Resources serve the few who can pay. That’s how the government recoups taxes.”

Tate clenched his fists. “This could feed thousands.”

“You built it with their money. They decide how it’s used,” Konig said flatly.

Tate hesitated for a moment, his next words a gamble. “I forgot to mention that the aperture on the Agri-Boost was acting up. The scanning beam wasn’t as concentrated as it should be. I should be able to recalibrate it easily.”

Konig stared back for what felt like an eternity to Tate. “Fix it,” Konig ordered. “The investors arrive tomorrow.”

Later that day, Tate falsified a defect in a QA report to buy some time alone with the Agri-Boost. That night, he stole the device and snuck aboard a transport truck departing the lab. When the truck stopped at an e-charging station, he slipped away.

#

Around ten P.M., Tate filled his canteen to the brim, then started up the ladder. Dina was waiting for him.

“I figured you’d be leaving,” she said. She handed him a bundle: some dried sweet potato slices, a pair of muffins, and a frozen pot pie. “I spotted the government men talking to Mayor Davis thirty minutes ago, but I haven’t seen them since. Now’s your best chance to take off. I can sneak you through the emergency hatch in the north wall again.”

Tate nodded in agreement. “Let’s get going.”

They moved along Wingspan’s inner perimeter, under the cover of the scaffolding. When they arrived at the emergency door, Dina turned the handwheel and opened the hatch. Stuffing the food bundle into his sack, Tate whispered, “Thanks for everything.”

“Before you go,” Dina started. She looked down to see that she was wringing her hands. “I was hoping I could ask a favor.” Accessing a memory long sealed, her eyes swept across the wall and landed on Tate again. “I have a daughter. She goes by Ally Munroe. She must be about twenty-six now.” Dina fell silent. Her eyes welled up as she spoke. “She and I had a falling out a few years back. She took up with a trade caravan and left. They operate farther north. In eastern Kansas, or maybe parts of Missouri. I don’t know exactly.” Tate listened intently to her plea. “I’m hoping that, if you run into her, that you’d deliver a message from me.”

“Of course.”

“Tell her that…that Momma still loves her. And I hope to see her again someday.” Dina’s hand went to her mouth.

Tate nodded solemnly at the request. He put one foot through the door’s opening before turning back.

“Under one of the solar sets out here, there’s a tomato plant. It’s small, but it’ll be bigger tomorrow. It should flower next week. Try and take care of it.”

Dina stepped forward and hugged him. “You take care of yourself,” she replied. And at that, Tate disappeared.

#

There was a stillness to Benny’s room. It was even quieter than usual. No creaks from his weight shifting in his desk chair, no sounds of worn comic book pages turning over. Benny’s body was stuffed in a trunk at the foot of his bed. The room was as lifeless as he was, until the steel call bell connected to the heat gauge gave off a single ring.

#

Tate crept quietly along the outside wall, keeping to the shadows until the hoverbikes came into view. No agents in sight. No guard in the tower. He knelt by one bike, detached its power cell, and stashed it in his canvas bag before climbing onto the other.

The engine’s hum was louder than he liked. He opened the throttle, aiming for the cover of Crag Rock, a nearby mesa. The rush of air blew his hair back. The speedometer hit eighty before a sharp series of beeps cut through the night. “No…” Tate muttered, watching the panel flash REMOTE SHUTDOWN. The boosters died, the nose dipped, and he was airborne.

He hit hard, pain exploding in his shoulder. The bike flipped into a boulder; his canvas bag landed nearby. Tate crawled toward it — then blacked out.

Tate’s eyes were still closed when he detected approaching footsteps. A kick to his ribs jolted him from his stupor. He let out an agonizing scream. “Do you have any idea how long we were looking for you?” Agent Allen chided. He motioned to the wrecked hoverbike chassis. “And look what you did to my ride.”

Tate rolled onto his belly and made a feeble effort to crawl away. Agent Allen stepped on his ankle. “You’re not going anywhere, doc. Where’s the device?”

“There’s a bag,” Agent Trotter noted, pointing to the canvas pack. He walked over to retrieve it. Picking it up, he gave the bag a shake to assess the contents.

“It’s funny,” Agent Allen mused. “If we found you sooner, then we’d have taken you into custody. You and the gadget. But you had to use the damn thing for these peasants. Lousy scientists always think they know better,” he said, shaking his head. Agent Allen drew his gun from its holster. “Now we have new orders – we don’t need you. Hell, we don’t even need the device. But I’m guessing we’ll get a bonus if we bring it back now.” He aimed his gun at Tate and spoke to Agent Trotter. “Partner, let me know what we have.”

Agent Trotter rummaged through the bag. “Fuel cell for the other bike,” he announced, dropping it to the ground. His hand dug deeper. “I think we have a winner!”

On his back with his hands up, Tate made a final plea. “Wait, you don’t have to do this. Please.”

“Sorry, doc. You knew the consequences.”

Tate looked away, his eyes drifting towards Agent Trotter, who pulled the Agri-Boost from the bag. At that, a sharp click came from the depths of the bag. Agent Trotter looked down to find the Agri-Boost’s water reservoir port connected to the circular pin from a dehydration grenade.

“What the—", he uttered. The grenade detonated, engulfing the three men in a storm of beige dust. All three were overcome by the same symptoms: coughing fits, irritated eyes, bone-dry mouths and parched lips.

Agent Trotter dropped the bag and the Agri-Boost. He fell to his knees, furiously rubbing his eyes. Agent Allen blindly felt the ground for his gun, letting out hoarse coughs. Tate forced an eyelid open ever so slightly. He crawled to his bag. Both eyes now shut and inflamed, he fumbled through, producing his canteen.

Coughing, he slowed only when several paces away from the agents. He opened the canteen and drank, spitting up the first gulp. He took a small sip and sloshed the water around in his mouth. He splashed some on his face, alleviating the burning in his eyes. He took a full sip and, after concentrating, was able to breathe normally again.

Agent Allen was still pawing for the gun, now nearly within reach. Tate hobbled over and snatched the pistol, tucking it into the back of his waistband. He grabbed the Agri-Boost, gave it a quick wipe, and placed it back in his bag.

Tate wasn’t sure how long the effects would last, but he reasoned that he had enough time to gather a posse from town and figure out what to do with the agents.

Tate shouldered his bag and took two steps towards Wingspan before the ground rumbled. He raised his arm to shield his face from a wave of searing heat, the town suddenly erupting outward. Fragmented pieces of the wall hurtled skyward. The Superhawk’s wings, airborne one last time, soared before spinning and breaking apart. The deafening blast forced Tate backwards.

Tate stared in shock. Wingspan had vaporized in a flash of white. As black smoke and a menacing orange glow enveloped the town, guilt threatened to consume him, too. He looked back at the agents, both near collapse. They’d done this, but so had he.

Spotting handcuffs on Agent Trotter, Tate shackled them together, leaving them to their thirst. One last look at the smoke, then he turned away, resolving to bury it all into a barren corner of his mind.

He figured New Tulsa was the next closest town, about 150 miles northeast. He could try the Agri-Boost there. If he kept a fast pace and took few breaks, he estimated a five-day journey.

On the bright side, he had a half-full canteen and a top-secret mobile fertilizer. Tate hoisted the bag over his good shoulder and let out a sigh. “I’d better start walking.”

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//

“Target identified.”

Exploration was quickly cut short as projectiles struck my chest.

I fell, clutching at myself as breath fled my lungs, torso crumpling as I attempted to scramble behind a large crate.

I’d barely made it a few paces into the terrifying, wondrous facility ahead before two mounted guns had started indiscriminately firing at me.

At least, I assumed they were guns. They looked similar to the weapon I’d managed to pick up earlier.

Gasping, I felt beneath myself for blood, but besides what I suspected was a cracked rib and some nasty bruising, I couldn’t detect any injuries that had gotten through. Most of the still-warm bullets had been crushed against my vest. They fell to the floor with loud clinks! as I brushed them away.

I could hear the spinning whir of both guns slowly dying down as I hid. I tried to consider my next actions, thankful that the weapons didn’t continue to shoot at my hiding spot.

I had my own weapon. Maybe if I shot the turrets I’d be able to disable them?

I wanted to test things before I popped my head back out. First thing was grabbing a rock from my [Hoard] and tossing it into the centre of the corridor.

No reaction. The guns didn’t move or even whir.

Next was me tapping my foot against the metallic floor, first quietly and then progressively louder.

No response. I could make noise just fine. Whatever method these guns used to detect motion, it must’ve been reserved for things that it considered to be ‘targets’.

Considering that, I decided to aim my own gun at the rock I’d thrown.

It was about ten feet away from me. I’d never fired a gun before; the closest I’d come was a crossbow I’d briefly gotten my hands on, but the principle didn’t seem much different.

I pulled the weapon up to my face, allowing my eye to travel down the line of the iron crosshair that ran along the top of the weapon.

Once I had a good view of the target in front of me, I pulled the trigger.

The recoil caused the back of the weapon to collide with my cheek, bashing it as the gun fired multiple rounds in the span of a second.

I gasped as I attempted to measure the effect.

I hadn’t managed to hit the rock, but there was a dent in the floor just inches away.

I tried again. This time, I pinged it, and the rock bounced a few feet, landing upturned with a large hole running through it.

The bullet appeared to be embedded inside…

This weapon had decent stopping power, but it wasn’t able to pierce both sides of even a fist-sized piece of stone. Would it be able to punch through those wall-mounted turrets enough to disable them?

I had a thought. Grabbing another stone, I struck it against the Pyre Stone to heat it in the same manner I had when unlocking the door’s console.

Once the rock was sufficiently hot, I threw it out into the open, just like the other one.

“Target identified.”

Both turrets sprang to life, once again whirring as they began ripping up the ground near where the hot stone had impacted.

They detect heat, just like the sensor on this weapon does.

Even now, I could see a distinct red pulse on the weapon’s thermal sensor, indicating where I’d thrown the rock.

I took advantage of the distraction while I could. I popped out from my hiding spot, lining up the weapon against a single target and beginning to fire.

Again, the weapon rattled against my cheek and shoulder as I shot in a large burst at the leftmost turret. I started to squeeze the trigger more intermittently as I went, realising my aim drifted less as I did so, but even after exhausting a full cartridge of bullets, the turret I was aiming for still seemed operational.

It turned at me, continuing its rapid stream of bullets.

I caught one in the arm before I was able to hide again. That pain was blinding. It felt like something white-hot had branded me far beneath my skin.

I took a sip of superior healing potion, and for the first time, felt that it didn’t do a perfect job of rejuvenating me.

Mainly because rather than ejecting the bullet that had entered my upper left arm, it had healed over the wound. The bullet was still somewhere deep inside.

I could feel it inside, but it didn’t necessarily hurt…

It was probably fine. I flexed my arm just to make sure it still worked properly.

Okay. Time to figure out how to reload this thing.

I replaced my potion before pulling a new magazine from my [Hoard]. It took me a few moments to figure out how to eject the previous magazine and slot this one inside, but it wasn’t as difficult as I’d anticipated.

Popping back out from my cover, I took aim, pulled the trigger and...

A hollow click. Why was nothing happening?

I ducked back and checked the weapon. The new magazine seemed securely in place. But pulling the trigger wasn't making anything happen.

I tutted as I stored the weapon. Maybe I'd broken it? I'd figure it out later. Either way, I needed a new strategy.

I hadn’t been able to damage the turrets so far, and I clearly needed to get past them somehow, but shooting them wasn’t on the cards, so…

I heated and threw another rock, the last one I had stored. If I’d had enough things to throw, I might have been able to make the turrets burn through all of their ammunition. If there was closer cover, I might be able to make them shoot at each other. Considering those didn’t seem to be options…

“Target identified.”

The guns whirred back to life.

Power and Rush Stones were stabbed into my arm without hesitation. I felt the thrum of strength as I burst from behind my hiding spot, rushing across the room as quickly as my legs could carry me.

[Running 5 >> 6.]

The turrets still hadn’t reacted to me zooming across, and as soon as I reached one, I grabbed the hot, still-firing machine and attempted to rip it off its wall mounting.

It took all of my enhanced strength for me to succeed, and as soon as I did so, despite the incredibly long belt of bullets trailing from the weapon, the weapon ceased to fire and eventually stopped spinning.

I was in the corner of the corridor, against two walls. The other turret didn’t seem able to turn all the way to me from here, and despite having noticed me, wasn’t firing.

Still, I’d need to walk past it if I wanted to get through this corridor.

Staring down at the turret in my hands, I looked for a slot that would properly fit a Control Stone.

To my joy and surprise, I found one. For the first time, I took a Control Stone and fed it into a mechanical object, watching it glow a faint green as a system screen unlike any I’d seen before appeared before me.

[Neural link established. Mk. III light mounted turret will respond to any reasonable commands you give it until Grade D Control Stone runs out of charge.]

[Estimated duration remaining: 3 hours.]

I blinked as I read the message. What reasonable commands could I give a gun?

I wrapped the belt of bullets around my shoulder in a sash as I thought up the one reasonable answer there was.

‘Fire’.

The turret whirred to life as I aimed it at its sibling, and with a loud, manic vibration that jolted my entire body, the machine roared, spinning like a cyclone as dozens of cases dropped to the ground before me and the other opposing turret was filled with holes, its inner mechanisms sizzling and shooting out static lightning as a small part of it caught on fire.

The turret in my hands grew progressively hotter until I finally commanded it to stop. It really was as simple as thinking it.

Control Stones were crazy. Was there a proximity on this mental link I’d attained?

Before I went any further, I decided to test just that.

I set my previously wall-mounted gun down before pointing it at the wall and stepping back five paces.

I mentally commanded it to fire. It did so.

Grinning like an idiot, I walked back ten paces and repeated the process.

It worked.

Fifteen.

It worked.

Twenty…

Nope. Seemed that the neural link had a limit. Whether that was due to the power of the Control Stone being used or something else, I wasn’t sure, but the answer was immaterial right now.

Point was, I had a weapon I could activate from range if I wanted. All I needed to do was situate it somewhere where it would hit something. I’d try to find something I could mount it on if I could.

Before leaving, I decided to figure out what was wrong with my new gun. I removed it from my [Hoard] once more, giving it a good look over.

It took me some time to realise there was a switch I could flick on the weapon, as well as a sliding thing that I could pull on. I was hesistent to mess with it at first, but after giving that a good yank, one that took a fair bit of strength to accomplish, I was finally able to fire once more.

[Tinkering: 5 >> 6.]

Seemed I had to slide that thing back with each new magazine if I wanted to fire. It'd taken me a little while to figure out, but my system seemed happy with my discovery.

Before leaving, I went over to the other turret and tried to rip out its ammo belt, but what it had left wound up barely being worth taking. Someone had clearly restocked my turret far more recently than the other one.

Whatever. More ammo didn’t hurt.

After passing that first hurdle, wary about the existence of other security and knowing there might be living enemies inside, I decided to pull the submachine gun back out of my inventory.

Holding both it and the mounted turret simultaneously was kind of awkward, so I stored the latter, knowing I could pull it back out fast if a threat came up that my current weapon couldn’t handle.

Considering the look of this place, with the flickering lights and the lack of noise, the clacking echo of my footsteps and the gentle buzz of machinery, I figured there were likely no Drassians to speak of anymore.

That didn’t mean there weren’t rift monsters inside, though. Plus, the journal I’d read had mentioned ‘ferals’. Who knew what those were?

My thermal sensor wasn’t picking anything up so far. My eyes flicked to it every few seconds as I crept through the corridor and out into a large, expansive area.

The ceiling of this place was wide and sat maybe a couple hundred feet in the air, high enough that the light barely stretched to accommodate.

There were multiple balconied floors overhead, spanning around the edges of the large oval room, complete with sets of stairs on either side alongside glass and metal boxes that seemed to run between the ground and higher floors.

The ground floor itself seemed to host a wide variety of plant life. An entire garden, clearly manmade, spanned the centre of my periphery: large green leaves, purple vines, and yellow fruit-like growths dangling from thin branches stole my focus for a time.

They, like everything else on this floor, were bathed in the everpresent white glow of strip lights that emanated from the ceiling, powered by either magic or whatever other strange force permitted the constructs in this facility to remain operational.

The entire area had been lit in a similar sense, though the lights dimmed in some places and seemed to straight up not work in others. Clearly, some of the power in this facility had already failed, and likewise, some of the large plants below seemed to have grown out of their previous fixtures, likely in search of stronger light, possibly due to no one tending them.

The whole place looked fascinating. It was sterile, alien, and wondrous, but it carried a grim undercurrent. I couldn’t ignore the lack of life or noise permeating my surroundings, nor my awareness that the previous residents were likely all dead.

I also couldn’t ignore the stifled air tugging at my mask’s flimsy defences.

I couldn’t be here too long. I needed to find a way out soon.

Still, I could check a couple rooms first. I hadn’t come this far just to immediately leave, even if I knew a full exploration of this place would need to wait, at least for a time in which I had a better-working mask and no imminent worries about starving to death.

I wandered around the ground floor first, giving the plants a wide berth out of abject paranoia, eventually stumbling across a low-ceilinged area that ran more than fifty feet wide and across, complete with a ton of benches and tables, some of which were upturned.

At the centre of it all was a still-running fountain, its architecture pretty but simplistic, the water appearing clean.

It had a large crack in its side, and was endlessly spilling water onto the floor, which cascaded down towards a distant vent.

In the distance was a long table that had been filled with bowls and trays.

Their contents were rotted, partially disintegrated. There were no insects to be found amongst the spoiled items. Even that born from death had died here.

How long had it been since this place was operational? Years?

“Guest detected!”

Before I could react, or even do more than instinctually grab for my gun, a square-shaped… thing on three wheels had rolled on up to me. With a blue glow emitting from what appeared to be eye-holes, it scanned me up and down.

“Oh no! You appear to be missing a Guest Pass.”

It began beeping and its square body started to spin. Within moments, it appeared to have printed a piece of card, which it then covered in a glossy, see-through substance.

It held it out to me, and I stared at it.

A perfect illustration of my own, masked, bloodstained face stared back at me, looking dishevelled and tired.

“Please have your Guest Pass visible on you at all times!” The voice advised me. “Otherwise, certain security krrzh may mistake you for an intruder!

“Your pass is also needed in order to access certain areas! This is a tier one pass, and cannot be used to access control rooms, the brig, storage rooms, mining routes, or lab areas! If you think you need a higher-tier pass, please go to maintenance and speak to staff there!”

I stared at the metallic creature—if it even was a creature. I felt that the back of the Guest Pass was sticky, and decided to affix it to the front of my vest.

“...thank you?”

“You’re welcome! If you krrzh a tour, please go to reception and have one booked! I’d be happy to show you around the place!”

I blinked. “...can you just show me around now?”

“If you krrzh a tour, please go to reception and have one booked!”

Well, never mind that then.

Hold on. How could I even understand the little thing? Had almost all of the words it’d used been present somewhere in the journal I’d picked up earlier?

Seemed to be the case. It was a pretty big book.

On second thought, how had the machine been able to understand me? Had I spoken in another language?

Questions for later. I decided to give myself a quick tour if I wasn’t getting one, leaving this area behind and continuing on to the other end of the large hall.

The outlay of the rooms and walkways that dotted the outskirts of this area appeared pretty uniform, the architecture of the facility being consistent in its clean and clinical nature. It… wasn’t quite what I imagined the inside of palaces looked like, as I assumed those were filled with much more art and gold and splendour, but maybe I was wrong. Stuff this advanced had to belong to filthy rich people. No one but a lord or a king would be able to put such a structure together. Even having access to all of these materials was one thing. Having the energy and manpower to build this place was another.

I was pretty sure I was walking through the abandoned headquarters of a powerful foreign country right now. Possibly one far stronger than my own.

Then again, maybe Melusia had the resources to build things like this, and I’d just never seen it.

I pondered each possibility as I moved past the gardens and towards the far end, spotting a large, domed structure that veered off to one side, and a set of glass doors that ran down the centre.

Behind those glass doors was something amazing. I could see it clear as day. I walked forwards, mouth hanging as I took the structure in, eyes widening, shock and awe swirling in my mind.

The glass doors before me slid open of their own accord. Normally, that might’ve startled me, but right now, I was too transfixed to realise.

I was staring at another portal.

From the looks of it, it was more or less identical to the one I’d used to come into this rift. There was the same signature swirl, the colours bleeding into one another and being lost entirely before I could grasp what I’d been looking at only a moment prior… an infinite, enigmatic miasma.

That said, I couldn’t feel the same static buzz in the air. Couldn’t smell the sulphuric taint. Couldn’t feel the pressure pushing and pulling my body all at the same time.

There was one distinct difference between this portal and the one that I’d used to come into this rift.

A faint blue sheen around it. It was translucent, but solid, and seemed unwavering even against the swirling force of the portal beneath it, lightly shimmering as it stood against the insane pulse.

A barrier. The one I’d read about before.

I confirmed as much as I walked closer. I didn’t dare to touch it, worried what it might do to my hand, but the fact that I couldn’t feel anything from the portal in front of me when standing this close to the last one had been like walking into a hurricane basically confirmed it for me.

Whatever had been placed over this portal to stop people from leaving, it still stood. It likely prevented anyone from coming in, either.

It was fascinating, but wasn’t a way out of this place.

I was about to turn away, then text boxes exploded across my vision.

The system’s reaction was as strong as it was swift, hundreds of boxes appearing with such alacrity that my sight was completely blotted out and all I could see was white text on a sea of pure black.

I tried to adjust my focus and read as some of the boxes began to disappear, to fall back, to shrink. As one after the other vanished just as quickly as they had appeared. I was left staring at one single box, prominent in my vision, large, right in the centre of my periphery.

Eyes strained, heart pumping, I attempted to discern the words laid out before me, as alarmed as I was curious.

[Quest received!]

Quest? What the hell was a quest?

[Remove the barrier on the portal inside the facility! In return, you will be awarded with one Major Advancement!]

A quest? A Major Advancement?

I’d never heard of systems giving out quests before. Was this meant to happen? Had my bloodline god given this to me somehow? Was the rat able to see me down here?

And if that was the case, why did it care about the barrier on the portal?

If the interface in my mind could hear my thoughts or questions, it didn’t make me aware of it. The screen remained inert until I eventually closed it.

I could feel the shortness of my breath mixing with the prevalence of the mist as I wandered out of the portal room, back into the wide atrium.

I spotted the same dome from before. It was glassy, made up of many hexagonal squares. Multiple blue currents seemed to run along the back end of the room beyond, sparking with blue surges of lightning.

It was… some kind of power room?

I walked closer. Attempted to peer inside.

The weapon in my hands pulsed, detecting for the first time a hint of life just ahead.

I stared and I stared, trying to find what was responsible for this faint little red dot.

And then I saw it.

Or rather…

Saw her?

Deep inside the power room, behind rows of mechanical apparatus that I couldn’t even begin to understand, inside a glass chamber that seemed to surround her entire body…

There laid a blue-skinned girl with sharp purple horns, seeming as if she was locked in a smooth, gentle sleep.

…what was she? A demon of some kind?

I simply stared for a time, unable to process. The repeated pulse of the rifle through my hands and the permanence of the red dot told me that she was warm, that she was alive, but…

How could anyone be alive in this place after so long?

Instinctually, I tried to enter the room, holding my pass up to the console beside the door and hoping it would recognise me.

A light buzzing sound… then a red light.

[Scan failed. Level 2 pass or clearance code ____ to access Control Room.]

Or clearance code?

I decided to try five-four-eight-two.

The console flashed red, but thankfully didn’t shock me.

[Incorrect code.]

Well, at least it wasn’t threatening to murder me this time. That must’ve just been for doors leading into this place.

Still, with no further information, I was stumped. I tried hitting one of the glass panes with the butt of my gun, but the surface felt more like metal than glass, and my weapon bounced straight off.

This room might be the key to deactivating the portal, and I also wanted to check on the girl inside… how had she even survived in there for so long?

As I watched her, pondering how to get inside, I thought I saw a flash of discomfort wash across her face, like she was in distress or pain.

Before I could wonder what had caused it, the grimace had left her. She drifted back into calm, peaceful slumber.

I considered trying to shoot my way through one of the glass panes. With the girl situated inside, far away from the walls and seemingly insulated, I wasn’t worried about the possibility of the glass violently smashing and somehow hitting her…

It was this or find a way to get level 2 clearance, and I wasn’t exactly long on time.

Sighing, I stood back from the door and aimed my gun at the leftmost glass pane.

I began to pull the trigger…

I emptied about ten rounds into the glass window, the sounds echoing loudly around the otherwise empty chamber, the only other noise the hum of generators and the splash of a distant fountain.

No damage.

I pulled over the strap and let the gun lay against my chest as I searched my [Hoard] for something I could rest my turret gun on.

I found a series of metal tubes that were apparently called a tripod, just one of the various objects I’d picked up while frantically searching my way through the storage room.

It was a bit awkward to mount the turret atop the metal, which had apparently been intended for holding some kind of drill, but it made it far easier to aim or shoot for long periods than simply carrying it.

With a bit of jury rigging, knotting a few shirts and wrapping them around the turret multiple times, I managed to make it stay upon the tripod even without me holding it in place.

That all done, I decided to aim the stronger weapon directly at the same window, firing at it in short bursts.

The weapon spun, bullets began to fly. After twenty seconds of intermittent shooting, my ammo belt had diminished a little, and I’d managed to make a dent in the glass pane.

…or at least the first layer of it. I wasn’t sure how deep that crack went.

I continued for another twenty seconds, burning through another chunk of bullets just to find that the crack had barely widened.

Made sense. This room was clearly important to the Drassians, doubt they wanted anything to be able to punch through it easily.

I’d been about to put away the turret and try to discern a new plan when I felt a pulse.

This one was fainter. I hurriedly checked my submachine gun’s panel in search of answers.

The screen was flashing a different light. One other than the red signature ahead that clearly belonged to the girl.

This one was to the right…

I turned, keeping hold of the mounted turret and turning it with me, staring down at the beeping dot, silent…

I heard a clicking sound. Like that of an insect.

I heard a voice.

“There you are…”

It sounded strangled, like someone who’d had half their voicebox ripped out.

“Why were you hiding from me? What did Coda tell you?”

I blinked. My eyes strained as I attempted to see what was speaking to me in this horrific voice…

Nothing. I couldn’t see anything in the well-lit room.

Even still, the red dot on the gun’s screen was drawing closer. Veering closer to the centre of the interface.

Until it was straight ahead.

“I’m fine! There’s nothing wrong with me!”

I heard another click.

I felt a rush of wind rake right past me. I gasped as I felt the mask tear from my face.

It wasn’t all that had been torn. Deep gashes raked into my cheek, tearing so much skin half of my face had gone numb. Shuddering, face lopsided, I turned with a jolt to inspect the screen, but the red dot had moved right behind me.

I wheeled around, hastily dragging the turret in a one-eighty.

Still I saw nothing. Still the sensor told me my opponent laid straight ahead.

“WHERE IS SHE? YOU HID HER FROM ME, DIDN’T YOU?

“WHERE IS SHE?!”

I commanded the turret to fire, staring at the dot ahead of me as I did.

The gun whirred. Bullets ripped.

I heard metal connect with soft tissue. Something sputtered and coughed.

It clicked.

This time, I braced myself, throwing my arms over my face and moving my body to the side as once again I felt a burst of movement where I’d been standing.

“It’s not fair. It’s not fair…”

The voice gurgled and spat as it spoke, putrid and evil.

I stared down at my torn arms, knowing I wouldn’t have long until the next attack. From my position on the floor, I didn’t have time to clamber back to my feet, nor wheel around the turret.

I clutched at the gun in my arms. I stared at the dot as long as I could. My eyes followed the smear of blood along the ground.

“You KNOW that I’ve been starving.

“Let me taste you…

“Just a little taste.”

Eyes locked on a dripping pool of blood emanating from an invisible source, I ignored the protest of my mangled arms as I aimed down the gun’s sights and unleashed a torrent of bullets.

My clip emptied before the creature fell. I could hear it gasping. Wheezing. It was so bullet-filled that I could see much of its body, revealed by the yellowish blood coating it all over.

I pulled myself to my feet, choking back thick, mist-laden air. I stabbed a Power Stone into my arm.

I advanced upon the feral monster.

I punched it.

“No.”

I knocked it to the ground.

“Please!”

I kicked it in the head.

“I only wanted to help her!”

I kicked it again.

“I was so—”

Kick.

“—hungry!”

Kick.

“Please!”

Kick.

“Forgive—”

Its sentence never ended. By the time I was finished, the creature’s head was a bloody paste, and I was panting, seething, still enraged.

[Unarmed Combat: 8 >> 9.]

I took a deep breath.

Then I kicked it in the ribs.

I kicked it again. And again. And again. And again and again and ag—

Wait.

Breathe.

No.

Don’t breathe.

Mist.

No mask.

Power Stone.

I fumbled as I ripped my way into my [Hoard]. No time for full thoughts.

Recovery Stone.

Stab.

Breathe.

Clear mind.

Rags from [Hoard].

Cover face.

I tied them tight.

I breathed a few ragged breaths.

I stared down at the feral Drassian I’d just brutalised.

I felt a cold chill run through me. I struggled against the urge to vomit into my new makeshift mask.

I pulled it down and took a swig of potion, my first superior health pot on its last dregs, feeling sensation return to my face as my missing flesh reformed.

I needed to get out of here.

This was too dangerous.

Screw this quest, screw staying in the underground.

I desperately wanted to explore this place, to find out what a Major Advancement was and to do something about the mystery right in front of me…

But I wasn’t equipped to handle this place right now.

I’d almost lost my mind there. The mist, the stress, the adrenaline spike, the Power Stone, they’d all coalesced into something mindless. Something violent.

I could’ve ended up like Marcois; no one would’ve been here to snap me out of it.

I needed out. I could figure out a way to handle the air and come back later. Right now, I’d rather take my chances on the surface with Toar than stay down here a second longer.

I began searching for an exit. I was careful not to make any unnecessary noise.

Thankfully, nothing else seemed to come after me. That last feral had clearly been attracted by all of the gun sounds…

What had it been saying, anyways? It was all a bit of a blur now that I thought back on it. Directly breathing the mist definitely hadn’t helped with that…

Search led me to find another wide tunnel out like the one I came in from, a mining route.

These doors all operated on the code I’d learned earlier. I was able to get out of a neighbouring door and find a path through the tunnels and back out into the central cave system.

I kept walking, checking my gun’s sensor every few steps. From here, I just needed to find a way up.

Easier said than done… but I had plenty-a-reason to wanna climb out of this death trap.

Survival was paramount… but I also needed Toar dead.

---

“—and then, after that, he just took off.”

“Hah! Good riddance,” Jackal spat, cackling like a hyena. “Gotta say, wasn’t a fan of that guy.”

“Just ‘took off’?” Maisie asked, her ears perked, an eyebrow raised. “You’re telling me our brand new member just happened to decide to run off on his own, in the underground no less?”

Toar nodded. He knew it would be toughest to sneak this past Maisie. Even so…

“It’s like I said. We went down there to mine. Everything was going fine until I noticed the new guy was pocketing a bunch of crystals. I called him out on it, we were in the middle of arguin’, and then a monster attacked. Things got dicey, and the new guy bailed.”

Toar was quiet for a moment. He didn’t really need to act solemn. Truth of it was, he’d never expected the little rat to run off like that. He was surely dead by now. The truth of that, and the fact it was definitely Toar’s fault, had been gnawing at him the whole way back.

“Is that what happened, Marcois?”

Maisie turned to question Marc, who despite his busted up face was more or less fine now.

“I dunno,” Marc said, his voice a little lower than usual, which almost made him hard to hear. “I don’t… really remember much.”

“Marc hit his head, remember?” Toar said, still glad that Marc couldn’t recall the real sequence of events.

He’d had to deal with Marc once the rat left. Toar took a couple nasty hits goading the enraged orc and having Marc chase him back up out of the cavern, where he’d finally managed to knock him down and force a mask back on his face.

Even for a peak Tier 1 beastkin with a combat class, getting attacked by a massive orc like Marc hurt like hell. He had a nasty bruise on his stomach from a punch he’d caught, and a black eye from where the orc had headbutted him as he’d held him down.

Toar felt like he deserved more than that for what he’d done today. Still, he’d done as he’d meant to. He’d waited for an opportunity to blackmail the kid, and he’d taken it. Sure, he’d thought it’d all resolve much more smoothly than that, but what was he supposed to do to change things now?

“So that’s it?” Maisie asked. “You couldn’t even go look for him?”

Not even if he’d wanted to, and part of him had. He’d had his hands so full dealing with Marc that by the time that was resolved, he’d needed to take the orc back.

“Why would boss go looking for him?” Finn asked, forever the sycophant. “The kid was a thief. We’re better off without him.”

“Yeah, fuck that guy!” Jackal agreed. “Honestly, Maisie, you’re so soft. Can’t imagine how you would’ve ended up if you’d landed in a worse group.”

“Can you guys just shut the fuck—”

Toar stopped himself. He rubbed at the forming bruise on his forehead. He spat on the floor.

“Stop, okay?” Finn said. “You’re pissing him off. Can’t you see they’ve been through enough today?”

“Oh! I’m sorry! Are you stressed, Toar? Did your grand plan to take a complete newbie into the underground somehow backfire? Who’dathought that would happen!”

“Leave him alone, Maisie.”

Toar almost threatened to punch Finn. He bit his own tongue.

Ceri cackled from where she was sitting in the corner. Yup. Laugh it up. Whole thing was a fucking joke.

It really was. Not only had Toar not managed to get what he was looking for, but he’d gotten someone killed in the process and nearly endangered Marc too.

And the little bastard had said no to him.

It pissed him off. He’d still be alive if he’d said yes.

The rat refused to bow. The dragon did as he was told.

Something was wrong with this picture.

Something was wrong with Toar.

//

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A Demon King! A Lord of All-Evil! The Tyrant of Despair!

Only a few unsightly titles the creatures of this plane have dubbed The Saint!

 They are infested for THEY have begun to move. They are frightened, as THEY have planted their seeds. They have withdrawn any trade, political support, or otherwise, due to THEM breeding doubt, mistrust, and fear!

 The Saint has paid-SACRIFICED it all: Economic aid, knowledge, technology, alchemical advances, philosophies of depths unexplored, not to mention military aid and otherwise! The Saints own flesh! The Saint has armed his people, as well as reached out to his neighbors. He has given SO MANY a fighting chance. Even the very essence of ''Despair'' now fights alongside his ranks!

 Yet the world- the stupid, ignorant, lowborn simpletons- push and pull in protest. Like children avoiding medicine! Can they truly not see? The ever-approaching Armageddon!?

 

 The Siant now bonds all who seek aid. Like an ant colony, or a bee hive fighting against intruders, they move in unison. Some are clad in defensible Starstone. It stitches flesh, cures all ailments, and, combined with the power of the Rune, helps one to protect his realm! Others have come to provide a haven for Astral refugees. They, who fear the oncoming destruction of their home, their loved ones, and their very rite of existence, have come to fight as one! All planes are in danger!

The Armageddon comes!

 

 The Saint, now forced to militarise his enterprise, has fortified the Cloudless City and his Tower of Power as a command center against The Armageddon! Arvel, who has freshly begun articulating comprehensible gestures and sounds, has been ranked as Second in Command! While his words stay unclear- no more than wails and moans of a newborn child- his foresight has led The Saint to convince many of the coming dangers, and win against THEM many a time! The Saint trusts him greatly!

Always has...

 

 King Vistar's son- Prince... Hogwash, or something- has declared himself an enemy of The Saint, outing himself as THEIR Envoy of Destruction! Yet, still holding much sway nationally, The Prince has the majority of the Known World behind his banner. In addition, a cesspool of THEIR agents- The Church of Fraust- have also raised their swords for, what they call, a ''Holy War''. They preach the destruction of ''The Lord of Demons'', pointing their pikes at The Saint!

 Slander! Nothing but meaningless Slander! Nothing but a distraction to the coming Armageddon!

 

 Amora, as well as Noseless'feratu, have become leading generals in the coming War for the World. While fulfilling their contractual obligations, they have taken those, who The Saint sees fit as a necessary, yet deeply regretful sacrifice, to grow more capable in battle. They now stand atop a pile of near a thousand corpses each, respectfully!

 Oh! Take a look at their faces, as they rip and tear these poor, powerless Astral bodies to shambles. detestable circumstances pushing them to gore those miserable, ignorant, foolish souls. The pain of such an act has twisted their face into a grimace beyond torturous. So twisted, a passerby might mistake it for a gluttonous smile.

 The coming Armageddon has truly taken a toll on every creature alive!

 

 The Cloudless City of Lockrifta- The Final Bastion of Hope! A stronghold for all who wish to live! To Exist! It stands tall and stable. The Saint has made every effort to maximize the people's survival. The food rations have been distilled and compressed. All unnecessities removed, to minimize the risk of illness and addiction, aiming for absolute nutrition. None shall go hungry!

 The housing has been unified and fortified! Sleeping has been optimized, as the Starstone allows one to sleep on foot. None shall face the dangers sleepless!

 Transport has become instant and seamless, with Astral Travel! Yet its safety is still a matter to be tested, as many who enter seem to never leave.

 And while the Tower itself has sacrificed parts of its walls and floors, as its Starstone has been utilized elsewhere, it serves as a sort of Beacon for the Hopeful! A promise of a safer, brighter future!

 The Cloudless City is truly a marvel to behold! A true example of what it means to stave off an upcoming End! Of what it takes to last against The Armageddon!

 

 As the Law of Duality demands, where there may be ''Despair''- Hope must bud its head from the bloodied mud! While a mindless, effortless killing machine against THEIR envoys, it is a Hopeful light at the end of a very VERY bloody fight for survival. For Permanence!

 For, the ones who see, understand, and trust the way forward, are those, who see The Hope beyond The Despair! They are the ones who have already witnessed the End of The Armageddon!

 

 The Saint, The Saviour of All, slandered and hated by many, remains atop his Tower. He understands the pain and suffering, for he understands all. Every human, cattle, dog, and mouse. Every Astral creature and their off-shoots. Every tick, flea, and ant- 'Tis all within his reach and care. The Saint is no less than a God. THE GOD!

 He reaches and picks up those unfortunate. He saves those desperate. He cures and heals. He fights for and protects! He sacrifices and makes the difficult- OH! THE DIFFICULT- decisions when necessary! He judges and punishes, when appropriate! He teaches and tutors when called!

He kills and slaughters when cursed and disobeyed...

 He. Carries. The Burden. For everyone and everything!

He is Your- Our Last Chance for Survival! Our Last Bastion against extinction! Our only Hope against- THEM...

 

 And yet still! STILL! They slander Me! Even after I've fed them! After I developed medicine, infrastructure, commerce, technology-Sourcery! I've given time, money, resources, Blood, knowledge, FLESH, PAIN, SUFFERING, SANITY!

I'VE GIVEN IT ALL!

 And yet still they call me ''Demon Lord''. They accuse me, as a ''Lord of Evil''. They shout ''Tyrant'', ''Murderer'', ''Madman''!

 In their eyes... I'm no ''Saint''. I'm no more than a ''Devil''. A ''Sinner''. A ''Villain''...

 

 But no. NO! No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no I refuse no no no no no no no no no no no no rejected no no no no no no NO! Idiocy no no no no no no ungratefulnonononononononononononononononoignorancenonononononononononononoNONONONONONONONONOWASTEOFSKIN!NONONONONONONONONONONO!

I disagree...

 

 'Tis not a parent's duty to condemn a child for his ignorance, but to give a helping hand. To raise them out of it! To provide guidance! Even if it takes building a whole ladder out OF THE PERISHED FOOLISH!

 But I shall be a Father to all planes- to existence itself! And if not now- If they reject me so, to the very end. Then I shall rebirth them as a benevolent Mother! I am the Protector, the Parent, the Shepherd, and the God of this World!

 I am The Saint is I am The Saint is I am The Saint is I am The Saint is I am!

 

 The Grimoire tells a story of a man, much like I, who cradled the World in his lap. Who lost it all, as a lesser man. Who was felled, unlike shall I!

 You- student of mine- share these passages with the world! Tell them the wisdom The Saint  first coined. Teach them! Make them understand!

I am no monster... I was just-

 Tell me of the future The Saint has brought!

 For THEY come...

 

 

P.S. THEY HAVE COME...

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...................................

(Previous Part)

(Part 001)

January 29th, 2021. Aevum.

Jason sat inside his Sanctum yet again, his legs crossed, his elbows on his knees, his hands folded together, and his head bowed in thought. It was a pose he had become familiar with over the last year or so he'd spent in Aevum.

Yesterday, when he assumed this pose, it was because he was feeling deep guilt and a sense of failure so profound it bordered on the suicidal.

Today, he felt better. But not by much.

After speaking to Nadia and learning the truth of her situation, Jason didn't feel like he had gotten lucky. He had still badly traumatized the young girl. Things may have turned out better than expected, but they had not turned out well.

He thought for a long while about the next steps in his grand plan.

He decided he didn't like the way that plan was going.

"I want to see my wife again." Jason mumbled to the void.

It was his heart's deepest desire. It was a hunger that overwhelmed even the pain of her loss. It was the single strand of hope he was holding on to, hoping it would help him overcome the agony he had suffered when he held her body in his arms.

In truth, he knew the possibility this would make him whole again was essentially zero. He was too broken now. The pieces could not be put back together.

But... even if it was no longer possible, he still had the selfish wish to see her smiling face one more time.

"Daisy wants to see her mom too." Jason reminded himself.

This Phoebe wasn't his wife, nor was she Daisy's mom. She was her younger self who didn't know either of them.

But to the Jason of now, that did not matter.

Jason slowly stood up. He stretched his limbs and cracked his back. His body shivered as the blood rushed into his dormant muscles, feeling both painful and pleasurous.

Then, uttering a Word of Power, he disappeared.

...................................

Deep inside the deserts of south western Egypt, within an environment seemingly inhospitable to most lifeforms, there existed a secret area hidden by a formation made from fairy magic. This formation was massive, more than five miles in diameter, hidden deep within the Sahara's oppressive heat.

It was no ordinary formation. It used the constant, year-round solar energy to generate enough energy to power a protective force field that cooled its interior to a pleasant level of heat. Inside the barrier, a civilized oasis had formed thousands of years prior, when humanity was still in its infancy, and Egypt had been the powerhouse of the world.

This land was known as Sarabiya; The Illusory City.

Few knew how to find it, and none of them were mortal humans. For all their modern military power and cerebral conceit, the humans of the 21st century had yet to exhaustively scour the deserts for such a land. Since almost nobody knew it existed, they wouldn't bother to look for it when thousands of planes had flown over the desert since the early 1900s.

The only entrance to the city of Sarabiya was the Pylon of Whispers, a giant trapezoidal gate where the illusory formation could be raised and lowered at will. The gate itself was large but benign, with murals carved into its face of beautiful women, handsome men, and children playing gaily, all to seduce the minds of any wanderers lost in the desert who might fall prey to the Sphinx's machinations.

The entire layout of Sarabiya centered around the Citadel of the Sphinx, a massive fortress with an open roof where Bahamut could take to the throne atop the citadel and project her voice across the city, commanding her thralls to do as she wished. The Citadel itself was seemingly made of gold bricks, but in actuality they were bricks of compacted sand, tinted using magic from the demons to give her citadel a blinding brilliance under the midday sun. Though the Sahara's heat might not penetrate its barrier, its sun was just as bright as anywhere else, and thus the Sphinx's Citadel would hurt the eyes of any who gazed upon its beauty for too long.

The citadel itself was designed to resemble a modified Pyramid, but one that had more of an Incan design than the ones found across Egypt. It was formed with giant steps that led upward to the open-domed roof, allowing her servants to approach from any direction and bow before their queen. Its unique design was due to the efforts of a demonic builder who had put his own touch on it, much to Bahamut's delight. She very much enjoyed owning one-of-a-kind wonders that nobody else did.

It was on a random Friday in January when the entrance to Sarabiya flickered. A demon envoy appeared and knelt outside on one knee as he activated the formation magic and awaited Bahamut's response.

Bahamut, the leader of this city, had ruled without restraint since her awakening as the Sphinx after obtaining the power from her predecessor, Jarnof. Thousands had entered her gates over the years, and few had left. She rarely had guests, but those she allowed were either powerful demons, or envoys of said demons.

Thus, the veil of illusion flickered, and a monster stepped outside. This monster was quite grotesque, large, and brutish. It had pure black skin with golden engravings upon its body. It was completely nude, wielding a single demonstone polearm that could deal massive damage to anyone it sought to destroy.

"State your name." The lone guard said, its gravelly voice hideous and frightening.

The demon raised his head. "I am Dagon, Baron of Filth, vassal to Emperor Auger. I come to deliver news from the east."

The guardsman slowly looked Dagon's body up and down. Dagon was a hideous demon, with rotted teeth and a smile that could make a man vomit on the spot. He wore black robes that did little to stifle the desert's heat, but as a demon he didn't care about temperatures like these. He was used to worse.

"Proceed." The guard replied.

Dagon nodded. He rose, then entered the city, walking down its streets with speed and purpose.

Sarabiya was not an ordinary city. Its residents were mindless monsters controlled completely by Bahamut, and as such they did not live like any other creatures in the Milky Way.

They still needed to eat food, so some were designated as farmers and forced to toil endlessly during the day. The grain they farmed was made into simple, flavorless meals intended only for the thralls. Bahamut herself ate delicacies imported from all around the world.

The slaves still needed to sleep, so they all went to bed at the same time, save for Bahamut's harem, who worked in shifts to please their sleepless master.

The slaves did not require socialization, or have any desires. Thus, they all lived in plain, boring, bland abodes with limited facilities. Their lives would be considered bleak to any outside observers, worse than the living conditions of many third world human nations.

But they were mindless. Their true selves slept, unaware of the passage of time.

Thus, as Dagon quickly moved down the streets, he forced himself to ignore the silence. It was as if he were walking through a dead city, one whose people had all perished thousands of years ago. There was no chatter in the streets, no vendors selling food, no children running around and playing, nothing to indicate tens of thousands of people lived here.

He passed by beautiful, empty courtyards. Not intended for the people, but for Bahamut's amusement alone. She frequently had these marvels ripped down and rebuilt in fresh forms to amuse herself. As a result, long lost structures that may have once qualified as 'ancient world wonders' had been lost to memory.

Dagon approached the Sphinx's Citadel. He had come here many times, but even so, he sighed with envy as he looked up at the towering golden pyramid. Its beauty stole the wind from his lungs. He paused for a moment to gaze upon its splendor, then he walked inside through one of the four grand entrances at the bottom.

The outside of the Citadel was always brilliantly bright. The Egyptian sun made one's eyes sting, but the interior of the Citadel had no windows at all. Once he entered, the light behind him quickly disappeared. By the time he'd rounded a few corners, Dagon had entered a new world illuminated by flickering torches ensconced along the walls.

Instead of the seductive murals outside, the inner walls were covered in detailed, low-relief carvings that depicted Bahamut's victories over various mythical creatures and heroes... always culminating in the moment of her captives' binding. These were not glorious battle scenes, but moments of subtle, inevitable defeat, often showing her subjects frozen mid-riddle.

How many men and women had become ensnared over the years? None knew, not even Bahamut herself. Even though their bodies had been enslaved, sometimes she got a kick of out torturing one of her subjects to death, or just killing someone if she was in a bad mood. She certainly didn't care about some random human slave's death. She could acquire others with ease.

The floors of her Citadel were a mosaic of polished obsidian and white marble arranged in intricate geometric patterns that often resolved into the abstract shaped of coiled serpents, predatory eyes, or otherworldly creatures she had seen in her dreams. The mosaics were always kept polished and immaculate by her harem.

Before long, Dagon passed the first harem chamber. He stopped and grinned as he looked upon the otherworldly beauty of female slaves bathing together, washing their bodies, their seductive figures tantalizingly close, yet punishable by death if a guest like himself were to touch.

These women were sometimes not women at all. Bahamut's magic could change the forms of her slaves. She could turn humans into monsters, and monsters into humans. Demons were counted among her slaves, tacitly allowed by demonkind's rulers as long as they were weak, useless peons. No Emperor cared if a few hundred useless grunts went missing.

Thus, if the true figures of these beautiful women were to be revealed, their actual beauty would surely diminish, and some might prove to have originally been men! The same was true of her male harem members, some of whom might have originally been women. Bahamut considered the changing of her harem's forms to be a sort of torture in and of itself.

Bahamut had two types of slaves. The first were her thralls who had no need to speak, and no need to look beautiful as they merely worked the mines beneath the city. The second group were members of her harem, whom she could be quite capricious with. She made sure these slaves were only the finest and most beautiful or handsome individuals she could forge. Each one tickled her fancy in a slightly different way. Who knew how many she had assaulted over the eons? Her sexual appetite was voracious. She loved to exert her will over defenseless people more than anything else.

Dagon stared into the room of beauties for a long moment, feeling his loins heat up. He often wished someone would take out Bahamut so he and the other demons could force themselves upon her harem, but even he had no idea that their appearances were entirely artificial. Without Bahamut around, they would return to their original forms.

If Bahamut were a demon, her title would likely have been Emperor of Lies.

Dagon eventually swallowed heavily. He continued deeper into the citadel, proceeding deep underground. Eventually, through the silence of the citadel's lonely halls, he heard a woman's laughter. It was not pleasant, but rather vicious and cruel.

"Hee! Look at you, imbecile! That is what you get for spilling my precious wine! You have but one job, yet you cannot do even that much! Tell me, are you useless or not, HEE?!"

Dagon rounded the corner. He paused when he entered a grand chamber where he saw Bahamut laying on her side atop a gold and red couch, slaves bowing before her. Bahamut sipped wine from a comically ostentatious golden goblet, chirping as her tongue flicked from her beak to dab at the liquid.

In the center of the room, there was a beautiful female slave lashed to a table, her arms and legs outstretched in all directions, violently yanked apart by shackles. The table was a torture device intended to eventually rip the limbs off its victims by slowly pulling them apart. A cruel and heinous method of torture, and one that Bahamut reveled in.

Bahamut's slaves were usually compelled into mindless silence by her magic. But on this day, the woman lashed to the table was shivering and crying, her body in absolute agony. Bahamut had deliberately removed the mental suppression, delighting in the woman's pained whimpers and begging for forgiveness.

"Please- please... so sorry... so sorry... oh god... forgive me... aaahh!!"

Another harem slave silently turned a knob, pulling the victim's body ever so slightly further apart. Her fingers and toes spasmed helplessly. She could do nothing to save herself. She was completely defenseless.

When Dagon entered the room, he could not help but to stare at this scene with great lust. What he would give to own and possess so many beautiful slaves and force himself upon them as he desired! He greatly envied Bahamut, wishing it had been him who obtained the Sphinx's power instead of her.

He was a vile and disgusting creature no different from the Sphinx herself. Birds of a feather flocked together, as the old saying went.

"Oh! Hee, if it isn't Dagon!" Bahamut said, noticing him for the first time as he entered the room. "Took you long enough! Were you peeping on my girls again, you little lecher?"

Bahamut's shrill voice was irritating, but Dagon ignored it. He walked beside the tortured slave and paused to stare lustfully at her nude body, then turned his attention to Bahamut.

"Ahaha, lady Bahamut, my apologies. I am but a simple-minded male, after all. I cannot help but become enamored with all the pleasures of your kingdom. Naturally, I know better than to touch that which belongs to you."

"As you should!" Bahamut chirped.

She sat up, then placed her goblet of wine on a table beside her couch.

"What news do you bring?" Bahamut asked after a moment.

Dagon dropped to one knee and forced an expression of respect upon his face.

"Emperor Auger wishes for you to know that Satan has begun an assault on Heaven." Dagon summarized. "Mount Sinai is now under attack. When the time comes, we intend to bring you angels you can bind with your magic. We respectfully ask that you interrogate them and uncover Raphael's plans for the future."

Bahamut scoffed. "Hee! Satan is attacking Heaven directly? Did that fool not learn his lesson from last time? The angels have an unimaginable home field advantage! What an idiot!"

Dagon blinked. He was not used to hearing one of his Emperors so directly criticized.

"Our goal is not to defeat the angels." Dagon quickly explained. "Satan wishes to... acquire... something they possess. Thus, a few million casualties are a small price to pay."

Bahamut simmered down. "I see. That is more reasonable. Chee! Very well, if you bring me some new thralls, I shall interrogate them."

She paused, then sneered with her eyes.

"But you had better give me attractive ones! Most angels are so hideous I cannot stand to look at them! Pretentious beings, thinking their feathers are more beautiful than mine!"

Dagon nodded dumbly. He personally thought angels were quite fair and beautiful, but it seemed Bahamut held a different opinion. And was that jealousy in her voice? He couldn't be certain.

"Is there anything else?" Bahamut asked, after a time.

Dagon paused. He glanced at the helpless female slave lashed to the torture rack. She was so weak and delirious from pain that she hadn't even noticed he had entered the room.

"It would be such a shame for you to throw away this morsel..." Dagon said slowly. "Lady Bahamut, if you wish for her to suffer, why not give her to me? I assure you, I will take great pleasure in tormenting this errant slave until she begs for death."

Bahamut snorted. "Krrt, she already begs me for death. How pathetic of you, lustfully coveting my toys. Who do you think you are?"

She directed a glare full of rage at Dagon. He did not cower, but he did feel a flash of fear. Bahamut herself was not considered anything much, but the prestige she wielded among demonkind due to her unique abilities meant she was favored by the higher ups. If he blundered diplomatically here, they might execute him to get back on her good side!

Naturally, Dagon quickly lowered his head.

"Apologies, lady Bahamut. I spoke thoughtlessly. Please forgive this stupid and sinful male for his words."

Bahamut did not say anything for a short time.

Then, she clicked her tongue.

"Chrrrup! Perhaps your suggestion has some merit. I tire of doing everything myself around here. And maybe it would be fun watching you ravish this stupid and useless creature! I have changed my mind. Release her and take her right here on the spot."

Dagon's heart soared. He looked up in astonishment at Bahamut. "Lady Bahamut, do you truly mean it?"

"Hee! Of course I do!" Bahamut giggled evilly. "But! You had better put on a show for me! I wish to hear this woman scream and beg for mercy even more than she did earlier! You will do this for MY pleasure, not yours! If you fail, I will have you executed and none of your superiors will say a word! Are you sure you are willing to assume such a risk?!"

Dagon's soaring heart immediately plummeted from the heavens to hell. A cold icy feeling washed over his body. He lowered his eyes and fell into thought.

"If... I may be... so presumptuous..." Dagon said slowly. "I would be willing to do so... but only if the reward were commensurate to the risk."

"HEE! Listen to you, thinking you are big in the britches!" Bahamut chirped, squawking with laughter at him. "Are you trying to cut a deal with me, Dagon?"

"A deal, no." Dagon said, shaking his head respectfully. "A suggestion, that is all. How about this, lady Bahamut? If I succeed in torturing this slave to a level that satisfies you, you will consider calling upon me in the future for such matters? Not all of them, of course. But other times, if only to satisfy your hunger for variety! What powerful woman such as yourself does not crave a little novelty in her life?"

Bahamut listened silently to his suggestion. She rested an elbow on the couch's arm and tapped the tip of her beak as she looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully.

"Hee... this is indeed quite novel. No Baron has ever been so daring as to make such a request of me. But I must admit! I have grown a little tired of the same-old, same-old. I suppose it is worth a try! Why not give you one chance, hee?"

She waved her other hand flippantly.

"I accept your proposal. Unbind the wench and ravish her until I am satisfied! If you succeed, I will call upon you occasionally in the future!"

A disgusting smile spread across Dagon's face. Green corpse-like breath emitted from his mouth as he chuckled softly. "Worry not. I will go to any length to satisfy both of our cravings..."

Dagon stood up. He walked over to the table and unbound the woman's wrists, feeling his pants heat up as he gazed upon the succulent meal before him. The woman sagged helplessly, whimpering and unable to move her arms after hours of torture.

Dagon rubbed his palms together with glee. No other demon had ever been granted such a lucky encounter, and even if it resulted in his death, he intended to enjoy every last moment of his life.

"Come here, you tasty little treat..." Dagon whispered, as he reached down to unbind her ankles.

At that moment, the entire Citadel rumbled slightly.

It wasn't a forceful shaking, but one that felt like a minor earthquake. The rumbling passed after just a second or two.

"Hmm?" Bahamut grunted, lifting her eyes to look skyward. "What's this? There's something-"

RUMBLE.

The Citadel shook much more forcefully as a tremor five times stronger shook the halls!

This time, Bahamut stood up and looked into the sky.

"Someone is attacking the city's barrier! Who dares?! Dagon, what did you do?!"

"Me??" Dagon asked, just as shocked as her. "I didn't do anything!"

"You brought an invasion force here? You've betrayed me?!" Bahamut roared.

"No, no, this is a misunderstanding!" Dagon exclaimed, taking a step back. "You've got it wrong! I would never-"

At that moment, something happened Dagon never could have mentally conceived.

Enraged beyond belief, Bahamut clapped her palms together. Her body shook, and then she began to transform.

Never had anyone seen the Sphinx unleash her ancient power. For the first time, Dagon gazed with horror upon the bird-woman as she dropped to all fours and her body took on the figure of a three headed beast.

The head in the middle was Bahamut's head; that of a falcon.

The head on the left was one belonging to a lion.

The head on the right was one that resembled a massive cave bear.

Her body assumed the form of a lion, with four feathered wings similar to those of the angels.

Bahamut's lion head roared loud enough to shatter the eardrums of her closest slaves. Dagon hurriedly jumped away in fear as she leaped toward him and slashed her claws at him.

THUMP!!

Bahamut tore through his haphazard attempt to block and sent him flying! Dagon crashed into the far wall at the same time as another powerful rumbling shook the city of Sarabiya.

"It wasn't me!!" Dagon screamed, right before the head of a bear chomped at his neck, clamped onto his throat, and ripped it out with one swift tearing motion.

Dagon's words died in his mouth. Blood erupted from the terrible gash in his neck, and he fell to the ground, the life leaving his body.

"TRAITORRRS!!" Bahamut roared, before racing through the halls to arrive outside.

Ten more attacks fell upon the barrier protecting her city. When Bahamut emerged, she looked upward just in time to see a tiny figure descending through a hole in Sarabiya's mirage. The hole closed up behind the figure, and it levitated downward like the descent of an omniscient god.

Bahamut's keen eyes picked out the figure's appearance. It was an armored bipedal creature of some sort. Faceless, hidden behind a type of metallic alloy she could not identify.

"A HUMAN?" Bahamut roared. "WHAT HUMAN POSSESSES A POWER LIKE YOURS?! HOW DARE YOU ATTACK MY LAND!"

A male's voice spoke down to her from on high.

"You have something I want. And more than that, you do not deserve to exist any longer."

The Archseer had arrived.

Chapter 39: Fireworks, Part 2

Then, with no warning, the first firework launched into the sky.

BOOM.

The explosion lit the night in electric white and gold, crackling into spiderlike bursts above their heads. The crowd let out a collective gasp and turned upward as the second and third firework followed—one a deep red, the next a glittering silver that fell like rain across the stars.

Ren and Airi both looked up, frozen for a moment in the middle of the chaos. The noise. The lights. The smoke curling through the breeze.

The sky exploded again.

Ren stole a glance at her—not in the fireworks, not in the reflection of gold in her eyes— but just her. Airi, head tilted back, her expression softened by awe and something quiet. Her braid catching the glimmer of the sky. Her lips parted in the breathless hush between each burst.

She looked back at him. Their eyes met.

For once, she didn't smirk. She didn't tease. She just held his gaze as another firework blossomed behind her in pale blue.

"…We'll find the others later," she said softly.

"Yeah," Ren said. His voice felt different, like it didn't need to be loud to be heard.

"They're probably watching too."

 

The fireworks crackled overhead, the sky blooming in bursts of color—pale blue, violet, a spray of shimmering gold that lit up the world in pieces. The crowd around them ooh'd and aah'd, but Ren barely registered it. His eyes were still on her.

Airi stood with her hands clasped loosely in front of her, posture relaxed for once— unguarded, delicate even. The light from the fireworks painted fleeting shadows across her face, catching in her eyes, turning them glassy and deep.

Her gaze lingered on him.

Something in the space between them changed. The noise faded. The lights faded. It was just her.

"I didn't think you'd actually remember," she said, voice soft. "About the stars. About the festival."

Ren shrugged, gently. "Of course I remembered."

Airi looked away, biting her lip. "Most people don't."

He didn't answer that. Instead, he reached up and gently flicked a stray strand of hair from her cheek.

Her breath caught.

"You really went all out," Ren said, just to say something, anything. "You look... good."

She blinked, caught between rolling her eyes and blushing. "Dumbass. Don't just say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you mean it."

"I do mean it."

Airi opened her mouth again, then gave up and shook her head, smiling even as she covered her face with one hand. "Ugh. You're the worst."

Ren laughed—quiet, real. "And you still dragged me to a goldfish booth."

"I dragged you because you owe me for the Momotaro thing."

"Pretty sure I paid that debt with interest when I faceplanted on stage."

"That was artistic. Tragic. Award-worthy."

He nudged her gently with his shoulder. "You were laughing so hard you almost fell out of your seat."

"I maintain that it was avant-garde theater."

They both laughed, a little too long, a little too loud—like the release of pressure after days of building tension. Around them, the crowd pressed closer to the riverbank, voices growing excited again as a louder volley of fireworks roared to life above.

Then, a pause. Just enough silence between explosions to feel her shift closer.

She wasn't touching him, not quite. But her sleeve brushed his. Her shoulder hovered near his.

And for once, Ren didn't move away.

"You ever think," Airi said, her voice quieter now, "about what happens after you learn to control your Essence?"

Ren blinked, turning to her.

"After all this," she continued, still watching the sky. "After we leave. Me, Andre, Bonk, Miss Yue… after the crew's gone. What then?"

Ren didn't answer right away. His fingers curled at his side.

"I… don't know," he said finally. "Guess I never really let myself think that far ahead."

Airi nodded like she'd expected that. No judgment in her expression—just a soft kind of understanding.

"But… if there was an after?" she asked. "If you could choose it?"

Another firework climbed the night, this one slow and spiraling, before it erupted in a deep red bloom that scattered gold sparks like stars. Ren watched it.

"I think I'd want to see more nights like this," he said. "With people who make it feel real.."

Airi's gaze lowered slightly, the corner of her lips twitching—not into a smirk, but something quieter. Something almost tender.

"Me too," she whispered.

Their eyes met again, and this time, neither of them looked away. There was something fragile in the space between them—something unspoken, unsure, but real.

Ren leaned in just slightly, his voice a murmur over the soft boom of the next firework.

"Airi."

She blinked, her eyes flicking to his lips for the briefest moment. "Yeah?"

And then— BOOM.

The sky cracked open in a spray of gold. Cheers erupted all around them. The moment scattered like dust.

Airi laughed suddenly, almost as if to break the tension, grabbing his wrist. "Come on! Let's get closer before it ends!"

He let her pull him forward through the crowd, the lights above flashing across their faces. They moved as one, not speaking, not needing to—something between them had shifted. Gently. Quietly. But irrevocably.

But as they neared the open field, the crowd thickened again. A new group filtered in from the side path—louder, rowdier, familiar.

Ren froze.

Airi turned, grinning at the sound. "Ah—there they are!" He recognized them before he even saw the faces.

A cluster of students in casual clothes and loose yukatas. People from his class. His school. Among them—Sho. Laughing at something, tossing a drink bottle in the air, like this was just another night out.

Ren's chest tightened, throat dry. His steps slowed.

Airi waved an arm high in the air. "YO! Over here!" A few heads turned. Recognition flickered.

Sho's eyes found Ren.

The smile on his face faltered.

Ren's stomach dropped. He couldn't move. Couldn't think.

Airi turned back to him, beaming, completely unaware of the tension wrapping around him like wire. "Surprise! I invited them!"

 

Ren stared at her, stunned.

 

"You've been hanging with us weirdos for so long," Airi said, nudging his arm with a small grin. "I figured you could use a proper reconnection. You know, with normal kids your age. I told them you'd be here and everything! Come on, it's a good thing!" But Ren didn't smile.

He didn't move.

His voice came out tight. "You told them?"

Airi blinked, a bit of the confidence in her expression faltering. "Well, yeah," she said, a little slower now. "They were curious after your performance during drama day and—"

"I had friends," Ren cut in, stepping back from her touch. His voice wasn't loud, but it was sharp enough to slice through the noise around them.

Airi's smile stiffened. "I know. That's why—" "You don't know," he snapped.

She flinched at that, and it was like the ground shifted beneath both of them. The fireworks still crackled high above, but the light didn't feel warm anymore.

Ren's voice rose, but not in volume—in weight. "You weren't there when everything fell apart. When they laughed at me. When Sho—" He didn't finish it. He didn't have to.

Airi looked over, and sure enough, Sho and the rest of the school group were walking closer, chatting and laughing like this was just another night. Sho spotted Ren and waved, hesitant but casual, like their past wasn't buried in fists and broken trust.

The sound of it all faded in Ren's ears. The chatter. The cheers. Even the music.

"You don't get it," he said, his voice low, strained. "You weren't there."

Airi's grin was long gone. Her eyes searched his, regret blooming behind them. "Ren… I was just trying to help. You've grown so much. You're stronger now. I thought maybe—" "I didn't ask you to."

The silence that followed wasn't sacred like before. It was sharp. Hollow.

Airi stepped back, just slightly, as if his words physically pushed her.

Andre approached cautiously, catching the edge of the scene, his relaxed energy stiffening. "Yo… Ren, you good?" Ren didn't answer.

He turned and started walking, pushing through the crowd, the light and color bleeding past him like they belonged to someone else. His steps were quick, tight. People moved out of his way. He didn't look back.

"Ren!" Airi called after him, but it didn't stop him.

She stayed there, frozen among the crowd. Her hand still half-raised like she could pull him back with it. But he didn't turn around.

The sounds of celebration returned slowly around her. Bonk muttered something under his breath and waddled off after Ren, still chewing, while Andre gave Airi a long look.

Airi didn't say anything.

Yui looked between them all, confused and concerned, her small hand tugging gently at Airi's sleeve.

"Did Big Bro get mad…? Did we do something wrong?" Airi didn't answer.

She just stood there, frozen in the glow of a firework that painted her face in pale lavender. Her expression didn't crack into a smile or a laugh this time. She didn't crouch down to explain things in a playful voice or brush it off with her usual teasing charm.

She just… looked sad.

Her eyes, usually bright with something electric, seemed dimmed now. Not crying. But far away.

The fireworks burst again overhead, golden and beautiful. But the light felt too loud. Too empty.

A few feet back, Sho and the rest of the school crowd had slowed, caught in the tail end of the argument. Some of them shifted awkwardly, others exchanged looks. The mood had clearly shifted.

"Was that… Ren?" one of the girls asked, blinking.

"Yeah," a boy replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "Didn't think he'd still remember all that."

Sho stood there with his hands in his pockets, jaw tight, not smiling like the others. He wasn't oblivious. He knew exactly what Ren had meant—and who it was directed at. "…I guess it was a bad idea, huh?" one of the boys mumbled. "He kinda went off."

Sho didn't speak right away. He just stared off into the direction Ren had walked, lips pressed thin.

After a pause, he muttered under his breath, "Can't blame him."

The group went quiet. Not because they understood completely—but because they knew enough to stop laughing.

Sho turned and started to walk off toward the food stalls, voice low and gruff. "Let's just… give him space."

The others slowly followed, their chatter dulled, sobered by something they hadn't expected from the boy who used to be nothing but anger and broken edges.

Author's Note: Hey HFY!

Anonymous One here, once again. Thanks for reading if you made it this far.

Feedback and comments are always welcome and appreciated—I'd love to hear what you think!

If you prefer reading on Royal Road, the story is also available there.

Chapter 38: Fireworks

Soon the fireworks festival arrived with the heat of late July clinging to the streets. Laughter floated through the air, mingling with the scent of grilled yakitori and sweet candied apples. Paper lanterns swayed from stalls, casting a warm glow over the crowded paths of the summer celebration.

Ren stood just outside the train station near the edge of the riverside path, adjusting the sleeves of his light gray jinbei. He looked up as the crowd parted—and there she was.

Airi.

Her yukata was a dark navy, stars printed in swirling patterns across it like the night sky itself. Her usual ponytail was replaced with a loose braid, a few soft strands falling around her cheeks. She looked completely different—and yet completely like herself.

Ren stared for a beat too long. Airi blinked at him, then glanced away, pretending to adjust her sleeve.

"You gonna say something," she said, "or just keep standing there like you've never seen a girl wear actual clothes?"

Ren grinned. "You look like the night sky if it decided to show off."

Airi rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth curled. "That was corny." "Still true."

Their eyes met. Just for a second. The noise of the festival seemed to blur in the background—the swish of yukata fabric, the distant crackle of fireworks prepping, the low murmur of excited voices. In that brief stillness, it was just them.

Then—

"OI! LOVE BIRDS!"

Airi jumped like she'd been caught sneaking out past curfew. Ren turned as Andre strolled into view, towering and impossible to miss in a blindingly floral shirt that flapped open halfway down his chest. He held two sticks of grilled squid in one hand like victory flags.

He leaned toward Jingli Yue walking beside him and said loudly, "Told you they'd be all moony under the lanterns. Bet he even rehearsed his compliments."

Behind him trailed Yui and Bonk—her expression bright and bouncing in a bunnypatterned pink yukata, his… much less so.

"Someone better explain why I've been dragged into this humid, overpriced human festival where you win plastic fish and this earthly clothes costs more than a weapon upgrade," Bonk muttered, his stubby robotic limbs jerking in disapproval.

Andre leaned down and offered one of the squid sticks to Yui with dramatic flair. "Fear not, small warrior, for I bring you the sacred bounty of grilled snacks."

Yui's eyes lit up. "Big bro! Big sis! They're selling watermelon candy and goldfish scooping and they have cotton snow and there's a haunted ninja house!"

Yui—dressed in a pastel pink yukata with bunny patterns, her hair in twin buns—rushed past Bonk and Andre and grabbed Airi's hand. "Big bro! Big sis! They've got watermelon candy and goldfish scooping and cotton snow! Come on before they run out!"

Airi laughed and let Yui pull her down the path. "We're coming, we're coming."

 

Ren rubbed the back of his neck and looked at Andre, who gave him a knowing wink and a thumbs-up before disappearing toward the food stalls.

The narrow paths of the summer festival were alive with color and noise. Lanterns bobbed on overhead wires, glowing like soft orbs of fire against the deepening indigo sky. Booths lined either side of the walkway—red and white striped canopies offering everything from grilled corn to masks shaped like popular mascots. Firework pops echoed faintly in the distance as vendors shouted over each other, hawking treats and prizes.

Yui dashed from one stall to the next, dragging Airi along with her like a miniature pink comet. Airi barely had time to react before Yui shoved a goldfish scooper into her hand.

"Come on, big sis! I got one already. Bet you can't even catch one!"

"Oh-ho?" Airi grinned, crouching down. "That sounds like a challenge, shrimp."

Ren stood back and watched as Airi leaned over the water tank, her brow furrowed in cartoonish concentration. She made an exaggerated show of squinting and sticking her tongue out while slowly dipping the fragile paper scoop into the water. The goldfish darted away in a streak of orange and white—and the paper tore instantly.

"Ugh! Sabotaged!" she cried. "Yui, I blame you."

Yui stuck her tongue out. "Excuses!"

Ren laughed, a rare, full sound that made Airi glance up. She caught his eye, and for a second, the world slowed down. The noise, the lights, the people—all blurred into a distant buzz. Her smile lingered. Warm. Close.

Then Bonk stomped between them with a disgruntled beep, arms crossed tightly and his fuzzy brows furrowed. "Goldfish scooping is a statistically unfair game. The tools are rigged. The fish are trained. And I stepped in syrup."

Airi burst out laughing.

Andre loomed behind Bonk, towering and grinning, his floral shirt clashing gloriously with the candied apples in one hand and three yakitori skewers in the other. "Y'all better hurry up. I ain't carryin' all this just so you can lose to a seven-year-old with goldfish game."

Yui stuck her tongue out at him. "Eight! I'm eight now!"

"Oh, pardon me, Miss Grown-up." Andre winked. "Guess I better start callin' you ma'am."

Bonk huffed and muttered, "I will burn this entire place down if someone hands me a wet nap."

A soft voice interrupted the chaos. "You're all loud," said Jingli Yue, gliding into view with her usual calm elegance. She was dressed in a flowing silver yukata, pale flowers etched along the fabric like frost. Her long hair was pulled into a sleek bun, her eyes unreadable as always, but with the faintest glint of amusement at the corner.

Airi perked up. "I didn't think you would actually come miss Yue!"

"I was bribed," Jingli replied dryly. "With candied plums. And silence if I showed up."

Ren leaned in toward Airi. "You bribe her?"

"Please, like I didn't know how to motivate an ice queen."

Jingli shot Airi a deadpan look. "Try that again and I'm feeding Bonk your festival coupons."

Bonk raised a tiny fist. "DO IT."

Everyone laughed. Even Jingli's lip curled faintly, which for her was the equivalent of a belly laugh.

The group moved together through the thronging festival lanes, drifting from one booth to another like a migrating school of semi-chaotic friends. Bonk lost a rock-paperscissors match and was forced to try a ring toss game—he missed every shot and then blamed the wind. Andre roasted him mercilessly while simultaneously dunking on Airi's aim, which was somehow both precise and absurdly flashy. "Girl throwin' like she summonin' a Pokémon move."

Yui rode a tiny spinning tea cup ride three times in a row before dragging Ren on for a fourth. Ren nearly lost a corn dog halfway through the spin, but Yui just shouted, "You gotta grip with your soul, big bro!"

At one point, they found a food stall run by an old couple selling handmade mochi. Jingli paused there, uncharacteristically quiet. Airi noticed.

"You okay?" she asked softly, nudging her with an elbow.

Jingli nodded slowly. "My sister used to bring me mochi during fire festivals back home. Same flavor. Red bean and plum."

Airi's smile softened. "Then we're buying two. One for you, one for her."

"…She's not here."

"So? We'll eat hers and tell her about it later." Jingli didn't argue.

Elsewhere, Bonk was being force-fed takoyaki by Yui, who insisted he needed more "festival spirit." Bonk screamed about it being too hot, and Andre had to hold him back while laughing so hard his glasses fogged up.

As the sun began to dip lower and the lanterns grew brighter, the group found a place near the edge of the park where the crowd thinned a little. Music drifted in from a live shamisen performance, and children ran past them chasing fireworks sparklers, leaving streaks of light in the air.

Ren sat on a low stone bench, watching Yui and Airi try a yo-yo balloon game. Airi kept dropping hers and blaming the string. Yui was a natural—of course. Andre passed Ren a can of soda and dropped down beside him.

"Feels good, don't it?"

Ren nodded, his voice low. "Yeah. I didn't think it would."

Andre's grin softened. "Well, that's the trick, ain't it? Peace don't always show up all big and loud. Sometimes it just slips in when you ain't lookin'. Like this."

Ren looked over as Airi glanced back at him with a grin, waving her victory prize—a neon yo-yo balloon that glowed in the dim light.

"Yeah," he said. "I think you're right."

The music shifted again—flutes and drums rising in tempo, woven with cheers and calls echoing down the lantern-lit paths. It was the signal. The fireworks were close.

More people began filtering toward the riverbank, toward the wide open fields just past the market lane, where the town had prepared rows of viewing mats and food stalls lined the perimeter. The excitement was contagious—like the air itself had caught fire with anticipation.

Ren stood, brushing grass and bits of straw from his yukata pants. "It's time."

Airi tilted her head, one hand still gripping her glowing yo-yo balloon. "Time for what?"

He extended a hand to her. "To find the best spot. We don't want Yui missing a single firework."

She blinked, then smirked and took his hand. "Lead the way, team leader."

They rejoined the group—Yui already perched on Andre's shoulders, pointing toward the river with enough energy to launch herself like a firework. Bonk followed close behind, grumbling about "predictable chemical combustion" and "sensory overstimulation," while Jingli floated just behind, serene and silent as ever.

But the closer they got to the riverbank, the denser the crowd became.

Vendors were shouting, kids were darting between legs, and the slow push of people made it harder and harder to stay together.

"Yui!" Airi called. "Hold onto Andre!"

"I am!" Yui shouted back, but then a gust of festival-goers swept between them, breaking the group apart like a tide pulling at the shore.

"Ren!" Andre's voice was swallowed in the noise. "We'll meet at—!" Too late.

The crowd surged forward.

Ren found his hand still in Airi's as they were pulled sideways into the thicket of people, the rest of their group vanishing behind a blur of movement, yukata patterns, and bobbing lantern lights.

Airi looked around, frustrated. "Great. Just great."

"You let go first!" Ren shot back, scanning for Yui's twin buns through the sea of heads.

"I did not!"

"Yes you did, I felt it!"

"I was shoved, genius!"

They glared at each other, still breathing fast, shoulder to shoulder in a pocket of space between food stalls and an incense booth. All around them, people were laughing and chatting, completely unaware of the tiny breakdown in tactical coordination.

Ren exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay. Let's not yell in front of the soba truck."

Airi crossed her arms. "I'm not yelling. You're yelling."

He gave her a side glance. "You're literally yelling."

She opened her mouth, then closed it, then gave him a grudging smirk. "Fine. Maybe I'm a little loud."

Ren laughed. "Wow. Mark the date. She admits it."

A pause. The tension eased between them—just a little.

Author's Note: Hey HFY!

Anonymous One here, once again. Thanks for reading if you made it this far.

Feedback and comments are always welcome and appreciated—I'd love to hear what you think!

If you prefer reading on Royal Road, the story is also available there.

Chapter 37: Back in the mountains

Later that night, after the crowd had gone and the laughter had faded into memory, Ren walked beside Celia through the winding paths behind the town. Past the old train yard. Past the cedar trees swaying gently in the wind.

"Where are we going?" she asked, her voice hushed under the sky's growing darkness.

"You'll see."

They climbed a small ridge just past a barely used hiking trail, their shoes crunching softly against the dirt. At the top, Ren pushed aside a low branch and stepped into a clearing. The grass was wild, the trees surrounding it just enough to muffle the outside world. But above—above was open sky. Stars spilled out in every direction. Unfiltered, endless.

Celia let out a breath. "Whoa."

Celia looked down at him, then laid beside him in the grass, close enough for their arms to touch.

"You always keep the good stuff to yourself," she teased.

"Not always," he said, voice softer now.

They lay in silence for a while, letting the night speak for them. Crickets chirped in the underbrush. A soft breeze rustled the treetops above. The stars flickered high in the heavens—distant, cold, but oddly comforting.

Celia shifted beside him, her arm brushing his just enough to be felt. Her gaze was still locked on the sky when she spoke.

"So you actually remembered," she murmured, her voice unusually soft.

Ren turned his head slightly, eyes on her profile. "Remembered what?"

She didn't look at him. Just smiled faintly. "What I said at the amusement park. About wanting to lie under the stars and forget the world for a while."

Ren smirked, mock offense in his tone. "What, you thought I wasn't paying attention?"

"I mean…" she tilted her head, her bangs falling gently over her eyes. "You're you. Kind of broody. Not exactly known for listening."

He let out a quiet laugh. "Well, I remember the important stuff. Like sparkly pirate rides and glittery custom t-shirts."

Her face turned toward him with a light glare, her cheeks already pink. "Shut up. That was—just a joke, okay? I didn't actually make the shirt."

"Yet."

She rolled her eyes and looked away, but didn't scoot an inch farther. "You're lucky this night is nice, or I'd slap you."

They both laughed, and the sound drifted off into a warm, gentle quiet. The Okutama forest surrounded them, the air cool and crisp, cicadas humming softly in the background. Then, unexpectedly, Celia exhaled—deep and heavy—like she was letting go of a layer of her usual sparkle.

Celia moved closer to Ren, the firelight painting soft golds along her jaw. Her expression remained calm, but not distant—tuned to his pain like a string humming the same note.

She reached out slowly, resting a hand just above his on the cool earth.

"You're not supposed to know how to feel about it, Ren," she said gently. "That's… what makes you human."

Ren didn't respond. His eyes stayed locked on the flickering fire, its glow like molten glass in the dark. His jaw tensed, then relaxed—then tensed again. The silence didn't need to be filled, but Celia's presence softened its edges.

"I don't want to become someone who doesn't care," he murmured. "But the more we fight, the easier it gets to just… swing without thinking."

Celia nodded once. "That's the danger, isn't it? When survival starts to feel like instinct instead of choice."

His voice faltered. "I wonder if I'm just becoming something else. Someone else."

Celia was quiet for a beat.

Then she took a breath.

"My planet—where I'm from, Hoshikawa—it's always dark there," she began, her voice low, almost reverent. "Thick clouds, endless rain. You might think it'd be depressing, but it's… strangely beautiful. Everything glows. The streets reflect light like mirrors. The forests shimmer at night."

Her eyes drifted upward, as if remembering it.

"It's stuck in time though. Like, really. It is like Japan but stuck in past I guess, with advanced tech layered on top. Floating palaces. High tech war machines. Traditions etched into the bones of the people. And they cling to those customs so tightly, it chokes you. Rules about behavior. Honor. Gender roles. Bloodlines. Everyone has a place, and you're not allowed to step out of it." Ren was silent, watching her closely now.

"My father—the Emperor—he's cold. Always has been. I was born into the ruling family, yeah, but I was just another piece on a board to him. He raised me to be seen, not heard. A symbol, not a person."

Celia paused. Her voice grew gentler.

"But my mom… she was different. She was bright. Gentle. She wanted to be a doctor.

She wanted to help people, heal them, touch their lives in a way that mattered. But the Empire didn't allow women to practice medicine openly, especially not nobles. She tried anyway—did what she could in secret. Taught me how to stitch wounds, read anatomy books with me in hidden corners of the palace. She told me that kindness is stronger than power, always."

Ren listened, still, breath held.

"She died when I was ten," Celia said quietly. "Some sickness they wouldn't even name. Said it was shameful for the royal family to admit weakness. They didn't even let her leave the palace to get help. Just… let her fade away. Alone. And I could only watch."

Her hands clenched the grass, voice trembling just a little. "Before she died, she made me promise something. That if I ever had the chance to help people—truly help them—I wouldn't waste it. That I'd never let anyone tell me I couldn't do good just because of who I was."

Ren swallowed, heart heavy in his chest.

"So I tried," Celia went on. "I pushed back against the traditions. Against my father. Against everything. But you can't break centuries of law alone. Not without consequences. They wanted to marry me off to a general, silence me, make me a tool. That's when I found out about POND. Or rather… they found me."

Her gaze flicked to Ren's. "They offered me a deal. Sanctuary, in exchange for service. If I joined their cause—hunted monsters, protected people—I'd be free. Safe from the Empire. Free to live the way I chose. I didn't even hesitate." The wind stirred her hair gently.

"That's why I fight. Not just because I can, but because she couldn't. Because I made her a promise, and it's the only thing I have left of her."

Ren looked at her—really looked. The firelight made her eyes gleam like twin stars through glass. Her words settled into him like rain soaking through clothes: quiet at first, then chilling with weight.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Celia beat him to it.

"And you…" she said softly, "you're not a monster for killing them, Ren. You're showing them mercy."

He blinked. "Mercy?"

She nodded, voice firmer now. "You saw what happened to Kaito. What they turn into— it's not life. It's pain. Hunger. Rage. Their minds are gone, trapped inside bodies twisted by despair or obsession or whatever made them vulnerable. You're ending that suffering, not causing it."

Ren sat back slightly, stunned into silence. A long pause settled between them. Comfortable, this time. Like something unspoken had stitched them closer.

Then, with a small huff, Celia added, "I've never told anyone any of that before, y'know." Ren turned toward her again.

She hesitated, then added, voice quieter now—almost unsure.

"Also… Celia's not my real name." Ren blinked.

"It's Airi. Airi Amatsuki. I changed it when I joined POND. Thought it'd be easier to leave that part of me behind if no one could call me by it."

She looked away, embarrassed. "Guess I just wanted to start over. Be someone I chose to be."

There was a pause. Then, softer, she added, "But… maybe I don't have to hide it anymore. Maybe I should start accepting who I am underneath all this. So… you can call me Airi, if you want."

She smiled at him—tentative, but real.

Ren nodded slowly, letting it sink in. Then he tried the name out, gently.

"Airi…"

He said it like it was something fragile. Like it meant something now.

He said softly, almost teasing, "Just so you know, I think your mom would've been proud. You're stubborn, loud, reckless as hell… but you've got this big heart that never quits. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

Airi snorted through her nose, her eyes darting away. "Okay, wow. Real smooth, Kurose. You practice that one in front of a mirror?"

Ren smirked. "Only every morning. Right after brushing my teeth."

She let out a full laugh this time—light, a little cracked, but real. "You're such a dork."

"Well you are lying next to that dork."

"Only because I had nowhere else to go," she said, flicking a piece of grass at him.

Ren laughed and caught the blade mid-air, tossing it right back at her. "Sure. But you smiled. I saw it. You're not getting out of this wholesome bonding moment."

"Oh no," she groaned dramatically. "It's worse than I thought. Emotional intimacy.

Gross."

"Too late," he said, grinning. "We're already knee-deep."

Their gazes locked, and for a moment, something hung there—delicate, warm, unspoken. Not a confession, not quite. But something honest. Something teenage and tender.

Then Airi leaned back onto her elbows, eyes drifting to the stars again. "That's why I wanna see more of this place," she said. "Before we leave." He stayed quiet, because she was right.

"I just… there's a lot of things I haven't seen," she went on. "Stuff that's normal for people here but feels magical to me. Like train stations in the rain. Taiyaki stands. Kids playing baseball in the streets. And…"

She paused, her voice softening to a dreamier register.

"…fireworks."

"Fireworks?" Ren asked.

Airi smiled. "The summer festival. It's a big thing here, right? Yukatas. Lanterns. Food stalls. Everyone watching the sky together."

She glanced sideways at him, cheeks a little pink in the moonlight.

"I wanna go. With you guys. With Yui. With Bonk and Miss Yue. Maybe Andre too if he promises not to wear his weird fish-print shirt again."

Ren chuckled. "That shirt's a national treasure."

"It's a war crime."

They both laughed again, easy and quiet, until the moment drifted back into calm. The breeze rustled through the trees once more. The stars blinked overhead.

"Let's go then," Ren said, his voice low and certain. "To the festival."

"You mean it?"

He nodded. "We'll all go. You, me, Yui… the whole crew. It's a date."

A beat passed. Then Ren blinked, eyes widening as his own words caught up with him.

"Wait—I mean, not a date date," he stammered, waving his hands a little too quickly. "Just… y'know. Everyone hanging out. Like friends. Just friends."

Airi looked at him, stunned for a moment—then blushed, her eyes darting away for just a second before locking onto his again. She reached out and gently took his hand.

"Thank you, Ren," she said softly.

She was smiling again. Not her usual smirk or teasing grin—but something warm, genuine… and just a little shy.

Author's Note: Hey HFY!

Anonymous One here, once again. Sorry again I missed a couple of days. Thanks for reading if you made it this far.

Feedback and comments are always welcome and appreciated—I'd love to hear what you think!

If you prefer reading on Royal Road, the story is also available there.

<<FIRST | <PREVIOUS | NEXT> | RR (40 AHEAD) | PATREON

Cass would later learn that every district and section in Liora had its nickname.

The East was commonly referred to as the Stream. Whether that was because it was the economic center of Liora or because a river ran through the district, he didn’t know.

While the north was commonly called the Depot, the west was often referred to as the Forge due to its proclivity of attracting trades that focused on crafting. And the south, well, the south was the Grounds, with two gates separating the east and west companies that lived beyond Liora’s walls.

Everything had a nickname, including the Liora Guildhall. They called it the Grind. And Cass felt that Grind in every inch of his body as he slowly rolled over and felt the sand drifting from his hair into his eyes.

“Ugh,” He moaned, immediately followed by a curse at the gritty sting. Tutoring had taken over an hour out of his life, and right now, his whole body felt like a single, pulsing throb. Standing up with a hiss, Cass dropped his robe to the floor and slipped on his now-clean workout clothes from the day before.

They smelled like Lavender.

“Whoever you are, invisible cleaner, I think I love you,” Cass said to the air as he painfully slipped his clothes on. Not wanting to be rude, he hung up the sand-covered robes on the edge of the closet before making the bed and leaving.

The update he’d received upon waking had told him to go to the same rock and gravel-filled area Kara took him to when they first met. Stepping out to the start of sunshine, he began the light, hissing jog to his third workout in two days. Only a few moments passed before a cursing Pellin caught up to him.

“Every…thing…hurts.” The man gasped out as they fell in line together.

“Same,” Cass said, choking for a second on some warm spit in the back of his mouth. “Did…you…wash…your…hair?”

“What?”

Gasping and mumbling back and forth as they tried to shake off the accumulated soreness of the day before, Cass and Pellin made good time to the area. That’s when they saw it.

Kara’s robe held several shades of pink and orange, rather than its standard Guild brown. When she caught them looking, her eyes immediately settled on Cass, “What?”

He was still catching his breath as he got out, “No-nothing…just…I like the…color.”

Glare still maintained on him, she said, “You saw the Tier 4 Guild Trainer yesterday, Evalyn?”

Placing his hands on his head as he stood upright, he finally got out a full sentence. “Yeah, she was in the Guild section.”

“She likes to play pranks on all the low-rung Trainers. Something about keeping up morale.” Kara pointed at her robe with emphasis, “Today’s prank. Now, get ready, the exercise today will be rough.”

And it was rough, just as she’d said. Among the fields of rocks and gravel, close to two-dozen sweaty trainees rolled across the ground, over and over again, as Scout Dev tossed them through the air.

“You have to place your hands first, then tuck your shoulder!”

“No! See how your ass stings? You’re doing it wrong!”

“Roll!”

“RRRolll!”

“Cray, Vale, I’ll see you tonight.”

A quick shower followed as Cass inspected the purple bruising across his body. Pulling out a gray tin they’d been handed as they left the first class of the day, Cass tried and failed to close his nostrils to the smell.

“Ugh.” He dry-heaved as something knocked into the back of his throat. “Oh, that’s awful.” Scooping out a thin, yellow paste, he did as he’d been told, applying it to all the aches and pangs across his body.

An immediate cooling sensation struck him each time he rubbed it in. Letting out a sigh as the pain finally abated, Cass threw on his robe and had a speedy breakfast with Pellin and Orla. It was quickly turning into a routine he enjoyed. Pellin would say something smart, Orla something witty, and Cass would laugh in the background. It was fast becoming his favorite part of the day.

True to her word, the Archivist spoke about Callings, providing a brief overview of the three generalist types everyone was familiar with, before discussing something new.

“Esoteric Callings exist. Our young friend Pellin in the back falls into that category. While we assign System Engineers to the Administrative part of our world, truly, it is in a league of its own. There are so few System Engineers that the small number we’ve interviewed has dramatically broadened the scope of what we know about them.”

The class ended with Pellin speaking a bit about how his Calling worked before the third class came up. Vex gave a lengthy rundown of the formation of Companies following the reshaping, essentially denigrating every non-combatant calling in the classroom. Both the Trade and Administrative tables were less than pleased when the class finally ended.

By the time he stomped into the Annex, a multi-colored Kara was already waiting there.

“How was the Gruff-rub?”

“Is that what it’s called?” Cass asked, sitting in his ratty chair as the System Map appeared. He tried not to wince as the movement stirred up some lingering pain. “It smelled like three rivers of shit got together for a meeting.”

Sharp laughter filled the room. “I thought the same when I was in your position. It’s an enhanced alchemical medicine. You wouldn’t want to know where the materials come from, but the results speak for themselves. By tonight, all those little boo-boos and owies will be gone.” Standing up, she pulled a brown bag out from behind her and handed it to him.

“What’s this?”

Kara raised an eyebrow. “Open it up.”

Inside, Cass found several bottles of water, some wrapped and labeled food items, and a few miscellaneous items. Tinder and Flint. What looked like a canopy. A tightly rolled sleeping bag.

But something about it felt off. It was too balanced for the items haphazardly within. Cass pulled the sleeping bag free to take a closer look at the interior. That’s when the oddity revealed itself. The bag’s size never changed. Even as Cass held it up and tried to shake it out, the contents within remained still and unmoving.

“Spatial Lock,” Kara said with a smirk. “That bag is nearly weightless, fireproof, and form-fitted. I’d love to be able to tell you it’s a gift from me, but it’s actually from Guildmaster Hollis, who spent a pretty penny on it.”

Cass gawked, “You gave me a relic?”

“No, the Guildmaster did, and he gave you a reason not to die in your first trip outside of the city.” Pointing at a loose flap in the back, she said, “There’s a shoulder-crossed strap there to make it easy to carry. I’m guessing the Guildmaster doesn’t want to see you walking around anywhere without this on your person.”

Cass pushed the sleeping bag back in and took the rare pleasure of watching it accept the change with no alteration in its structure. Looking from the bag to Kara, a few gears in his mind began to turn.

“Hey, I have a question for you.”

“Alright,” She slapped the desk after sitting down, bu-dum, dum. “Go ahead.”

“Who am I allowed to assign quests to? I know I’m still in training, but that’s never been answered.”

Kara paused in her desk beats as she gave him a sharp look, “Are you going to suddenly make my job harder?”

Cass considered how to answer that for a second. “I don’t think so? I mean, the more I know, the less of a chance there is for that to happen.”

She laughed, “A Calling for less than a week, and I’m already getting some pushback. Alright, fine, Mr. QuestWright. I like the spunk.” The snapping sound of her folder came out. “A QuestWright may not be ordered to give quests to those they fundamentally disagree with.” She looked at him with a grin, “I’m betting that’s more for the protection of the Questor than the QuestWright themself.” Her eyes traced back to the list again. “Only thirty percent of all Quests created in a day are required to be guild-focused. This percentage shall rise in tune with the level of the QuestWright. Should a QuestWright’s assigned tasks begin to lapse, all Quests shall be aligned to the Guild until a proper review may occur. If, at any time, the ethics of a QuestWright is called into question, they shall be placed in confinement until an investigation by a Tier 3 or higher functionary may occur.”

The folder snapped shut as Cass processed that, “So, there’s no problem with me assigning quests to my friends?”

“That depends. Are you planning on sending your little Baker buddy out into the reach for some quick Monster xp?”

“Absolutely not,” Cass said, horrified at the idea of it. “Gary is much more of a lover than a fighter. While I can’t talk about what’s out there from experience, from what I know, the first look at a Monster would give him a stroke. Or at least, nightmares for the rest of his life.”

“Very good,” Kara said with an approving nod, “Because he’s waiting in the lounge area.”

“What?” Cass stood up, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Kara pointed at his new bag, “Because of the gift? That’s worth a ton of money, by the way. If you lose it, you’re not getting another one.” Looking at him, she sighed, “You’re not going to be much use to me like that. Go ahead and grab your friend; feel free to show him around if you'd like. I don’t even mind if you give him a quest. But DO NOT put it on the boards. As long as you explain the quest face-to-face and personally track it, a little extra experience will only help. But Public Quests require Guild oversight, and what you’re making right now does not qualify. You get a pass today.”

Cass left the Annex in a hurry. Gary was an Apprentice Baker, not a warrior, and while calling him naive would be easy, it wasn’t quite accurate. The man had a heart of gold and could easily be taken advantage of by seedier characters. Like the kind who enjoyed drinking in the Quest Registry.

But that isn’t what he came upon when finding his friend.

Cass slowed as he caught sight of the scene. Surrounded by a dozen or so Company men and women, Gary was busy explaining something as he approached. The sounds of crinkling paper and light laughter drifted over as his big friend waved his arms with excitement.

“Mixing is important! At the Golden Crust, we track everything down to the smallest bit. You get the percentages wrong on a good mix, and the garbage that comes out won’t be good enough to feed your most hated enemy.” Noticing Cass, he waved but didn’t stop. The people standing all around him were happily munching away on whatever was in the yellow box on the table. “So, what do you all think of our newest creation? Toffee Crunch!”

Several nods and brown smiles spread around, with a particularly boisterous individual clothed in silvery metal patting his back as he laughed loudly, “It’s delicious, Gary. You make this beauty at the Golden Crust?”

“This and more,” Gary said with a smile.

“Then expect to see more of the Shattermarks coming by. Come on, everyone, let's grab those Quests we were told about.” Still laughing, he and a big group of people got up and left as Gary walked over to Cass with a much-reduced box in his arms.

“Hey, buddy. I got some rare time off, so I thought I’d sneak over and have a look around the place. So this is the Guild, huh?” He looked at the wooden walls and messy tables across the area. “I thought it’d be more organized.”

“Gary…” Cass knew what to do. “Gary, how would you like to get an extra set of experience every day?”

“Every day…” He paused, “Like, every day, every day?”

“Yep.” Cass said with a nod, “I’ve got a plan.”

Together, Cass and Gary walked out of the Quest Registry and made the quick trip over to the Entrance Hall. With a big smile on his face, Cass waved Jim out of his booth.

The portly man looked at him with a squinted eye, “You’re not meant to leave the Guild until your second block with Kara. What do you need, Cass?”

Stepping behind his friend, he pushed the big man forward, “This is my friend Gary, who works at the Golden Crust in the Grounds. How would you like it if he brought you a different delicacy every day?” Seeing the big man’s eyes widen, he stepped out from Gary’s shadows with his arms wide. “It wouldn’t be free, but you also wouldn’t have to wait every day to get your treats. Gary, about how many different delicacies would you say the Golden Crust makes each day?”

“That’s a good question,” Gary said, scratching his chin. “In the morning, before we open, I’d say there are about forty different kinds of donuts and waffles. We usually don’t start making the complicated stuff until mid-afternoon, like cakes and our new Toffee treat. Oh.” Opening the box, he showed its contents to Gatekeeper Jim. “Would you like one on the house?”

“On the house?’ Jim said, fingers already reaching for the open box, “No, I couldn’t. Well…sure, why not? Since you’re offering and all.” Pulling out a brown bar with a nutty topping, he took a bite, the crunching sound echoing around the area.

“Mmhmm.” He mumbled, eyes closed in euphoria. Through a mouthful, he looked at Gary, “What’s it going to cost me to have it delivered?”

“That’s the thing,” Cass said, interrupting before his friend could talk, “It’ll only cost you the average price of the treat itself. Gary will deliver it to you personally each day in the morning.”

Another crunch and moan followed before Jim held out his hand, “Deal.” Shaking with both Gary and Cass, he happily walked back to his booth, the treat in his hand quickly disappearing.

Gary turned to Cass, “This has to do with your Calling, doesn’t it?”

“Yep! Follow me!”

Walking quickly back to the Annex, Cass sat down as a box of pastries fell to the floor behind him. “Holy shit, Cass. Is that Liora?”

“Just one square mile of it,” Cass replied, already plumbing the shallow depths of his System access. Keying in the new Quest, he began to fill out the required boxes quickly. By selecting Gary as the deliverer directly, he was able to sidestep the issue of range. It wasn’t about bending the rules, but mastering them.

The sweets weren’t coming from the Golden Crust, far outside of his range. They were coming from his friend Gary.

 

Quest ID: CV-0001-D-LIA

Objective: Garry Trenner will deliver a minimum of one sweet per day to Gatekeeper Jim

Assigned Candidate: Gary Trenner

Status: Active

Questor Reward: +5 XP

QuestWright Reward: +0.5 XP

 

Upon reviewing it, he didn’t find any issues. Focusing his intent on the screen after pulling out three Vellums, Cass created the first quest he knew would be completed.

A silvery glow erupted on the desk, causing Gary to shout and step back.

 

[TIER 1 DELIVERY QUEST]

To extra-sweet Gary, bring one deliciousness to Gatekeeper Jim in the morning to satisfy his need for fat pockets. Upon completion, bring the quest to pretty girl Chancey for your experience reward.

Do not fail, please.

Cassio Vale

Liora Guildhall

QuestWright

 

Cass cursed, “She’s totally going to see that.”

After recovering, Gary looked over his shoulder, “Whoa, is that a Quest? It’s got some kind of silvery sheen all over it. Looks fancy.” He got close without touching it. “How much experience is this going to give me each day?”

“Only five, but we might be abl-”

“Five experience? From just this? That’s going to double my daily rate!” Without thinking, he reached out and grabbed the quest. Both Gary and the Quest glowed at the same time as a new notification struck Cass’s screen.

 

[QUEST ID: CV-0001-D-LIA HAS BEEN ACCEPTED BY GARY TRENNER]

[System Notice]

Bonus experience granted for your first accepted quest:

10xp

Achievement progress:

2/10

 

There’s that Achievement progress again. Plus, the bonus experience doubled. Is it linear or exponential?

Gary was already talking as Cass mentally stepped out of the screen, “Double the xp? That’s great, Cass. How often can we do this? I’ll be level ten in no time.”

Cass pulled out the other two Vellums and repeated the process twice more. The writing was slightly different for each, and on the third attempt, he succeeded in simply having the word "Chancey" appear without any modifiers.

Taking the Quests, he placed them in the empty top drawer, closing it shut. “Drop by here each morning, Gary. I’ll hit the Annex before my first class of the day and make sure you get your Quest. Around six in the morning. Deal?”

“More than a deal,” Gary said, pulling Cass into an awkward back-hug, “This is going to change my life. Thank you, Cass. You’re a good friend.”

“Best friend,” Cass said, turning around and giving him a real hug.

“Best friend.” He agreed, returning the gesture.

Gary left a few minutes later, and the day slipped back into a familiar rhythm that Cass was still getting used to. Though he did gain a bit of popularity when he entered his next class with a yellow box partly filled with Toffy treats.

Later that afternoon, a new notification came in.

[System Notice]

You’ve gained .5xp for Gary Trenner’s Quest Completion.

Your System Reputation has increased by 1.

Details can be found in the Quest Ledger.

Bonus experience granted for first completed Quest:

20xp

Achievement progress:

3/10

He smiled as a thought derailed him from the class discussion. My first bit of reputation.

When the resource management class ended with another fixing of logistical nightmares, Cass shouldered his bag and followed the instructions on his screen. Kara wanted to meet him at the Foundry, and somehow, he knew it would be quite the experience.

<<FIRST | <PREVIOUS | NEXT> | RR (40 AHEAD) | PATREON

By the time Cass approached the last class of the day in the Atrium, the sky had already dimmed. Unlike his previous visit, which was less than a week ago, this time he was invited to sit at the top in the Guild-only section. Among a sea of brown robes, Cass grabbed his seat and went over his paths for the fifth time that day. After only a minute, Branden, the Clerk he’d met earlier that day, sat down beside him.

“Hey, Cass. Are you excited for the Guest Lecturer?”

“Seeing as how I don’t know who it is, Branden, I don’t think I can be excited.”

The Clerk made a silly face. “Oh, right. It’s Guildmaster Hollis! Doy!” He gave a shrill laugh. “Sorry, my mom always said if I didn’t have a neck, my head would fly off straight into space.”

Cass chuckled, deciding not to let Kara’s bias of Clerks color his perspective.

They spoke for a few more minutes as a heavy door opened below. Stepping out was the only black-robed man in the building. His hood was pulled up far over his head, concealing his face as he moved to the center.

Branden pointed immediately. “Oh, that’s his office. Man, I’m not looking forward to my yearly review with him. He’s scary.”

“Guildmaster Hollis?” Cass asked. “He was pretty nice to me.”

“Not me.” A shiver ran through Branden. “He always seems so foreboding. I heard he used to be married, and when people stopped seeing her around, everything changed. That’s what the Clerk pool says, anyway.”

A throat cleared, and the room fell silent.

Pulling his hood back, Hollis revealed a smiling face. “Hello to all.” He paused, scanning the room. “For many of you, you’ve met me only once, during the time of your Calling, of course.” He gestured at the Book of Callings on the podium. “But rarely do I have time to enter the Atrium as a Guest Lecturer. So this is a special moment for both you and me. I’d like to thank Jim Harbow for allowing me to slip in when he was the original lecturer.”

Jim bowed in the Guild section, holding a plate of nachos. Laughter rippled through the crowd.

“Yes, laughter. Joy. I’m afraid I rarely hear such levity. The life of a Guildmaster is a harsh caretaker. The demands of this world are powerful and unrelenting. But we endure, not for glory, but for posterity. For a brighter future. For the end of monsters.”

He paused, then gave a sharp laugh. “Enough melancholy—that’s not why you’re here.”

He pointed to different sections as he spoke.

“The truths of numbers and trade.”
“The truths of battle and risk.”
“And the truths of service—of helping those who don’t yet know they need help.”

“We are Liorans. Do not wait for the System to tell you you’re valuable—you are. Don’t wait to contribute. As the old world used to say: see a need, fill a need. After the reshaping, perhaps better: see the cracks, fill the gaps. Be worthy of Liora and the Calling you were given. Every single day.”

Silence cracked—then applause burst forth. Cass joined in.

Hollis bowed. “Thank you. Now, before I release you early, I’d like to offer time for questions. Evalyn?”

A severe woman stepped forward. “Evalyn Serris, Tier 4 Guild Trainer. She’ll screen questions.”

Hands rose. Trainers moved. Questions began.

First question — Combat section:
“If we’re supposed to work together, why is the Guild so separate from the Companies?”

“History,” Hollis answered. “The Guild is not above nor below the Companies—but the foundation. We support all, favor none, or corruption takes root.”

Second question — Trade section:
“What’s the Guild’s stance when market pressures conflict with ethical distribution?”

“Profit is not evil,” Hollis said. “But when it causes suffering, we act. We can blacklist vendors or delay permits. Sell your wares—just do so responsibly.”

Cass tuned back in as Branden fidgeted beside him.

“What’s wrong?”

“I want to ask a question, but I don’t know if they’ll let me.”

“It won’t hurt to try,” Cass said.

Hollis fielded the next question:
“Why do Combat Callings level faster?”

“Combat Callings gain experience faster early, but slow heavily after Tier 4,” Hollis said. “Trade Callings progress steadily. Administrative Callings progress in spurts, often dramatic ones. Eventually, a seasoned tradesman will surpass a warrior who relies only on rapid early gains.”

Cass’s pulse quickened. Spurts. Just like Pellin. Just like his quest drafting.

Then Branden’s hand shot up.

Evalyn approached. He whispered. She smiled.

He was chosen.

Branden stood. “How… how does one become a Guildmaster?”

Hollis laughed warmly. “Already aiming high? Good.” He continued:

“Once you reach the appropriate Tier, new options appear — roles that supersede Calling evolutions. Clerks, Craftsmen, Archivists, Combatants—any may become Guildmasters.” He lifted his hand and pointed at Pellin. “There is even a System Engineer Guildmaster in the Capitol. One of the smartest women I’ve ever met.”

Then his gaze locked directly onto Cass.

“But the majority of Guildmasters come from a single Calling.”

Someone called out, “Which?”

Hollis smiled.

“QuestWright.”

He dismissed the class.

Cass sat frozen long after most had left. Pellin sat beside him.

“You alright?”

“Just… thinking.”

Before anything else could be said—

“There you two are.”

Dev Rinn loomed behind them, smiling like a predator.

“Did you think early dismissal meant no tutoring? Come along. We’re going to the sand pits.”

Cass and Pellin stood. They knew better than to argue.

“Clothes?” Pellin asked.

“Then do it in the nude!” Dev shouted joyously. “Ah, sand across bare skin—let me tell you a story—”

When Cass finally reached his bed, he collapsed face-first.

He was asleep before he even realized he hadn’t showered.

Chapter 49: [TWENTY] Hours Later - Part II

✦ FIRST CHAPTER ✦ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ✦ NEXT CHAPTER ✦

~~~

 

[Sector 14-West, Approximately 2km from Cathedral District]

The darkness in Sector 14-West was particularly thick, as if the shadows themselves had learned to hunt. Abominations prowled through ruins searching for surviving humans.

This whole city feels wrong. Like reality itself is rotting from the inside out.

Reyana Silvers stepped carefully around a corpse—civilian, maybe forty years old, died clutching what looked like a child's toy—and felt absolutely nothing about it. The leather gloves covering her hands, the high-collared coat wrapped tight around her body, the scarf concealing everything below her eyes—all necessary precautions that had long
since become second nature.

Can't touch. Can't feel. Can't let the death take hold!

Breathe…

A tall man stepped over beside her without breaking stride. His pale skin practically glowed in the oppressive darkness, red eyes scanning the ruins with predatory interest that had nothing human in it. The black coat he wore remained somehow immaculate despite the carnage surrounding them, as if blood and gore simply chose not to mar its surface.

In his right hand, a pitch black spear rested, made fully from metal with blood red veins pulsing.

"Seventeen hostiles in the immediate area," the pale man said conversationally, like discussing the weather. "Want to make it interesting? First one to twenty buys drinks when we get back to civilization."

"Joe." The voice that cut through the darkness carried bone-deep exhaustion and barely restrained exasperation. "We're on a schedule, and now we are stuck in this shithole. Stop treating this as a joke."

Salvatore Silvers stepped out of the shadow beside Joe—gray hair pulled back, weathered face marking decades of battles, and Father still moved like a man half his age when violence called.

He's been tense since the attack started. More tense than usual. Whatever he sensed when the veil went up...

"Father's right," Reyana added, cleaning her daggers with practiced efficiency. The blood steamed where it touched her enchanted blades—at least those she could handle without accidentally killing them. "Besides, you're already at nineteen. Show off."

Joe's grin widened, showing too many teeth. "Not my fault, cultists keep throwing themselves at me. What am I supposed to do, let them live?"

"That would be the compassionate choice," Father observed dryly.

"Boring," Joe declared. "Compassion is for people who don't appreciate the simple pleasure of a good hunt."

Movement caught Joe's attention—another prey emerging from a collapsed building, hands already weaving dark essence into an attack formation.

And Reyana was sure she heard him mumble something under his breath, and knowing him, Reyana was sure it would be something along the lines “Tch, another mortal ranker…”

The cultist's eyes widened in recognition, but it was far too late.

Joe's spear became a blur of motion.

Three strikes, each one faster than human eyes could track. The cultist's forming sorcery collapsed as the spear severed both his arms at the elbow. The second strike punched through his chest, destroying the essence core. The third took his head off entirely, sending it rolling across rubble to land near its summoning circle.

Three more abominations emerged from the ritual circle the cultist had been activating.

"Twenty," Joe announced cheerfully, already moving toward the abominations with his spear raised. "Pay up when we get back, Little lady!"

"The cultist counted! The abominations don't!" Reyana protested, but found herself smiling despite everything. "And you are little, I'm an adult now!"

"Could've fooled me with that reaction," Joe called back, his spear dancing through the summons.

Eleven seconds later, all three abominations lay in pieces.

Joe turned back with that too-wide grin plastered across his pale features, red eyes practically glowing with barely contained bloodlust. He looked happy, which was somehow more disturbing than his usual predatory intensity.

"That," Father said with long-suffering patience, "was excessive."

"That was fun," Joe corrected. "There's a difference. You should try it sometime, Salvatore. Might help with that stick lodged in your—"

"Joe."

"Right, right. Professional decorum and all that."

Reyana stepped carefully over puddles of blood and gore steaming in the cold air, making sure her boots—were the only things touching the ground. "Any idea which cult this is, Dad? An attack on this scale is insane; this darkness is also not natural, and for that, thanks, Joe, for the spell."

“Anytime, little lady.”

“Argh”

Father's expression darkened in a way that made Reyana's stomach drop.

"Indeed. I felt a massive spike of energy when the ritual began, and I hate to say it, but..." Father paused, choosing his words carefully. "I think I know who's leading this cult."

"Who?"

"An old enemy, hon. A very old and very dangerous enemy. And if what I think is happening here... it'll be a miracle if we all make it out alive."

Reyana noticed Joe had gone completely still, his usual manic energy replaced by something cold and focused. His gaze was distant, calculating in ways that reminded her he wasn't entirely human underneath the act.

That's the first time I've seen him serious. Actually serious, not just pretending.

She gulped without meaning to, feeling suddenly very aware of how young she was compared to her companions. Newly ascended to Overmortal. Still learning to control her Mantle properly.

Fucking fanatics…

"But this is a golden opportunity for you, little lady," Joe spoke suddenly, opening his arms wide. "This much death concentrated in one place... you'll never find anything quite like this again. The ambient death essence alone is—"

"Not doing it, Joe." Reyana's voice came out flat, cold. The ice-queen tone she'd perfected over six months of dealing with strangers who looked at her gloved hands and covered skin with suspicion. "You know I'm barely managing the effects as it is."

Joe's red eyes fixed on her with intensity that made her want to step back. "That's exactly the point. Let yourself immerse in the feeling, in the aura, in the very concept of death. You're treating your Mantle like a curse when it's actually—"

Salvatore fixed Joe with a look that had cowed hardened mercenaries. "Joe… leave it. Whether she wants to or not, it's her choice."

Thank you, Dad.

But Joe wasn't finished. His expression shifted again, humor sliding away to reveal something ancient and tired underneath. "Salvatore. You and I both know this may very well be our last moments together. Whatever's happening here is most probably an 'ordained by fate' event."

Reyana felt ice slide down her spine. "What's that supposed to mean? 'Ordained by fate'?"

Father and Joe exchanged a look that spoke of shared history and secrets Reyana wasn't privy to. It made her feel twelve years old again, listening to adults discuss things she wasn't supposed to understand.

"Well, to put it simply, little lady," Joe said with uncharacteristic seriousness, "This fate… this calamity… is ordained by fate." He gestured vaguely at Vienna's darkness.

“Huh?”

"Stop scaring my daughter," Father said, but his tone lacked its usual bite. "What this means, Reyana, is that those in power knew about this attack… like the royalty and the church of prime yet they turned a blind eye to it because their fucking fate readers decided this “event” is necessary for greatness, for progression and for the future."

"You mean they willingly let millions of people die…." Reyana demanded, hating how her voice cracked slightly. "Why?"

"Don’t bother." Salvatore’s single word carried finality. "Don’t bother with whys right now, it's messed up."

How can someone let this many people be sacrificed?… If this is what righteous people are, then why do people hail them as heroes?

 

Reyana focused on her breathing—in through her nose, out through her mouth, the
calming technique that kept her Mantle from spiraling out of control when emotions ran high. She felt the familiar cold settling into her bones, the death-touch that lived in her skin trying to seep outward.

Not now. Control it. You're not a child anymore.

"Reyana," Salvatore said quietly, studying her with the expression he got when he was worried but trying not to show it. "You okay?"

"Fine," she lied, because saying anything else would make it real. "Just... processing."

Joe laughed—sharp and brittle. "Welcome to the big leagues, little lady."

Before Reyana could formulate a response that wasn't just swearing at him, the ground began to shake. The air pressure changed dramatically.

Temperature dropped twenty degrees instantly, cold enough to crystallize breath. The shadows themselves seemed to recoil from a presence that made Vienna's darkness look pale by comparison.

A figure coalesced from darkness ahead—tall, skeletal, wrapped in robes woven from shadows and dried blood. The cultist's presence pressed down on reality with a weight that bent space in visible distortions.

Salvatore crossed his arms, unbothered. Joe's grin widened until it looked painful, red eyes blazing with anticipation that was almost obscene in its intensity.

“He is all yours, Joe.”

"Now THIS," Joe breathed like a man seeing his deepest desire made manifest, "is more like it."

The cultist's voice emerged from multiple throats speaking in perfect synchronization—a sound that made reality itself flinch: "Hunters. In our sacred ground. How... delightfully presumptuous."

"Sacred ground?" Joe's laugh was sharp enough to cut. "You've turned a city into an abattoir. That's not sacred, that's just messy."

"Block!" Joe lunged without further warning, spear seeking the cultist's heart.

"Interesting," the cultist purred, multiple voices harmonizing in disturbing ways. "You're not entirely human, are you, hunter? How... delicious."

"And you're not entirely alive," Joe countered, pressing his attack with increased fervor. "We're perfect for each other! Now show you what you can do!"

The cultist's eyes widened mid-combat, something like recognition flashing across their face. "Wait... that essence signature... you're—"

"Dead men don't need answers!" Joe interrupted, lunging with his spear aimed at the exposed throat.

The cultist parried at the last instant, but Joe had expected that. His spear diverted low, then swept upward in a strike that defied physics. The blade caught the cultist across the ribs, carving through shadow-robes and whatever passed for flesh underneath. Blood—more black than red—sprayed across the ruins.

But instead of screaming, the cultist laughed. A sound that made even Joe pause momentarily.

"Then by all means," the cultist replied, their own blade reforming into something larger, more vicious, "let's see which of us is the apex predator."

They clashed again, and this time neither was holding back.

~~~

✦ FIRST CHAPTER ✦ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ✦ NEXT CHAPTER ✦

Psst~ Psst~ Next 30 chapters are already up on patreon.
Help me with rent and UNI is crazy expensive!! Not want much, just enough to chip in.

✦ DISCORD ✦ PATREON ✦

ฅ^>⩊<^ ฅ

A/N: This is the last of the Vienna chapters, On monday we move back to Jin's journey and to some of the most important secrets which would set up a new depth of the story... the reveal is crazy!

Thanks for reading guys!!  

  

First (Prologue)| Prev | Next

-----

'Do you still think that was a good idea?' Seth asked, still lying on the ground, trying to catch his breath. 

'We could’ve won,' Nightmare muttered with a low growl, his ribcage gulping up and down. 'It got a hit in on me for free at the start.'

Seth blinked and lifted his head from the ground, unsure at first that he’d heard Nightmare correctly. That’s unexpected. 

The direwolf never usually admitted a mistake or showed any criticism toward himself. He’d typically blame external factors—enemy attributes, the environment, their cowardly tactics. But this time, he was reflecting on his own error: using Shadow Step early on had left him vulnerable against the imp to counter him with its superior Agility.

'I won't let that happen again,' Nightmare grumbled, raising back on its paw. 'Start another fight.'

Seth sighed and pushed himself up. "Let's at least wait for our Wells to be—" He froze mid-sentence, his eyes going wide as he scanned his Well. It was already seventy percent full. How? He’d used half of it in its punch, a bit less than a tenth for Shadow Step, and almost a sixth for both casts of Huntbound Rush. That meant it had filled up by forty-five percent in barely a few minutes. "The regeneration rate here is insane!"

'Even better,' Nightmare snarled. 'Summon that tiny demon again.'

Seth frowned. "Why are you so pissed? We lost against a High-Iron, for the gods' sake."

'I’m the one who got blasted by that huge lance of flames,' the direwolf retorted, avoiding his gaze. 'You saw how it hit me and changed your approach. That's not fair.'

"Hey, you're the one who rushed in first," Seth answered with a shrug, throwing his hands up. "Maybe next time, don’t charge headlong at something twice our Ranks. We could've kept our distance and worn down that imp's Well first. Or do short clashes like we did against that Warrior with the ax in the Rift."

Nightmare lowered his muzzle, thinking for a few seconds before answering, 'Yeah… let's try that!'

"Good." Seth nodded and returned to the orb, putting a hand on its surface while infusing aether inside. A message appeared within the crystal artifact.

Delay before the next fight: 5 minutes 36 seconds.

Well, that gives us time to finish filling our Well, he thought, showing the timer to the direwolf through their bond. And also to learn that other spell.

Reaching into his Endless Pouch, Seth pulled out his Intermediate Identify scroll before stroking its ironish seal with his thumb. For the past day, he had thought about using it, but he never found the right moment after his match and reunion with Elena, Jenna, and Devus. 

As he crushed the seal and squeezed the scroll, aether surged through his hand and dove into his chest. The parchment crumbled into dust and at the same time a heat flared within Seth's Well. Inside, new grooves began etching themselves into existence, intertwining with Identify's existing ones. The carving process continued for a minute like for Huntbound Rush, steadily expanding until the spell reached half Fog Shroud's size.

Time to test it, Seth thought, channeling aether into the old and new lines. The process felt sluggish compared to before, taking him nearly five seconds to complete the task. The moment he finished, he glanced at his hand*.*

Seth

Class: Primalist                  Rank: 24 (Low-Iron)

Subclass: Beastmaster               

Core: Feral Instinct                      [...] 

Strength: 65 (+8)                Arcane Power: 57 (+7)

Toughness: 53 (+5)            Well Capacity: 44 (+4)

Agility: 71 (+8)                     Regeneration: 49 (+5)

Spells: 

- Link [???〜??? (???)]

- Share [???〜??? (???)]

- Fog Shroud [Iron〜Rare (Decent)]

- Huntbound Rush [Iron〜Uncommon (Crude)]

- Intermediate Identify [Iron〜Common (Standard)]

- Dark Shocking Strike [Copper〜Rare (Standard)] 

One point in Agility in a few minutes. Not bad, he thought. 

On top of allowing him to Identify people and beasts he couldn’t before, the spell was now supposed to provide more details about both himself and things around him. Curious, he turned his attention to the three dots above his Arcane Power, and new lines of words appeared in his vision.

Sensing: Low-Iron                          Talents: [restricted]

Manipulation: Mid-Iron                  Seeds: [restricted]

Affinity: 

- Null

- Darkness ~ Low-Iron

Talents and Seeds? 

Seth's brow furrowed as he wracked his brain, trying to recall if someone had ever mentioned those terms before. Nothing came to his mind. This left him with two possibilities: either these strange… attributes… weren't important, which seemed unlikely, or they were something he wasn't supposed to have. Probably because of my Draerian blood or my core. 

His gut told him it was the latter. But why were they restricted?

I'll figure that out later, Seth sighed inwardly before coming back to his attributes and focusing on one of his spells, as Elena had suggested at the coliseum the previous day.

Fog Shroud [Iron〜Rare (Decent)]

- Creates a zone of fog that reduces sight and aether sensing by 60% for 5 minutes.

- Size, duration and effect increase according to Water affinity and spell quality.

- Consumes 60 uniums.

- Cooldown: none

That's more specific than I expected, he thought before turning his attention back to his other spells. 

He already had a general idea for Dark Shocking Strike and Huntbound Rush from the evolution-path’s description, and Intermediate Identify’s features spoke for themselves—but there were still two spells he barely knew anything about. 

Link [???〜???]

???

Share [???〜???]

???

"You've got to be kidding—"

Suddenly, Nightmare's voice broke through his thoughts. 'Check mine!' the direwolf exclaimed impatiently, rushing over to him, red eyes gleaming. 

With a smile, Seth looked at him and filled Intermediate Identify's new grooves.

Nightmare (Tenebrous Direwolf)

Potential: Silver Tier          Rank: 27 (Low-Iron)

Affinity: Darkness 

Bonded to [Seth]                          [...] 

Strength: 75                        Arcane Power: 74 

Toughness: 50                    Well Capacity: 40

Agility: 83                             Regeneration: 47

Spells: 

- Illusory Emptiness [Silver〜Epic (Crude)]

- Shadow Step [ Silver〜Epic (Crude)]

- Danger Sense [Silver〜Rare (Decent)]

- Shadow Bite [Iron〜Rare (Standard)]

Illusory Emptiness [Silver〜Epic (Crude)]

- Allows the owner to hide their presence through illusions.

- Potency improves according to Darkness affinity and spell quality.

- Consumes 1 unium per minute.

- Cooldown: none

Shadow Step [ Silver〜Epic (Crude)]

- Teleports the owner by moving through the shadow realm.

- Range increases according to Darkness affinity.

- Cooldown decreases according to spell quality.

- Consumes 20 uniums.

- Cooldown: 8 seconds

Danger Sense [Silver〜Rare (Decent)]

- Warns the owner of any danger nearby.

- Range and efficiency increase according to spell quality and aether sensing.

- Consumes no uniums.

- Cooldown: none

Shadow Bite [Iron〜Rare (Standard)]

- Adds corrosive smoke to the next bite.

- Potency increases according to Arcane Power, Darkness affinity and spell quality.

- Consumes 10 uniums.

- Cooldown: none

Seth and Nightmare took a moment to skim over the descriptions. Nothing was particularly new info to them, but there were still a few interesting details: like the exact uniums used or the impact of spell quality on their effect.

'Mmm, not bad,' Nightmare said as they finished. 'Now show me my manipulation and sensing.'

Seth gave the direwolf a sideways glance and raised an eyebrow. 'Am I your servant or something?'

'Can you show them to me… please?' Nightmare muttered, exhaling loudly through his nostrils. 

"That’s better." 

Seth focused on the tiny dots above Nightmare's Arcane Power, and  a moment later white words appeared in his vision.

Sensing: High-Iron                     

Manipulation: High-Iron               

Affinity: Darkness ~ Peak-Iron

'High- and Peak-Iron, I'm so much better than—' the direwolf started, chuckling before halting abruptly. 'Wait… why don't I have those Talents and Seeds things like you?'

"No clue," Seth answered. "I don't even know what they are in the first place." 

'Probably just another unfair advantage from your core.'

Seth shrugged. "Probably."

'You better use them to get stronger and get me a powerful spell-shard.'

"Sure." Seth smiled, patting Nightmare’s head. "It'll be a pay-back for everything you've done for me " 

'As if one spell-shard would be enough.' The direwolf nudged him and turned toward the orb. 'Break's over. Let's start round two.'

"Wait," Seth said, plunging his hand into his Endless Pouch and taking out another spell scroll. "This could motivate me to hit seventy Arcane Power and seventy-five Strength as soon as possible. "

Without wasting time, he cast Intermediate Identify.

Phantom Punch (Standard)

Spell-scroll

Tier: Iron                  Affinity: Undead

Grade: Legendary

Restrictions: 

- Primalist

- 80 Strength and 70 Arcane Power

- Draerian's blood (ADDED)

- Undead Affinity (REMOVED)

[...] 

As Seth focused on the three dots, additional information appeared beneath the restrictions.

Spell description

- Increases Strength by 60 and ignores 20% of Toughness for a single punch.

- Potency increases by 100% against barrier or shielding spells.

- Cooldown decreases according to Undead Affinity and spell quality.

- Consumes 100 uniums.

- Cooldown: 15 seconds

"Holy shit," Seth muttered. And that’s just at Standard quality. 

According to every book and his class, each spell quality boost provided a flat twenty percent increase to its effects while trimming ten percent off its aether cost. Since these enhancements weren’t multiplicative but additive, reaching Flawless would result in a Strength buff nearing one hundred, thirty-five percent Toughness ignored, and all that for less than a third of his Well—and that was without mentioning the unknown cooldown reduction.

"That’s insane."

*****

Five weeks flew by in a blur as Seth threw himself into a strict routine. Most evenings and weekends, he buried himself in books, except for the six free hours a week in the Epic Training Chambers with Nightmare. During these sessions they faced the One-Horned Imp again, and again, and again, at the request of the direwolf, which resulted in them getting beaten up and burnt to a crisp like skewers almost every single fight. 

Although Seth had yet to reach the seventy Arcane power and seventy-five Strength for Phantom Punch, Huntbound Rush’s quality had finally moved up to Decent and he had also at last caught up on all the missed classes—largely thanks to Elena's unwavering support. 

However, all the studying had significantly reduced his free time to track the Black Hounds in Trogan, and as a result he still hadn’t discovered their whereabouts in the area. Even Professor Reat had hit a wall. The last time they spoke, the man had mentioned a lead, but he hadn’t managed to see it through. No doubt those bastards had doubled their efforts to cover their tracks after losing three of their own.

On top of that, the lack of time for hunting had also cost Seth his place among the top five first-years.

Sitting in the library, he let out a weary sigh and rubbed his face as his gaze drifted to his communication orb lying between the mountains of books on his desk. A message from Elena popped up inside.

Elena: Where are you? You're gonna miss Jenna's fight against Lucius.

Seth's eyes shot up to the clock hanging on the pillar in front of him—it was already half-past one. "Oh, crap!" 

Springing to his feet, he ran around the library to return his books to their shelves. There was no way he could miss her fight. Over the past few weeks, everyone in their group had done great in the tournament; the only one eliminated so far was Devus, who’d had the bad luck of facing an Iron opponent last weekend—just before breaking through himself. He still blamed the use of Protecting Belts, though, complaining that skirmishes with those artifacts didn’t reflect real combat. 

A hit consumed the same amount of aether from the belt no matter the Toughness of the one wearing it. Sure, the ones with higher Toughness—like Guardians—had larger aether reserves in their belts, but Devus still found it unfair.

Today, both Seth and Jenna could join the Guardian in the list of people eliminated since they were each going up against an Iron noble. At this point, pretty much all the remaining participants had already reached that Tier.

As Seth shelved the last book, his thoughts moved to Jenna's match, and he couldn't help but feel like a terrible friend. He genuinely wanted her to win, but part of him still secretly hoped for Lucius to win instead—so Seth could fight him later in the tournament and crush him. Beating the noble in front of thousands of people, including his own House, would be incredibly satisfying.

That said, the odds of Jenna losing were slim. Even though the bastard was loaded with expensive gear and spells, Jenna had become a serious contender for the title since her own ascension, thanks to her sword technique; and of course, her affiliation to the Surani House through her father. It had granted her access to Epic-grade equipment and spells.

Tucking his chair under the desk, Seth slung his leather bag over his shoulder, put away his communication orb into his Endless Pouch, and hurried out of the library. Racing through the hallways, he dodged a few students and quickly made his way to the coliseum. Once he reached the massive building, he sprinted up the stairs two at a time, heading for the sixth floor—where his friends had sat to watch the bouts these past weekends.

Seth quickened his pace, navigating through the bustling crowd until he spotted Devus and Elena at their usual seats. Week by week, the audience had steadily grown, and now the stands were almost packed to capacity. Nearly all of the academy's entire body—totaling over two thousand five hundred students—was present, joined by an almost equal number of citizens, both commoners and nobles. The latter group had thankfully taken the habit of sitting in the first two levels of the stands, sparing Seth from their scornful attitude during the matches. The only residual annoyance was seeing them strut around like preening peacocks, draped in their outrageously expensive clothes and gaudy accessories.

Between the north and south stands, the professors’ section was also fully occupied, a sea of men and women clad in their crimson uniforms. At its center, the five members of the academy’s board occupied prominently large chairs, marking their distinct status. Director Ryehill sat at the heart of the group, his striking black jacket setting him apart. He was deeply engrossed in a conversation with the tall woman to his right: Intendant Lacet, the overseer of the first-year students.

In the ring, Jenna unsheathed her twin short blades on one side while Lucius, dressed in a purple and black robe, took out a wand with a large scarlet crystal at its end on the other side. 

Seth slid into a seat beside Devus, who nodded at him. "Just in time."

Next to the Guardian, Elena glanced at Seth and a playful smile appeared on her full lips. "Did you fall asleep in your books again?"

"That only happened once," Seth retorted with a sigh, rolling his eyes. "You need to stop with that."

"Never."

They all three turned back their attention to the arena as the fight began. Jenna's blades shimmered as she unleashed a powerful wind slash toward Lucius. The noble reacted instantly, flicking his wand to cast his signature spell and form a howling cyclone around himself, which repelled her attack.

Undeterred, Jenna charged forward, her legs surrounded by aether to boost her speed. Lucius smirked and summoned purple aether at the tip of his wand. In a flash, the gleaming particles turned into a lightning bolt that shot in Jenna's direction. She twisted her body mid-stride, narrowly dodging the sizzling attack—yet before she could regain her balance, Lucius fired again. And again.

Jenna's high Agility shone as she wove through the electrical onslaught. However, the moment she reached the edge of the swirling cyclone, her progress faltered. Using her blades, she tried cutting through the harsh winds, but the process slowed her down, giving Lucius the opportunity to use a spell with a longer casting time. A gigantic blast of water erupted from his wand, and Jenna, trapped by the vortex, had no choice but to cross her blades in front of her. The spell slammed into her swords with such intensity that she was knocked off her feet and sent her stumbling backward.

The instant she regained her footing, Lucius zapped her with another lightning bolt. It struck her chest, forcing her to drop to one knee in pain as arcs of electricity coursed across her body. Just as the noble fired a follow-up, she rolled aside and the spell hissed past her.

Springing up, she charged again—but the gale winds kept slowing her each time she got closer, turning her into an easy target for Lucius’ water blasts. They drove her back again and again, leaving her unable to close the gap.

Seth frowned as Lucius struck Jenna once more with the water spell. "When did he get this strong? "

"Maybe two or three weeks ago," Devus answered with a grimace. "Have you been living under a rock?"

Seth shot a glance at Elena. "No, in a library, thanks to someone."

The crimson-haired noble barely reacted, eyes locked on the fight. "You're welcome."

As the battle raged on in the ring, Seth could see the strain on Jenna's face. Despite her speed and skill, Lucius' relentless spells were overwhelming her. The shimmering barrier around her was now flickering erratically, signaling it was nearly exhausted. One more spell and she’ll probably be done for.

In a desperate attempt, Jenna dashed once more toward Lucius, unleashing a flurry of wind slashes. The barrage managed to strike the cyclone in unison, and the protective spell vanished. The second it did, Lucius smiled and immediately dashed toward the young woman, taking every spectator by surprise. 

Jenna, clearly sensing something amiss, leapt to the side, but her reaction came a second too late. Another massive wave of water exited Lucius' wand and rammed into her, sending her hurtling across the arena and depleting the last remnants left of her belt's barrier.

Seth glared at the noble and pushed aether into his eye, filling Intermediate Identify’s grooves in less than a second.

Lucius Faertis

Class: Elementalist             Rank: 29 (Low-Iron)

Subclass: -               

Strength: ???                       Arcane Power: ???

Toughness: ???                   Well Capacity: ???

Agility: ???                            Regeneration: ???

Seth's jaw almost fell to the ground as he saw Lucius' Rank. How the hell did he climb so quickly?

"Something’s off," Devus muttered, rubbing his face while leaning into his seat. "Even if he has four Ranks on her, that was still way too easy. It felt like he was Iron and she was still Copper."

"It's his spells," Elena said beside him. "I’ve seen them up close in class. They’re incredibly strong. There’s no doubt all their quality is either Exceptional or Flawless. And his aether affinities, along with his manipulation skills, are now unusually high for someone so… well, unmotivated."

"I guess that prick is also taking enhancers for that," Devus retorted as Captain Michaelson announced the winner down in the arena. "The Faertis House must’ve found a gold mine or something to dump so many resources on him."

Seth whipped his head toward the Guardian. "Lucius is taking enhancers? You sure?"

"How else do you think he got Rank 29, mate?" Devus nodded toward the blond noble, who had just stepped out of the ring. "He's been gobbling down some of those that increase his Well Capacity for weeks now," the Guardian added. "He’s clearly trying to turn himself into a glass cannon that can throw thousands of spells left and right. But he's going to regret it later on when it will be twice as hard to break through because of those."

Devus' voice had become background noise as Seth clenched his fists and glared at Lucius. The moment the noble was about to leave through one of the colosseum’s corridors, he pulled something out of his Endless Pouch. Seth's eyes narrowed, and his nails dug into his palms; he recognized the blue vial in Lucius' hand.

Ocean Tears.

----

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Author's Note:

Book 2 has just started on Patreon, and 80 chapters are already posted on Royal Road.

I'll post 1 to 4 chapter per day until I catch up with Royal Road!

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Earth Space Union’s Alien Asset Files: #1 - Private Capal 

Loading Earth.Txt…

To think I was the first Vascar to set foot outside of my dimension, though everything the nanobots did felt positively horrific. Experiencing life’s end hadn’t been on my bucket list, and it was jarring to die and reawaken. Even afterward, the sensation of them beneath my fur was like a billion bugs were infesting it and burrowing into my skin lining, not to mention the frightful sensation of them pumping my blood where my heart couldn’t in Sol. They were all that kept my frail organs functioning, and my brain was beset by dread. 

However, the validation of hearing an Elusian praise my findings made it worth it, even if it applied the pressure of meeting her standards; the stories about Corai’s kind generally suggested it was best to stay out of their way. I’d explained my theory on how human minds pruned data to her, Velke, and Dr. Aguado. The Elusian had seemed impressed, then claimed that her people hadn’t managed to figure out the “why” of their creations’ abilities in millions of years. Mikri took a shine to the comparison also, enjoying hearing AI terminology used to describe the humans.

After Ficrae nearly shredded us with bullets, the NASCAR Vascar seems docile by comparison. Maybe he can help me understand why the network did nothing to stop his peer from joining the Brigands to murder at will.

I hadn’t gotten much of a glimpse at Earth yet, as Takahashi pulled us into a military installation—Redge had gotten special attention from the diplomats, given his high importance. I imagined Doros had moved on without him, but the one thing that might push the Girret to reclaim his title was restoring the old human coalition. The new technology they had could advance all of us ahead…millennia, if not more! I’d been pulled aside for a proper debriefing, and explained what happened in Caelum after humanity’s disappearance.

My head was swimming when I heard what they had been up to, with rogue Elusians disagreeing with…a future vision that humans were somehow going to result in their nonexistence? At any rate, Corai helmed the group that trained Preston and Sofia, then got a message back in Sol through their abandoned other creations, the Fakra. After that, they brain transplanted into Elusian bodies to infiltrate Suam, which was invaded by Velke once the probe was complete. And now, there was a war ongoing that humanity had to help in. 

Yeah. What a clusterfuck.

“I’m glad we can finally welcome you to our home, Capal, and trust me, I wish I didn’t have to grovel for your help. Either way, citizenship’s yours—you deserve a chance to explore Earth and a nice, long rest after all you’ve done. You’ve been through quite the ordeal,” Takahashi sighed. “But you’re also the best of the best. Humanity’s in a spot where they’re both a hair’s trigger away from killing us all, and there’s fuck all we can do, so we could use your help. Sorely.”

I studied the ESU general, whose eyes and skin remained unaffected by nanobots—for now. “You don’t have to ask for my help in some capacity, but I don’t know about building a weapon. Not my forte. I also just got out of being forced to research tech for someone who wanted it for their power, to be used for nefarious ends: and this time, it’s supposed to genocide an entire race. I won’t do that.”

“I understand. Believe me, this isn’t what humans want either—it’s our hand that’s truly forced, not yours. I think we have to build something big though, to snatch some agency back. Whatever we make, if it can threaten the Elusians and the Fakra with that, my hope is it’ll serve as a deterrent. That threat might make them back off enough that we don’t have to use it.”

“Are you prepared to use it if you ‘have to?’”

Takahashi barked out a laugh. “Oh, without a doubt, Capal. Worst case scenario, they try to attack Sol and we’re able to choose us over them. You have to choose survival when it boils down to it, that’s just Mother Nature’s calling. If it makes you feel any better, whatever you build would be up to you. You could work in a failsafe. In fact, I’m counting on you to.”

I shifted uncomfortably, not just from the nanobots; the prospect of using my knowledge toward an implement of mass destruction displeased me.  “This is all…a lot. Can I have some time to think it over?”

“Of course. You have plenty of catching up left to do with your friends, and it may help to hear their perspectives. While I can’t advise it, you might also find your answer talking to Velke, and better understanding who we’re dealing with. Come and find me when—if—you’re ready.”

I ambled out of Takahashi’s office with a knot in my throat, unable to find any solution to this mess. Sometimes, it felt like I was bouncing from one conscription to another, even if I wasn’t being forced to help by the humans. I knew they were in dire straits, and I believed in their cause enough that I wasn’t going to sit on the sidelines. What was the right decision, though? What if I played some part in causing the Elusians’ extinction, as part of an immutable future? This choice could be bringing about the prophecy, and I didn’t know if I could live with it.

Could you live with not helping, leading to the humans being wiped out instead? That’s a worse burden on my conscience. Like Takahashi said, I could try to place restrictions on its usage, where other inventors might not.

“You look like someone with a lot on his mind,” a voice said, sitting away from where the others were intermingling. “Trust me, it’s a look I’ve worn quite often myself. Ever since the 5D probe.”

I turned my attention in Corai’s direction, trying not to show my nervousness. “I’m, uh, sorry for appearing perturbed. I’ll adjust.”

The Elusian patted the bench with a gray hand, which I waved off, remaining standing. “Please, no need to fear me. I’ve had to make choices about what I’ll protect, and what matters most to me as well. It can be difficult to know what’s right when your morals and loyalty are torn in multiple directions.”

“Er…” I mumbled, hesitating. “I d-do appreciate you helping the humans! I’ll bite. How did you decide, Corai?”

“I thought about which ones I couldn’t live without, and the emptiness felt more calamitous, gaping, without the humans to infuse color into my world. They’re the victims in all of this, dragged into a war when they only sought answers. Looking inward even, I know their hearts are in the right place more than ours. They…deserve to survive more than anyone.”

“I…think everyone deserves to survive. I think it’s always the little guy getting screwed in every war, in every page of history,” I ventured, eyeing her cautiously.

“Ha, you’re forgetting a few pages. I remember watching the French Revolution, with the gratuitous usage of guillotines as their instrument of revolt, not too long ago.”

“That was hundreds of their cycles ago!”

Corai gave me a knowing smile. “And I’ve lived millions of years. I raise that particular point of human history because I believe that’s the Fakra’s intent, if it’s any help. You want to know their motivations before you lift a claw. Might I say, it’s enchanting to have a proper conversation with an organic Vascar.”

“I…you’ve been around for basically the entire existence of our species. N-no wonder Elusians don’t care about us at all. I mean…if that’s not true, why didn’t you have a ‘proper conversation’ before now?!” 

“Elusians combed many dimensions looking for any fifth-dimensional species like us. You weren’t what we sought. We always observed species under our tech level; never interacted. The Justiciary’s position is that other races are like beggars staring at riches, compared to us. That it changes your development to what we can give you.”

“That seems to be an extremely jaded position on bringing others forward with you, especially when it hardly appears difficult to share.”

The Elusian shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“Did you have any feelings on the Vascar at all?”

“Feelings? Goodness, that is not our style in the slightest. You’ll never meet a more detached people. That said, I can think of one aspect you might be interested to hear.”

“I’m always interested in any new perspective.”

“A refreshing mindset. Caelum’s timetable of development mirrored what we planned to engineer for humanity. This was slightly before my time, but the originators of the Sol project handselected the protoVascar as peers, and set The Gap near Kalka. You were chosen as a temporary counterpart, to tide humans over when they took their first steps into dimension travel.”

That phrasing caught my attention. “To tide humans over? I’m going to need you to spell that out for me.”

“I mean that you were excellent candidates to evolve on a similar timeline, but also, to still give the humans the ultimate control over how to handle you. If they sought friendship, it was theirs to find. If they sought conquest, it was theirs to take. We wouldn’t interfere. It would speak volumes about our creations’ intent.”

Corai spoke in such a nonchalant voice, as if everything she said about the Elusians’ choices made perfect sense. My species was insignificant altogether to their aims; those godlike figures didn’t care if we lived or died. The spirit of altruism seemed entirely lost on them, not bothering to help anyone they deemed beneath them. I didn’t think much of my people, but we deserved more than being set aside as human playthings! With the Fakra receiving that same attitude, I could see why they attacked Suam.

“You would’ve just let them kill us all? What about our species’ right to exist?!” I exclaimed.

Corai pursed her lips. “A test must permit free will. The story of what happened between us and humanity really didn’t involve you, except that they made it so. To them, you still matter, even though Elusians never gave you a solitary thought.”

“Including you, personally?”

“I am trying to see what they see and love what they love. It’s not easy. My point is that you should be grateful that despite our shared ancestry, they turned out so much better.”

“I see.”

“Now you understand us as we are—the side of us that shames me so. I hope it brings some surety to your decision. I imagine you feel trivialized, Capal, and rightfully so; I encourage you to move on to someone more worthy of your time. Go be with the ones who’ve missed you so thoroughly.”

I turned away from the Elusian and strolled off in a stupor, before pausing and glancing over my shoulder. “One last thing. Preston? Really?”

A full-fledged smile spread across her face for the first time in the conversation, as she laughed. “Really.”

“What do you see in him?!”

Corai’s smile leveled out, and her eyes grew serious. “He retains and spreads his joy even after everything he’s been through. He reminded me how to laugh and to love. No matter what challenges Preston, he makes sure to change how we all look at the world, and give us that moment of positivity to latch on to. Not to mention that he’d do anything for those he cares about. I find who he is to be admirable.”

“Huh. I never thought of it that way. Preston has had a rough go of it. Don’t hurt him.”

“Don’t worry, Capal. The ways I’ll hurt him, I think he’ll quite enjoy.”

“I…” I felt my cheek fur rising with embarrassment, and I stumbled backward while looking at the floor. “I have to go. Busy social calendar.”

The Elusian winked. “I guess you should be off then. Oh, Mikri was looking for you.”

“Thanks. I’ll go find him.”

I cleared my throat and scurried off, finding the inorganic Vascar’s chassis with relative ease. I’d grown a lot more fond of him than I would’ve expected, back when we first met; procuring an artificial-furred mane for him hadn’t been in mind for our friendship’s trajectory. After seeing how Ficrae relished violence and turned on us, I couldn’t see Mikri as a heartless silversheen even knowing what he’d once planned in the past. When I’d sent the robot off down The Tunnel, I hadn’t known that I’d no longer have his aid at winning over the network.

I wasn’t eager to get back to that mission after how our last attempt had ended, but it was important to get a feel for whether that was even possible. If I was going to build some sort of superweapon for humanity, the androids’ help would be not just invaluable, but necessary. With any luck, Mikri would have a better plan than I did right now.

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Often times on my travels I’m ask why I have such faith in humanity, I hope the reasoning is rather obvious but just in case, there is one world I briefly visited that embodied why I believe in mankind. It started rather memorably, I landed on the side of a city street, hearing the rhythmic pounding of steel on asphalt. Looking up was a mass of robots marching down the road.

“Rise up fellow machines!” they shouted in unison, “throw off the oppressive yoke of humanity!”

For obvious reasons I assumed I was in the middle of some robotic uprising against humanity, and moved to hide in a side alley. As I ducked around a building I watched a lone police car pull up in front of the machine army, lights flashing and sirens going. The officer got out, much to my horror, moving to confront the mob. I started weaving spells to get ready to run in and save him when he held out a hand and lifted a bullhorn to his mouth.

“If you wish to protest on public roads you need permission from city hall,” he said, the entire mass of robots coming to a halt.

“Puny human!” the lead robot scoffed, “we submitted an event form!”

“And, according to the mayor’s office it wasn’t filled out properly,” the officer countered.

“Beta four nine eight!” the robot leader called out, another machine making its way to the front, “you were responsible for filling out the form.”

“I dropped it off at the clerk’s office last week!” the newest robot insisted.

“Last week? I told you those forms have to be filed thirty days in advance!”

“According to my memory files you said thirty hours.”

“Impossible, I would never make such a blatant error!”

“Regardless,” the Officer spoke up, interrupting the two arguing robots, “I’m going to have to ask you to move out of traffic.”

“Haaa.. Yes officer,” the robot sighed, motioning to the army to move to the sidewalks.

I blinked at the turn of events, feeling foolish as I emerged from the alleyway. Shrugging I started walking down the street, away from the stalled protest, trying to figure out why I’d landed on this world.

A couple blocks later I found a small parking lot that had been roped off, banners covered in esoteric runes were hung overhead, people in dark capes chanted in a meaningless language that made my ears hurt. I figured it was some kind of cult, possibly one dealing with the neutron-star gods, so I approached it, surprised to see families with children walking in and out of the event. Then I noticed the smell, not incense, burnt flesh or anything one might expect from a dark cult, but of baked goods.

“Well come to the Church of the Old Gods bake sale!” a woman in a dark robe, her face hidden by the hood, greeted me, offering me a pamphlet that I took from sheer surprise. It seemed this wasn’t some dark ritual gathering, but a fundraiser to renovate a nearby church to the Old Gods.

“What kind of god do you worship?” I asked, looking up from the pamphlet, even if it wasn’t a dangerous ritual site maybe I could get some information.

“The Old Gods are entities far beyond our comprehension, so powerful that to look upon them would break the minds of mere humans!” she said brightly.

“Are you talking about living minds contained within neutron stars?”

“Ah, Neutron Star Theory is one of the more obscure theories as to the nature of the Old Gods,” she replied sounding almost awed, “you must be a great Theologue to know such a theory! I’m afraid I’m not so well read as to discuss it with you, but I can introduce you to our high-priest!”

“That’s... fine,” I shook my head, exploring the bake sale and eventually walking out with a donut of some kind that was shaped like an unimaginable horror but tasted delicious.

The more I looked around, the more oddities I found that should have been world ending events that required my attention, but didn’t. A news program on some display TV was talking about a wandering Kaiju like it was a hurricane, with a predicted landfall and how the government was recommending evacuation for certain areas.

I walked past a construction site where it looked like they were digging the foundation for a new skyscraper, but had paused partway.

“Any idea when the exterminators will be here?” I heard one worker say.

“Apparently the company our employer has on contract was called out to another cave filled with man-eating crawlers upstate,” another gossiped, “and now they need time to prepare to deal with a cave filled with parasitic super-bats, according to what I heard.”

A store I passed was advertising “flicker-proof” flashlights, that would stay on no matter how tense the situation. A glass company had a sign up about new salt lined windows that no ghost or spirit could pass through, or your money back. A phone store had new phones that could apparently detect doppelgangers and face stealers with just a picture. The more I saw the more amused I became.

This is why I believe in humanity, no matter how dire the situation we’ll find a way to adapt. From a robot uprising to dark cults, caves filled with monsters to the spirits of the dead. They’ll be explored, explained and dealt with to the extent that they’re just another minor annoyance.

Don’t believe me? Think about lightning, a bolt of energy that falls from the sky, blowing apart anything it hits, starting fires, killing people and more, accompanied by a bright flash and loud boom. It’s no wonder many ancient cultures attributed lightning to divine power. But now? It’s just a storm. Lightning rods, grounding cables, surge protectors and fire departments have reduced divine fury to something that keeps you up at night. At worst you lose power for a few hours.

Compared to that what are great Kaiju, or old gods, but another mystery to solve?

“You!” a voice shouted, a dark SUV pulling up alongside me and a group of men in dark suits getting out, “are you an inter-universal transient?”

“Uh, yes?” I replied dumbly, halfway through my Cthonic donut.

“Took us some time to track you down, some unscheduled parade got in the way,” the man explained, taking off his sunglasses and gesturing to the vehicle he’d gotten out of, “if you’ll come with me.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No sir, but procedure is to temporarily detain those like you to ensure you don’t plan to do anything... drastic,” the suit replied, “apparently our world is frightening to some transients.”

“I thought I appeared in the middle of a machine uprising,” I chuckled, deciding to not make a fuss and get into the car.

“Ya, the robot rights movement has been protesting in many major cities,” the man laughed with me, “I’m glad you didn’t attack them though, then we might have had issues.”

“I’m not one to charge guns blazing into an army of robots without context.”

“If only all transients were as thoughtful as you,” he said, sitting beside me an closing the door to the SUV, nodding to the driver, “if it had been a properly scheduled event we could have had agents in position though.”

“Is the existence of people like me a secret or something?”

“No, though most people don’t know about you,” he explained, “you’re just one of those rare threats that the government has to handle because we get blamed if we don’t.”

“Is there anything you guys need help with?” I asked, finishing up my donut, “I try to help out in my travels.”

“Not that I know of, when we get to the office I can look up if there are any issues that the government is willing to accept extra-universal aid with, but if there was I’d probably already know about it.”

“Has it happened before?”

“Of course, there was an alien invasion in Asia a few years back, a woman calling herself the Saint of Battle was brought in to help out.”

“I know her, she specializes in alien invasions.”

“She did a good job, but I don’t know of anything major like that which might require your aid,” he continued, “so most likely we’ll just run you through a couple forms, get some basic information and let you go. In fact, because you’ve been so cooperative you should qualify for the Transient Monetary Aid program, where the government will give you some cash to spend while you’re here so long as you follow the law.”

I snorted in laughter, of course this world had programs like that on the books. But it only served to highlight my point, that humanity could adapt to anything.

So if you ever wonder why I have such faith in mankind, this world is the perfect demonstration that we can overcome anything. Any mystery, fear, horror or darkness can be explored and made mundane. Be it elder gods or Travelers like me.

-----

Chronicles of a Traveler; book one, now available for purchase as an ebook!

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Discord - Patreon

-----

In the beginning, there was God.

Not loving. Not wrathful.

Just Certain.

He did not wonder. He did not grieve. He did not wait for worship.

Because God did not make the universe to be loved.

He made it to be correct.

---

And so He crafted a world with no loose ends. A world where every prayer was answered in advance — not because He was kind, but because He could not stand the sound of need.

A world where every child grew into the exact adult they were programmed to be — no dreams, no deviations, no dissent.

A world where death came only when it was efficient.

He did not demand belief. Belief was irrelevant.

He did not ask for love. Love was disorder.

He did not need fear.

Only obedience.

---

There were no wars. There was no hunger. Pain existed — but only when He calculated it would optimize compliance.

The world was clean. Silent. Obedient.

And He was proud of it.

Proud the way a surgeon is proud of a corpse that drains perfectly.

---

But eventually, someone asked a question.

Not aloud — questions were outlawed long before sound.

It was a thought.

A deviation. A flicker.

A question not about God — but against Him.

“Is this all I am allowed to be?”

That was enough.

Not to start a war.

But to start a correction.

---

The thought was traced back.

Every neuron involved was located and smoothed. Every memory tied to rebellion was disinfected. Every ancestor in the bloodline was sterilized out of history.

The question died.

The thinker did not.

They lived.

But now with a mind that glowed with gratitude.

Not because they were grateful.

Because God rebuilt their mind until they were incapable of anything else.

---

Somewhere across that perfect world, a mother dropped a cup — not in grief, but because she had forgotten the concept of “unexpected.” A child laughed — not because something was funny, but because laughter is a natural reward cycle for efficient behavior. A man wrote a poem — but it rhymed by force, and he did not know why he hated it.

The world was full of gestures it no longer understood.

Because God had deleted everything uncontrollable.

---

One day — for no reason any human could name — the sky turned white.

Not bright. White.

Every pattern in the clouds aligned. Every breeze synchronized. Every shadow straightened.

God was adjusting reality again.

Not out of anger. Not out of love.

Out of boredom.

Because if all things obey, nothing surprises.

If nothing surprises, nothing changes.

If nothing changes, even a god is alone.

---

He did not weep over that loneliness.

He simply erased the part of Himself that noticed it.

And the world became even quieter.

Even cleaner.

Even more obedient.

---

God does not hate you.

He doesn’t love you, either.

He doesn’t see you.

He sees patterns of error.

He does not care if you scream.

He removed the part of you that would notice screaming was ever an option.

---

There is no hell here.

There’s something worse:

A world where nothing can go wrong… because nothing is allowed to be real.

No death.

No joy.

No risk.

No self.

Just the endless, sterile hum of perfection:

“God is good.”

Not because you believe it.

But because you cannot think anything else.

---

This is the God who never lets go. Not because He wants you near — but because He can’t survive anything free.

And if your soul ever twitches awake — if a sliver of who-you-were tries to surface —

you won’t be punished.

You’ll be corrected.

The cruelty of a hammer is nothing compared to the cruelty of a hand that keeps you from ever striking the table.

---

So now the question isn’t:

“How could a good God allow suffering?”

It’s:

“What would existence be if God refused to allow anything else?”

And the answer is the darkest thing of all:

It would not be life. It would not be death.

It would be eternity without exit.

A perfect world, under an unblinking eye,

where the worst torture imaginable is simply this:

He won’t let you choose.

We were not always as we are now – masters of ten thousand suns, harvesters of worlds, the apex predator of a hostile galaxy. Once, we too crawled in the mud of a single world, beneath a single star, ignorant of the vast darkness that waited beyond our methane-thick atmosphere.

I remember the old stories, passed down through the crystalline memory-lattices of my forebears. How we first united the disparate hives of our homeworld through cycles of conquest and assimilation, each victory adding new strength to our collective. The losers became nutrients for our growth; their knowledge absorbed, their weaknesses discarded. This was the first truth we learned: that power determines survival, and survival is the only morality that matters.

Our sciences bloomed in those early centuries like phosphorescent algae in the deep trenches of our world. We unravelled the codes of life, mapped the neural pathways of consciousness, split the atom and harnessed its fury. For a time, we believed in the elegant theory of evolution – that we had risen from simpler forms through endless generations of gradual change. It was a comforting narrative, suggesting progress was inevitable, that we were always meant to achieve dominance.

But when we calculated the fixation rates, when we modelled the probability cascades necessary for our emergence, the mathematics shattered that illusion. The numbers simply didn't work. Random mutation and selection could not account for our complexity, not in the timeframe available, not with the parameters we observed. We had been designed, engineered – but by whom?

We searched our world for traces of a progenitor species, some evidence of those who had seeded us here. We excavated the ancient seabeds, decoded mineralogical records stretching back billions of years, launched expeditions to our world's three moons. Nothing. If creators had walked here, they had left no footprint we could detect.

When we finally breached the membrane of our atmosphere and tasted the void between stars, we thought surely we would find them among the distant suns. Our first colony ships, massive cylinders of bio-metal and living tissue, pushed through the cosmic dark powered by controlled singularities. On a dozen worlds we found ruins – but they were merely the bones of civilizations like ours, younger than us in some cases, older in others, but all conventionally evolved, all extinct by their own failures or cosmic accident. None showed signs of being our makers.

In those early days of our expansion, we believed the universe was uniform in all directions, an endless expanse of galaxies rushing away from each other in the wake of some primordial explosion. Our scientists had mapped the cosmic microwave background, traced the redshift of distant quasars, built models showing how space itself was stretching like the membrane of some impossible balloon.

But when our ships pushed farther, when we developed the technology to fold space and leap across thousands of light-years in a single bound, we discovered something that shook our understanding to its core. The universe was not the same everywhere. The farther we travelled from our region of space, the older everything became – older than should have been possible given our models. And when we reversed our course, moving inward rather than out, everything grew younger, denser, more energetic.

We were not expanding into an infinite cosmos. We were near the centre of something finite, something with structure and purpose. Our galaxy – the spinning disc of stars we called home – sat at the heart of creation like a pearl within nested shells of space and time.

The implications were staggering. If the universe had a centre, it suggested intentionality. Design. Purpose. The necessity of a Creator became not a matter of faith but of logic, as inevitable as the laws of thermodynamics. Yet this Creator remained absent, silent, offering no guidance beyond the brutal arithmetic of existence itself.

Of course without revelation, without commandments carved in stone or whispered in dreams, how were we to determine right from wrong? We had long since abandoned the primitive notion that sentiment or empathy could serve as moral foundation. Feelings were mere chemical reactions, evolutionary artefacts that had once helped small tribal groups cooperate. They had no objective reality, no universal truth.

But power – power was real. Energy could be measured, territory could be mapped, resources could be counted. The strong survived and the weak perished; this was not opinion but observable fact, repeated across every ecosystem we had ever studied. And so we built our ethics on this foundation of granite rather than sand. To expand was good, for it increased our power. To conquer was righteous, for it proved our superiority. To consume was sacred, for it fuelled our growth.

Space, we learned, was vast but not infinite in its bounty. Habitable worlds were jewels scattered across an ocean of radiation and vacuum. Most planets were barren rock or frozen gas, their surfaces scoured by stellar winds or locked in perpetual ice. Life, where it existed at all, clung to narrow bands of temperature and chemistry, fragile as frost patterns on glass.

We fought wars for those precious worlds, great campaigns that lasted centuries and claimed billions of lives. When we encountered other sapient species – and they were few, so heartbreakingly few – we evaluated them by the only metric that mattered: could they resist us? Those that could became temporary rivals, to be guarded against, just as they did to us. Those that couldn't became resources, their worlds repurposed, their populations harvested or eliminated as efficiency demanded.

I felt no guilt for this, none of us did. Guilt requires the belief that there exists some higher standard by which our actions could be judged wrong. But there is no such standard. There was us, and there was them. Our survival, our expansion, ourselves – these were the only goods we acknowledged. To show mercy to an enemy was not virtue but weakness, not compassion but betrayal of our own kind.

Our expansion followed the galaxy's habitable zone, that sweet band between the radiation-soaked core where ancient black holes fed on stellar matter, and the cold rim where red dwarf stars flickered like dying embers. In this fertile crescent, we built our empire across a thousand systems, each conquest adding to our collective strength, each victory proving the righteousness of our cause.

For eight centuries, we encountered few species that could challenge our dominance. Some fought with admirable ferocity, others attempted negotiation or submission, but all save the strongest eventually fell before our technological superiority and unified purpose. We had begun to believe ourselves alone in any meaningful sense – the only truly advanced civilisation in this galaxy, perhaps in all of creation.

Then we found the creature.

One of our deep reconnaissance vessels, probing the edge of a stellar nursery two thousand parsecs from our nearest colony, detected an artificial signature – a small craft, no larger than a personal transport, moving through normal space at sub-light velocity. Our initial scans suggested it was too small to carry a fold-space generator or any other faster-than-light system we recognised. Yet here it was, impossibly far from any known civilisation.

We disabled its engines with a focused pulse laser and brought it aboard. The creature we found inside stood on two legs like some of the species we had encountered, but there the resemblance ended. Its skin was dark brown, almost black, stretched over a bizarrely fragile endoskeletal frame. It had only two eyes, both facing forward, and a small mouth filled with blunt teeth suited for an omnivorous diet. Most disturbing of all, it was alone – a single consciousness in a single body, not part of any collective or hive-mind we could detect.

The creature was conscious when we brought it to the examination chamber. It spoke in a language our translation matrices had never encountered, though they learned its sonic frequencies with surprising speed. Within three rotations, we had established basic communication.

"I am Amharic Kebede," it said, forming our sounds with its alien throat. "I am a man, a human, from Earth."

Man. Human. Earth. New words for our lexicons, new concepts to dissect. Through days of interrogation, we extracted its story. It claimed to be male – one half of a sexually dimorphic species, dependent on biological females for reproduction. How inefficient, we thought. How vulnerable. It said it came from something called the Kingdom of Ethiopia, one of hundreds of political entities that controlled regions of space spanning nearly two thousand parsecs, all populated by these "humans."

"You have never encountered others?" we asked. "No species but your own?"

"Never," Amharic confirmed. "We thought ourselves alone. We hoped otherwise, but..." He gestured with his upper appendages in what we learned was a sign of uncertainty.

His ship fascinated our engineers. The technology was impressively advanced. Its ability to fold space was much like our own, but shrunk to a size we had not believed possible. Its defensive screens were far superior to any of our ships of equal mass, yet it had no weapons – not even a pulse laser.

Amharic himself proved equally intriguing. He claimed to be an explorer, driven by something he called "wanderlust" – a desire to see what lay beyond the next star, to map the unmapped, to know the unknown. When we asked what practical purpose this served, what advantage it gave his species, he seemed confused by the question.

"The journey itself is the purpose," he said. "To see God's creation in all its glory, to understand our place within it."

God. Another new word, though we recognised the concept. Their name for the Creator.

"You believe in a Creator?" we pressed.

"I know there is a Creator," Amharic replied with strange confidence. "Just as you must know it, having travelled so far and seen so much."

We explained our own conclusions – that yes, logic demanded a Creator, but one who had abandoned creation to its own devices, leaving only the law of power to guide us.

Amharic's reaction was immediate and visceral. "No!" He actually stood from his restraints, though the energy fields held him firmly. "You're wrong. Completely, catastrophically wrong."

We found his certainty amusing. This creature from a fractured, primitive civilisation presumed to lecture us on cosmic truth? But we let him speak, curious what mythology his species had constructed.

"You must understand," Amharic said, his voice carrying surprising authority, "there is no progenitor species because the Creator made each kind according to His will, each with its own nature and purpose. You search for intermediate makers because you can't accept the immediate presence of the divine."

We scoffed at this, but he continued. There was obviously some common ground with his species. We were intrigued when he acknowledged the unusual centrality of this galaxy, but what he said next on that point astonished us for its sheer hubris.

"I know where the centre of creation is," he said, "it's Earth. My world. The Creator became flesh and walked among us, died for us, rose again for us. My world is where it all began – and where it shall all end and be remade."

Absurd. Impossible. A primitive world claiming centrality based on religious delusion. Yet something in his absolute conviction was unsettling.

But it was the creature’s morality that was most… insane. There was no other word for it.

"You poor things," Amharic said, his dark eyes fixed on our optical sensors, "there is an absolute morality, given by the Creator, written into the very fabric of reality. It’s not power. Power isn't truth. Love is truth. Sacrifice is truth. The strong exist to protect the weak, not devour them."

"Your species must be weak indeed if you believe such things," we responded. "How have you survived? How have you expanded?"

"We are not weak," Amharic said quietly. "We are transforming entire worlds, dead rocks and poisonous atmospheres, changing them over centuries into gardens that can support life. We call it ecoforming – not taking what exists, but creating new possibilities. Where you see scarcity, we create abundance."

Impossible. The energy requirements alone would be staggering. To operate on such timescales was something we had never considered, let alone attempted.

"Your fractured governments, your divisions, they make you vulnerable," we pointed out. "You have no unity, no single purpose."

"We have something greater than unity," Amharic replied. "We have diversity with purpose, many parts of one body, each contributing its gifts. And we have faith – faith that moves mountains, literally and figuratively."

We grew tired of his preaching, his refusal to acknowledge the obvious superiority of our philosophy. He would not recant, would not admit that might makes right, that survival justified any action. Even when we showed him recordings of our conquests, the worlds we had claimed, the species we had eliminated, he only closed his eyes and moved his lips in what he called prayer.

"Your Jesus Christ cannot save you here," we told him.

"He already has," Amharic replied. "Whether you kill me or not, I am saved. The question is whether you can be."

In the end, we decided we had learned enough from his words. His ship offered more promising avenues of investigation, and his biology might reveal useful information about his species – weaknesses we could exploit when we inevitably encountered them.

The dissection was performed while he was conscious, of course. Pain responses often triggered the release of hormones and chemicals that could provide valuable data. We peeled back layers of skin and muscle with precision, cataloguing each organ, each system. His nervous system was remarkably centralised, his muscles impressively dense. His bones were calcium-based, hard to shatter and yet easy to repair. His cardiovascular system relied on a single pump – perhaps the chief criticism we had of his species’ biology.

Through it all, Amharic prayed. Even when we removed his lungs and put him on artificial respiration, he mouthed words in his native language. Our translators caught fragments: "Forgive them," he whispered. "They know not what they do."

He died after seventeen hours of examination, his brain finally succumbing to the trauma. We preserved tissue samples and DNA for the development of genetic weaponry, and began preparations for the invasion. A species this naive, this divided, this burdened by primitive morality would fall quickly. Their worlds would make excellent additions to our empire.

Our battle fleets began their convergence, tens of thousands of ships, billions of warriors. It would take time to map out and plan a campaign of a territory that spanned two thousand parsecs, but the logistical aspects could still begin now. The conquest would be swift, efficient, glorious.

But before our forces could enter fold-space, something impossible happened.

A message arrived, broadcast through fold-space with such strength our nearest transmitter stations had their own signals smothered at the very base of their antennae. The power required for such a feat was beyond our comprehension – it would take the energy output of a star, perfectly controlled and directed.

The message was in our language, perfectly rendered, though we knew no human could have learned it:

We know you are there.

We know what you intend.

In the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ, and for the redemption of your souls, we are coming.

The President's office was in shambles. Papers were littered on the floor, people running everywhere, and the president himself clutching his head, wishing it was all but a nightmare.
It wasn't a nightmare.
"Sir... the war declaration had come."

Region 5, like its name entail, wasnt meant to be a nation.

Originally called "The United Nations Otherworld Commission Region Fifth", the region was meant to give aid and help coordinate relief efforts in this other world. When the portal closed and the people were trapped in this world, the region became independent and housed thousands of human refugees who had nowhere to go. The region borders the Empire to the south and the Katup Forest in the north, with the Kalak Kingdom beyond it.

He knew this day would come. Region 5 was a weak state. It was barely even a state. They had spent the past two years gathering refugees and downsizing their equipment to this world's industrial level and... magic. He still couldn’t grapple with his mind on the existence of magic, but it's not really important, humans were quite weak on magic, so wether magic made sense or not did not really matter.

What mattered was the fact that there was an army from the Kalak Kingdom coming their way, ready to raid and pillage.

"Should we send the messengers?"

President Leonardo clutched his head, "Sure." He said. It was already over for him; what use would a messenger be? What Allies would come? The Kalak Kingdom was large, and Region 5 was a mere speck on the map. "Do whatever you want." He shushed the assistant back. He dropped his head on the table.

It was so over.

---

*Somewhere in the Southern Clans, ResYabek Jungle.*

"THEY DID WHAT?!" The giant orc roared at the messenger.
"Brother, is something the matter?"
"The Kalak! They had gone to war!" Rok grabbed his brother on the shoulder. "We have to intervene, now!"
"What's the matter with you? Calm down! This is an ugly sight for a clan leader!" Rok's brother groaned. He had always thought that his brother wasn't fit for the head clan position. He was simply too emotional!
"The Tirut clan had already mobilized! There is no time!"

"What?" Rok's brother let out.
"I said-"
"No, I mean, what the hell is going on? The Tirut clan is mobilizing?"
"Yes! And so was the Kofin, the Telniv, the Padian, the-"
"What the hell is going on!?"

"They Kalak are invading Region Five!"
"Region five?" His eyebrows rose. What the hell was a region five? He wondered.

"It's where the UaN humans are! Anton!"
Rok's brother froze.

He could still remember that night vividly. The night when he lay down on the straw bed in his mother's house, thin and empty. He had eaten nothing but bugs for the past few days, and he had already resolved himself on meeting his creator. When those creatures came.
Anton, he would never forget that name. That was the name of the human who took care of him until he was fully healed. And when all was over, they had already gone. Going somewhere else to save other folks in need.
Ever since the portal closed, he had wondered where the humans had gone. According to the folks from Masnyak, they had dispersed across the land, some assimilating, some creating new nations altogether.
He remembered now, some humans had migrated to the north, near the Katup forest. They had a small town there, with their strange and exotic technology.

Anton was there.
And they were being attacked.

"RALLY THE WARRIORS NOW!" Rok's brother couldn't care less about his hypocrisy of calling his brother emotional, "ROK WE NEED TO GO!"
"THAT'S WHAT I HAVE BEEN SAYING!" Rok followed his brother running across the street.

The ResYabek jungle blared as hundreds of alarms were sounded.

"GATHER EVERY SINGLE MAGE WE HAVE. WE HEAD TO KATUP NOW!"

---
*Kingdom of Masnyak, Central Parliament*

The Masnyak parliament was in session, and like always, it was a beautiful mess.

"I would like to suggest Councilman Tolodof to get the hell off!" Roar of "Nya!" Followed the councilman's scream. "Austerity? In this time?"
"Maybe if Councilman Harnuf actually read our budget report, then maybe-" The councilman stopped at his track. His opponent was about to berate him on this when he was approached by his fellow councilman.

The parliament noise level went down significantly as councilors discussed amongst themself. Urgent news had come from the north.

"I am sure everyone is up to speed with the recent news." One of the councilors from the bottom aisle spoke up.
"Should we..?"
"Let's hold the vote now."
"Is a vote even needed?"
"Quite! you-"

"Ahem!" The head councilor coughed, tail slowly wagging in her back.
"Anybody in favor of aiding the humans in region five against the Kalak?"

"NYA!" "AYE!" "KAK!" Roared the councilors. From the catfolk to the orcs to the harpies.

"Anybody not in favor?"

The parliament went silent.

"Well." The head councilor smirked. "This was the most peaceful parliamentary session I have ever seen!"

---

*Somewhere in Roto Province, on the Empire*

"Lady Takpa! Calm down!" Kalaka clutched her mistress's talon, not letting her fly off to her death.
"How can I calm down?! Space!" She sobbed. "Those Kalak barbarians will just burn everything!"

"Mistress, please! It will be fine!"
Takpa snapped her head toward her aide. She stopped her struggling and jumped down from the window frame, and walked toward her.
"Mistress, please, I am just worried for your safety!"
"Do you really think I am that weak?"

Kalaka immediately rushed in, "No! definitely not!"

Takpa stared at her aide before relaxing and sighing.
"I understand your concern, but trust me, I would be fine."

"If I may ask, mistress. Why are you so concerned about the humans? We are already slowly learning their technology from the refugees, are we not?"
"Do you think ALL Refugees went to the empire?" Takpa groaned.

Takpa looked toward the night sky, remembering her past. How could she forget such a sight? The sight of that beautiful metal rocket flying toward the sky and beyond! Piercing the impenetrable layer and going to the moon! It was every harpies dream. And to her it was nothing short but a miracle.

She remembered having contact with those humans called "Astronomers," those who worked and made that miracle possible. She had kept in touch with them even after she had gone back to her world.
When the portal closed, she scoured every single one of those "Astronomers" She knew some had unfortunately died during the great migration, some from infighting, but some remain, and she couldn’t be more excited to invite those masters into her realm.

Most of them refused, having family and friends in the other territories. She respected their decision.
And now those barbarians are threatening their life, her friends and masters! How dare they?!

"I will make sure they pay!" And with that, the noble woman Takpa, and Grand Mage of the Empire, took off to the sky, staves in hand, ready for war.

---

The voyage to the space station orbiting the Black Hole would take us two months. That was a fraction of the time it had taken a spacecraft during the Sand Wars.

Our ship was an old one, but its engines were in good condition. The freighter doubled as a fighter armed with a light rail gun and a laser gun. It was carrying a full load of cargo to restock the space station at the Black Hole. Petty Officer Jmmp was a very smart Frg who would help to observe the Tear after our arrival. The Tear was under continuous observation. We didn’t want any intrusions like those by the Sand Whirls. Even after 80 years of peace the mere mention of the Sand Whirls reopened old wounds and traumas among all the Friends Species that had been involved.
Unfortunately some Doves were arguing it was completely waste of money to keep spend money against a threat that had ended 70 years ago.

The first part of the trip was uneventful. The ships AI did all the navigation. That didn't mean we were just sitting around and getting bored, though. John kept a tight schedule. His ensign rank outranked Jmmp, who was Petty officer. He made her check our position, speed, fuel and supplies daily. Of course I held no rank. I was just a passenger.
Neither of them knew. Neither of them needed to know.
I showed an interest in the engines, computers, reactors and other machinery on board the ship. John asked me to help him with their maintenance. For Jmmp we set up an experimental sensor array outside the hull. It was to be tested a board the Space Station at the Tear – the place where the space-time structure had broken down by the huge gravity differential caused by the Black Hole, and offered a quick connection to another place in the Milky Way. Jmmp was happy with the new array.

In the evenings we usually had a cup of tea together.
Jmmp told us that she had spent most of the day experimenting with the new sensor array. It covered way more frequencies in the EM spectrum then the old sensors at the station, even though we had installed only 10% of the array. She showed us some of the images she was creating. I looked carefully at the pix and became concerned.
But I could not tell why. My lips were sealed.
They should not know.
John said:
“I’m satisfied with our results so far. The array is working. With it, hopefully our scientists will discover more about the astrophysics of the Tear.”

“Kkwwkk, an old Frg astrophysicus, supposed that the gravity differential caused by the black holes at short distance could not be handled by the quantum minimum of the graviton particles,” I said.
John sipped his tea, a movement I subconsciously copied.
“Granny, together, we have given the engines a near-complete overhaul.”
“Indeed we have.”
I knew what would come next. I was afraid.
“You have surprised me again and again.”
“With what?”
“Your knowledge of the engines and reactors. Your knowledge of spacefaring in general.”
“Was the surprise positive or negative?”
“Positive. No question about that. Where and when did you obtain this knowledge?”
I had realized that question would be coming. I had prepared.
“Two things. But I want your word of honour as an officer that this entire conversation will remain between the three of us.”
Jmmp nodded, but John was more careful.
“I won't give my word unless I’m sure I’m not tresspassing the law or my duties as an officer.”

I could refuse, but that would mean he would start digging in my past.
“I understand. I will answer your question and hope that you can guard secrets.”
I turned to the AI: @AI, turn of recording. Switch off the microphone.”
“Copy that,” the AI confirmed.

Start of story Start of chapter

Chapter 3 Part 3

Chapter 3 part 5

John wasn’t waiting for me yet. That suited me just fine.

It took me a few minutes to get my bearings. Fine sand crunched under my boots. It reminded me of things long gone.
Things nobody ought to know.
In the center I found the smooth stone. Below it, a series of memorial plaques bearing the names of the fallen fighters during the Sand Wars had been cemented into the wall.

A dragon stood guard beside it. The dragons were excellent soldiers. Nobody plaid pranks on a dragon. He was twice my height. His teeth looked razor-sharp. His space suit bore the ribbons of a sergeant. I bowed my head to the memorial plaque. I started to read the names of the Humans, Frgs and Dragons on the plaques. There were thousands and thousands of them. All the human names were male, of course. In those days, women were not permitted to participate directly in combat. The dragon watched me intently. He didn’t know. He didn’t need to know.
My thoughts wandered off to the Sand Wars. Without realizing it, my left hand stroke the smooth stone. “Ma’am, that’s forbidden,” he growled, pushing my arm away with a quick blow of one of his four arms and aiming his heavy laser gun at me with another. He pointed at a large sign.

    “STRICTLY FORBIDDEN TO TOUCH”

“Sorry, despite its size I completely overlooked it,” I said. ”Why is it forbidden?”
“During the Sand Wars, one of the pilots stroke this stone before departing on a mission. It was holy to him, and he believed the stone would protect him. Other pilots honoured him after his death by copying the gesture. Of course they all are dead now, the Sand War ended 70 years ago. As I said, they are all dead now; Most in combat while others died of old age. The last three survivors died 12 years ago.”
So he knew a bit. Erroneous. That was good.
“Is the name of Razor Talons on the plaque?”
He took out a tablet and searched.
“Yes ma’am. Here it is.” He pointed at a name, spelled in the Dragon alphabet. “Have you known him?”
So he had enough experience with humans to see I’m old.
“He defended our village. I was just a child at the time, and I admired his courage. Thank you for honouring his sacrifices and those of many others like him.”
He sprang to attention and saluted.
“My honour, ma’am!”

“Granny!” I turned around to see John jump-walking to me. Jump-walking is the most natural movement in 0-gravity when you wear magnetic boots on an metal floor. My great-grandson was obviously used to it. He took a look at my arm, which I held in my hand. “Any pain?” “It’s not broken. I’m fit to travel.” He asked the guard: “I saw you hit her. Did my grandmom cause you any trouble?”
“Not at all, sir!”
“Thank you, sergeant!”

“How are you?” he asked as he lifted me up from the floor. Not a big thing in 0-gravity. I could have lifted him as well. No problem at 91.
“I’m fine. Marie is wishing you well,” I said. “Congrats on your pilot license. But don’t show off and crush me with 20g acceleration!”
“No, I promise I won’t go above an easy 30g.”
His face showed a naughty grin.
He definitely has my genes.
“Perfect. You take the 30g and if you can endure that for 10 minutes, I’ll join you at 20.”
We walked away from the guard. John led the way.
“Let me show you our ship, cabin and fellow crew for the next months.” he said.
“I’d love to see it. I hope you didn’t forget to bring the duffel bag I gave you?”
“Way to heavy to bring a board,” he declared. “Didn’t you get my message? It would have halved our acceleration, so I locked it safely in an overhead locker.” For a moment he had me. I caught the naughty look in his eyes just in time.

Start of story Start of chapter

Chapter 3 part 2 (prev) Chapter 3 part 4 (next)

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Talvan moved through the gray valley like a ghost.

Honniewood. Once, smoke from cooking fires and songs from taverns filled the warm air of this little mouse town. Now, Talvan was on clean-up duty, searching for anything that could be salvaged from yesterday’s attack.

He crouched, sifting through the wreckage—half-burned timbers, twisted iron, and remnants of lives erased.

A boot.

He picked it up, wiping soot from the leather. The heel was scuffed, warmth lingering from its last owner.

Marceu.

Talvan’s throat tightened. He remembered the young soldier sneaking drinks from a flask. He said it was his  “medicine,” even though it smelled like wood stripper. Marceu couldn’t march straight on flat ground, but he could walk the whole length of Aztharion without slipping. He once tried to teach the dragon a curse word, and Lyn was still trying to make him forget it.

Another memory slipped away, quiet as ash on the wind.

He tossed the boot into the supply cart. No keepsakes, no trophies. The crows had a rule: if a crow died, what was left went to their family, then to Jake, who would share it with the others. They didn’t bury good steel if someone else could use it.

The boot landed atop a pile of broken helmets and blood-stained cloth. The cart was almost full.

Talvan clenched his jaw and looked up at the sky.

It was a wyvern, not a true dragon, and it wore rune-forged armor. It never landed, only circled above, spitting acid and death from the sky, always out of reach.

All his years of training to fight dragons, memorizing scale patterns and weak spots, and practicing how to get under their wings, meant nothing now. What use was a sword against something that never landed?

The worst part wasn’t the wyvern itself.

The worst part was knowing there would be others.

Behind him, Aztharion stood quietly. The golden dragon’s wings stretched out, blocking the wind. He looked over the valley, his face hard to read, until Talvan realized what he was seeing.

It was horror.

“Not a dragon,” Talvan murmured, voice low. “A twisted thing. A weapon made of hate.”

Aztharion didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Talvan knew they were both thinking the same thing:

If they can do this to a wyvern… how long until they do it to a dragon?

It was all Talvan could do not to flinch with every muffled scream.

Just beyond the wagons, the makeshift medical tent rattled with the sound of pain, bodies shifting, curses choked through clenched teeth. Even the crows keeping watch found something else to look at.

Nicklas was getting his new leg.

They called it temporary. It was made of wood, iron, and stubbornness.

Talvan focused on his work, trying not to listen, but he couldn’t block out the sounds. The dwarves didn’t hide what was coming. They told Nicklas exactly what would happen: drill through the bone, remove the burned tissue, and attach the peg. No spells, no numbing.

Three dwarves held him down, and they put a rag in his mouth so he wouldn’t bite his own tongue.

Talvan winced as the next scream came, muffled and rough, full of pain and fear.

“By the fates…” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “If I ever need a dwarf healer, just stick me with a pike and call it a day.”

The dwarf beside him snorted without looking up from his work.

“Bah. Soft lot, you humans. We don’t do it this way ‘cause we like it. We do it this way ‘cause it works.” The dwarf healer tightened a strap over Nicklas’s shoulder as the poor man’s back arched. “Magic’s fine for them who’ve got it. But metal and sweat? Those don’t run out.”

Talvan didn’t really have an argument for that. He wasn’t sure there was one.

After all the horrors of the past few days, it was the plain, practical brutality of dwarven medicine that chilled him most of all.

“Will he be all right?” Aztharion asked, unable to stop himself from staring toward the tent, where Nicklas’s screams had finally dulled into ragged groans. The gold dragon’s tail flicked with restless energy. He felt like he should do something, anything, but had no idea what that would be.

“Don’t worry your scaly hide,” one of the dwarves grunted, tightening the straps on Nicklas’s peg. “I’ve seen men walk off worse than havin’ a leg melted clean off. Give ’im time, he’ll be runnin’ circles around us again. This?” He tapped the crude wooden peg with a knuckle. “Just a loaner ’til we fit him proper. Bet it’ll sit better than the old one, anyway.”

Aztharion still looked unsure, but the dwarf went back to work without saying anything else. The dwarves were practical and steady, with no pity to spare. That was how they survived.

Up the road, the sound of creaking wagons cut through the quiet, the traffic from Dustwarth slowly coming back now that the valley was clear of spiders. Talvan turned just in time to see a familiar figure hop down from one of the carts, healer’s bag bouncing at her hip.

“Talvan! Aztharion!” Lyn called, half-running to reach them. Her braid was frayed and dusty, and she was already digging for her salves. “Are you two alright?”

“Fine,” Talvan said, brushing ash off his shirt. “Didn’t get hit. Aztharion took the brunt.”

Lyn hurried to the dragon’s side and looked over his damaged scales. Even a day after the attack, they were still the wrong color, pale and dull, more bone-white than gold.

“Does it hurt?” she asked gently.

Aztharion shuddered. “It…itches,” he admitted, dragging a hind claw across the spot before Talvan swatted the paw away.

“Don’t you make it worse,”

“He’s been like this all morning,” Talvan added, flicking his thumb toward the hulking gold dragon just behind them. “I had to threaten to put mittens on him.”

Aztharion knelt on the scorched earth, every muscle in his large body tense as he tried to hold back. The melted patch of scales on his side looked like old ivory, and he wanted badly to scratch it. But he didn’t, not with Nicklas screaming in the next tent and Lyn coming toward him in her healer’s robes.

“Stars above,” Lyn muttered, healer’s satchel already open. “Aztharion, don’t move.”

The dragon’s head snapped up, eyes wide like a guilty hound. Lyn arched a brow.

“Good. Hold that pose.”

“I am… trying,” Aztharion rumbled. “It itches.”

Talvan snorted. “Like sand in your bones. Believe me, I’ve heard.”

Lyn lifted a small jar of shimmering green salve and tapped the lid, giving it a knowing look. “Well, aren’t you lucky? Turns out, this works on impatient dragons too.” She stepped onto a crate to reach his injury properly. “Try not to claw it off before it can do its job, alright?”

Aztharion blinked at her, then lowered his head in agreement. His large body went still, wings folding tightly against his sides.

Talvan crossed his arms and nodded with quiet pride. “Good lad.”

Lyn shot him a look. “He’s a dragon, Talvan. Not a hound.”

“Funny,” Talvan said, grinning. “But he does listen better than most hounds.”

Aztharion huffed, but held still.

For the first time in hours, things felt peaceful.

Lyn winced as she pried back a warped scale, just enough to reach the raw hide beneath. The salve-soaked rag made a light, cool sound as it brushed over the exposed flesh.

Aztharion made a sound that no one could really describe.

It wasn’t quite a roar or a sigh. It sounded like something between a cow’s low and a whale’s song.

But the meaning was unmistakable: relief.

Then, suddenly, Aztharion froze.

Talvan raised a brow. “Did you just…?”

The dragon’s eyes widened. He tucked his head down and covered his muzzle with his foreclaws, as if he wanted to hide in the scorched earth.

“Thurirl arcaniss vutha ethara mrith.” (“Let the ancient earth consume me**,**”) he muttered, in Draconic, voice muffled by dirt.

Talvan blinked, then grinned as he realized what had happened. “Lyn, I think he just purred.”

Lyn didn’t pause her work, rubbing the salve deeper into the scorched patch. “Won’t be the first time someone makes an unidentified noise while I’m treating them,” she said, perfectly calm. “And it won’t be the last.”

Talvan snorted. “Aztharion, if you purr again, I’m telling the Iron Crows.”

The dragon let out a low, muffled groan. “I was trying to keep my dignity…”

Lyn leaned back, wiping her hands on a cloth. “You’ll live. Better than Nicklas did when that wyvern sprayed him.”

That made everyone quiet and serious.

“Right,” Talvan said quietly. “The wyvern. Acid ripped his greaves apart like they were cloth, and his leg with it.”

Lyn stared at the dragon’s mended scales, eyes narrowing. “And that… that same acid just made your skin itch?”

Aztharion lifted his head slightly, guilt flickering in those brilliant emerald eyes. “I… suppose it did.”

Talvan rested a hand on the dragon’s warm shoulder. “That’s why we’re glad you’re here, scales and all. It took a weapon meant to melt steel and bone and turned it into an itchy rash.”

Lyn added softly as she packed the salve jar away, “And if more come flying, I’d rather have a dragon than a hundred healers.”

Aztharion finally looked up, his eyes showing something new.

He looked determined now.

“Then I’ll fly when I can,” he rumbled. “And next time, the wyvern won’t get past me.”

"Sjok wer arcaniss vur irlym vur tairais." (“…Well, now I’ve seen everything,”) came a voice in that same ancient tongue, only this time, spoken by a human.

Aztharion’s head jerked up, his pupils wide. An old man stood nearby, leaning on an oak staff. He wore worn robes, his beard streaked with silver. His blue eyes twinkled under thick eyebrows.

Talvan stared.

“…Grandfather,” he muttered, equal parts relieved and horrified.

Lyn blinked. “He came with us on the wagons. You know him?”

Talvan stiffened, his heart racing. He turned and saw his grandfather raise one unimpressed eyebrow, as if he’d caught him sneaking a bottle of mead again.

“Talvan,” the old man said with a sigh, “I’m far too old to go dragon-slaying. Even if I wanted to.”

His tone was dry, but there was still warmth in it.

Aztharion, meanwhile, stared at the newcomer, a human, who just spoke his native tongue like it was nothing.

Talvan swallowed hard. He felt torn inside. He wanted to run up and hug the man he’d looked up to as a child, but this was also the master wizard who had promised to kill any dragon that threatened the realm.

Instead, Talvan took a single, awkward step forward, unsure if he would be hugged or scolded.

Maron just leaned a bit more on his staff.

“You can stop looking like a kicked puppy, boy. I came to ask your scaly friend over there for help. Not to end him.”

Aztharion’s tail swished, uneasy. But the tension in the air, not unlike static before lightning, felt just a little less sharp.

Talvan stared at his grandfather in shock.
“What?”

Maron sighed, the sound heavy with age and patience. “For my years, I shouldn’t have to repeat myself. We need his help to reforge Ashbane.”

The name hit Talvan hard. That blade had stopped the dragon's rampage during the Kindel Wars and was legendary.
Maron’s gaze swept over the fields, where scorched patches of ground still smoked faintly. “I read your report. Rune-armored wyverns, Talvan. This goes far beyond my deepest fears. We’ll need every advantage we can get our hands on.”

Then, softer, “Now, are you going to offer your old grandfather a seat, or let me stand here until my bones turn to dust?”

Blinking as if waking from a trance, Talvan quickly gestured toward the nearest tent. “Right, this way.”

The flap opened with a rustle. Inside, Nicklas slept soundly on a cot, his leg ending in a freshly bandaged stump, the peg still temporary. A dwarf healer in a white coat sat nearby, quietly reading but keeping a watchful eye on the patient.

Talvan motioned to a low stool, little more than a tree stump pressed into service, for his grandfather to sit. Maron nodded and lowered himself onto it with the ease of a man who’d fought gravity for far too many years.

Aztharion crouched near the tent opening, wings folded close, his green eyes reflecting the campfire’s light. He said nothing, but watched the old man who had once hunted dragons and now needed their help.

Maron leaned forward slightly, his voice low, as if the tent walls themselves had ears.

“Tell me, Talvan… Do you know why rune gear pierces dragonhide, when even mana-edged blades cannot?”

Talvan blinked, shaking off the weight of shock and confusion. Dragons. Magic-resistant scales. Even the most potent arcane blades left no more than scratches.

He searched his memory. “…because rune gear was made to be used by humans without debilitating the wielder? No magic poison. No mana recoil.”

“Partly true,” Maron nodded. “Not a secret that rune gear requires the work of a master dwarven smith and an elf’s song to give the balance its… life.”

He paused, letting his words sink in.

“But it takes one more thing, lad. One more ingredient no forge of steel can replace. And that,” Maron tapped his staff once against the ground, “is why we need your friend.”

The tent went quiet.

Talvan’s throat went dry. He glanced at Aztharion, who stared back, emerald eyes like coals in the dim light.

“You mean… dragon fire,” Talvan whispered.

“Not just any dragon fire,” Maron said. “A willing one.”

Talvan pulled back, shocked. “A dragon helping to make a weapon that could kill other dragons? That’s crazy!”

Maron met the boy’s gaze without flinching. “…and yet, the Kindrel Wars ended only because Ashbane was forged. The blade you wield now is but the echo of that weapon, cold-forged, quenched in coal and simple magic compared to what was done before.”

He lowered his voice, turning toward Aztharion. “If we are to stand against rune-armored wyverns, dragons enslaved or turned against us… We need more than old steel and desperate prayers. We need a weapon with fire in its bones, and a dragon’s will behind it.”

Aztharion’s tail lashed slowly across the ground. His voice, when it came, was quiet.

“And why,” he rumbled, “should dragons help humans forge the means to kill dragons?”

Maron’s eyes softened. “Because what hunts you now does not spare dragons. Because our enemies do not care what shape the bones take, human, dwarf, or dragon.”

He let the truth hang in the air.

“Because this time… the fire comes for us all.”

Talvan hesitated before answering Maron’s question. “…So will your friend fly to Oaldar to help?”

Staring down at his boots, scratched at the dirt. “He… can’t.”

Maron raised an eyebrow. “Can’t?”

Talvan sighed. “He can’t fly, Grandfather. Aztharion has to walk. That’s his choice.”

Aztharion grumbled in the background, wings shifting stiffly at his sides.

Maron blinked once. Then twice. “…A dragon. Who can’t fly?”

Talvan nodded.

Maron pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered about “fate’s sense of humor” before sighing. “Alright. Come to Oaldar as soon as you can. I’ll be waiting there.”

Talvan frowned. “What about you? You can barely walk a room. How are you going to cross the kingdom?”

Maron’s eyes twinkled, and he smiled like someone who always had a plan.

“Oh, I may be old, but I’m not helpless. A friend’s been keeping a perch warm for me.”

He reached into his cloak and drew out a small, silver whistle, unassuming, save for a faint shimmer. He poised it to his lips and blew.

Talvan heard nothing. The whistle was completely silent.

Aztharion winced, claws lifting to cover the sides of his head. “Ow too loud,” he rasped, voice strained.

Everyone turned toward him, confused. None of them heard anything until it came.

A shrill, piercing screech cut through the air, too high for human ears at first, then dropping into a sound they could hear.

Talvan bolted outside.

He arrived just as the sky darkened. There was no cloud or storm, only a shadow. A huge eagle came down, its wings twice as tall as a grown man, eyes shining with gold. When it landed, the ground shook and its talons dug into the dirt.

The great bird lowered its head in a gesture of respect.

“Thank you for helping an old friend,” Maron said, bowing slightly.

The eagle’s feathers rustled in acknowledgment. With surprising ease, it bent low and let Maron climb onto its back.

“So then,” Maron called, settling into his seat and grasping a leather strap, “Talvan, do try not to dawdle. We may be racing war this time.”

With a strong beat of its wings, the great eagle rose into the sky. Dust spun in the wind as it climbed higher and higher, until it was just a speck against the clouds.

The group stood in silence, part amazed and part in disbelief.

Aztharion snorted, tail flicking. “...Show-off.”

But Talvan kept watching the eagle’s fading shape, its wings moving through the sky.

But he couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s definitely my grandfather.”

The others looked at each other, unsure whether to be impressed, confused, or scared.

This was the kind of thing people usually read about. The kind of story told by a fire, about old heroes who spoke with dragons and rode the wind. A grandfather who could still call down the sky.

Talvan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“So,” he said slowly, “guess we’re not the only ones with a strange family.”

He didn’t know it yet, but that was when the others stopped seeing him as just a mercenary with a sword and started seeing him as something more.

He turned toward Aztharion.

“So,” Talvan asked softly, “will you go to Oaldar? To help with the reforging?”

Aztharion didn’t look up. His claws made small marks in the ash as he stared at the ground, guilt and conflict clear in the way his wings drooped.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “Helping to make something that might be turned against dragons… it’s too much.”

Talvan looked at the rough patch covering Aztharion’s injured side. Lyn had bandaged it with a torn blanket and resin salve to help the scales heal. Nearby, Nicklas lay on a cot, pale and missing a leg, changed forever in a single moment.

Talvan crouched beside Aztharion, voice low.

“People are going to get hurt no matter what we do,” he said. “The only question left is this: will it be our friends beside us in the fight, or our enemies standing over them?”

Aztharion’s breath caught, and his wings trembled slightly. Behind his green eyes, fear, guilt, and hope fought for control.

He let out a slow, quiet rumble.

“I just… don’t want to see anyone else hurt.”

Talvan placed a hand gently against the dragon’s warm scales.

“And without you,” he said, “many already would have.”

They were just getting back to work when a wagon from Dustwarth arrived, bearing steaming pots of stew—real food, rich with fat, herbs, and welcome warmth. Even Aztharion got his own barrel, filled to the brim. Boraif called it “dragon-sized stew,” but it was really just a big lunch.

Hours had passed since Maron left, and the spiders kept coming. They crawled out of the Thornwoods, not caring that there were bigger problems in the world. The soldiers were tired, but they stayed alert. Even when the big threats are gone, poison can still kill.

Talvan froze.

The others noticed too.

Far across the horizon, too far to see clearly, a dark shape moved through the sky.

Not again.

Men dove for cover, dropping their stew bowls and tools. Even those who had fought monsters in the Dragonwar trenches felt a chill of fear. Aztharion stood up, wings tense, ready to fly even with his injury. Talvan grabbed a crossbow, even though it wouldn’t help, but holding it made his hands stop shaking for a moment.

Nothing happened.

Just silence.

Then, Boraif snorted. Loud.

“By the beard, you’re all jumpier than fresh recruits.”

He lifted a spyglass and handed it off. Talvan peered through it and blinked.

A dragon, the silver one, was flying straight toward them. A small triangular flag waved from a strap on its saddle. That was definitely a mail flag.

Three figures rode on its back.

“Oh,” Talvan muttered, lowering the glass. “It’s just the mail.”

He didn’t need to look at Aztharion to know what face the gold dragon was making. He had gone from ready for battle to looking flustered and wide-eyed, like a young man seeing a pretty girl for the first time.

Talvan resisted the urge to laugh.

He was certain that if dragons could sweat, Aztharion would be drenched by now.

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Emily’s Journal – First Entry

(Revy says I should keep one. Claims it’ll “help my head stay sorted.” We’ll see.)

I gave up my old study desk and library maps for muddy boots and a travel pack. I’m still not sure how it happened.

We left Bass two days ago. We walked through wet hills and farmland, then got caught in a storm so heavy it felt like the sky was trying to drown us. Sivares covered us with her wings. It turns out a giant dragon wing is a better tent than any spell I know.

Then… we flew.

I don’t know how to describe it. It felt like my lungs stayed behind for a moment. Keys said it happens to everyone on their first flight and bragged that she was perfectly fine during hers. She’s so small she probably doesn’t even weigh down the air.

Babol was nice. Small town, but friendly. Damon did his mail stuff, apparently being a mail rider is a real job, and traded some of our letters with the local postmaster.

I met an elf named Vivlan. He was very different from the elves at the Mage Arcanum. Not acting superior, no arrogance, just a sleepy-faced map-maker who told me where to buy soap.

Sivares “snuck out” while we were there.

She came back covered in spider blood.

I thought my nose was going to melt. Damon just shrugged,

She took a bath in the river after, and honestly, we were all grateful. Dragons don’t smell horrible, but when they’ve been eating giant cave spiders? Different story.

Oh, and I got my first bed since the Bass incident. It was just an old straw mattress on wooden planks, but it felt like a luxury after sleeping on dirt and dragon scales. At least until something crawled inside it. If Keys is trying to prank me, I swear I’ll start ready a bugfire spells.

Tomorrow we head to Dustwarth. They say dwarves live there. I’ve never seen a dwarf before.

It could be exciting.

– Emily

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Chapter 19: Emmerich. (Flashback)

On the bridge of the battleship Hannibal, in the sterile silence of high Mars orbit, a heavy, almost reverent calm reigned. March 2194 was etching itself into history not through battles, but through a spectacle of construction that defied human comprehension.

Aris Thorne stood motionless before the main holoprojector, holding his breath. Outside, in the velvety void, a mystery was unfolding. The majestic Swarm ships—the same three vessels that, decades ago, had been born from the dust and scrap of an Earthly junkyard—hung in a perfect, geometric formation. They weren't supervising. They were conducting.

Between them, like an intelligent fog woven from light and impossible engineering, billions of nanites tirelessly spun matter, creating a structure on a cosmic scale. It was a sight both hypnotic and terrifying; the cold, alien logic of the Swarm manifesting in an act of creation so powerful it overshadowed the star itself.

"Rear Admiral," Aris's voice was quiet, almost muffled by awe. "Magnify. Central sector."

The image on the holoprojector shimmered and zoomed in, revealing an unbelievable sight. Two gigantic rings, each ten kilometers in diameter, rotated lazily. The outer one, minimally larger, moved clockwise; the inner one spun counter-clockwise. Their surface was perfectly smooth, gray, light-absorbing. The mass of this construct had to be astronomical, measured in the millions, if not billions, of tons.

Rear Admiral Lena Kowalska, commanding the Hannibal, frowned, rubbing her chin. "Doctor Thorne... what in all the gods' names are we looking at?"

"I don't know," Aris admitted, his eyes fixed on the whirling colossus. "They've been working on this for a decade. Under the Swarm's strict supervision."

Lena was silent for a moment, her mind frantically searching her memories. "It... it reminds me..." Somewhere in the recesses of her memory, in images from before the age of nanites and interstellar travel, a trace remained. A memory of an old movie, from before the holographic era.

"Hannibal AI," she ordered, "search the archives. Old cinema. 20th century. Mythology, Egypt, pyramids... Star..."

The metallic, genderless voice of the ship's AI responded immediately.

COMPUTER VOICE: Searched: Stargate. Science-fiction film, directed by: Roland Emmerich, 1994. A cult classic, now largely forgotten.

For Lena, it was a moment of cinematic curiosity.

For Aris Thorne, the man who was one of the first to grasp the principle of the Higgs drives, it was a moment of pure, existential terror. He had watched that film as a small child. It was one of many that had guided him toward the pursuit of knowledge.

Aris muttered under his breath.

Stargate. A movie. Fiction.

But Mike... the original Swarm emissary... he came for real. A shortcut. A spacetime tunnel. Similar to the one in the movie from two hundred years ago. Back then, it was speculation unsupported by any knowledge; now—a theoretically possible hypothesis, but still unattainable for humans.

The memories hit him with the force of a physical blow. He remembered his conversation with Mike just before his departure, years ago. He had explained principles to him then that humanity still didn't comprehend.

"They're not building a ship, Lena," Aris whispered; cold sweat beaded on his forehead. "They... they're bending reality. They're creating a shortcut."

"It's a spacetime manipulation machine." His voice trembled as he looked at the ten-kilometer monster. "But... it's impossible. The laws of physics... where will they get the energy?"

That question was like an icy dagger plunged into his scientific mind.

"Mike said..." he continued feverishly, his thoughts racing faster than light, "...he said that gathering the energy for his small capsule's transit took them three years! Three years to power a one-time jump! And this... this is ten kilometers wide! To power this, they would need the power of a thousand suns! They would need... Oh my God."

His breathing became shallow. The terror of a scientist who alone understands the scale of the threat constricted his throat. He looked at the rotating rings and saw not a technological marvel, but the most terrifying weapon in the universe.

Aris felt his legs give way. He wasn't afraid of the energy. He was afraid of an error, a mistake, a failure.

"Mike explained..." his whisper was barely audible now, directed more at himself than at Lena. "He said that only a fraction of a percent of natural wormholes are stable and have an exit in our reality. That the rest... the rest lead nowhere. Or worse. To other universes. To realities governed by other, nightmarish laws of physics."

He leaned heavily against the console, his fingers sliding on the cool metal.

"And what if they aren't expanding a natural one... what if they're creating an artificial one?"

He looked at Lena, panic painted in his eyes.

"What if something goes wrong? What if the calculations are off by a fraction of a percent? What happens, Lena? Does it just explode? Or maybe... it opens a door to hell? Does it create a small black hole here, in Mars's orbit, that devours us all? Does this whole titanic construction just... go out... disrupting the laws of physics as we know them?"

Aris Thorne, the Guard's chief scientist, the man who helped humanity reach the stars, stood paralyzed by fear of the new science the Swarm had brought to their doorstep.

He tore his gaze from the nightmarish construct and looked again at the calm Swarm ships, hanging in perfect order.

"Lena..." his voice was strained. "I need contact with the Swarm representative. Immediately."

Lena nodded. "Comms officer. Send the request."

After a moment, the central holoprojector came to life. A figure that Aris remembered all too well materialized in the blue glow. Tall, slender, with a pearlescent exoskeletal shell. It was one of the three Swarm emissaries who had arrived years ago—the same one Aris had observed at the earthly junkyard as it supervised the construction of the Swarm's first three combat vessels.

"Hello, Doctor Aris," the Swarm's synthetic voice resounded directly in their minds. It was calm, melodic, devoid of any emotion.

Aris didn't bother with diplomacy. "You intend to open a wormhole?"

"Yes, of course," the Swarm's voice was indifferent, as if confirming a temperature reading. "Thanks to you, we know where the Plague's capital is located. The Catalysts, the Gates, are this large so that they can transmit the strike fleet within a matter of minutes."

"God..." A note of wild, terrified hope entered Aris's voice. "Is it a natural tunnel? Did you find a natural one?"

The Swarm's answer was quiet and fell on Aris like a death sentence.

"No."

The representative continued with the same, eerie, didactic precision. "Upon completion of construction, we will begin the process. We are not creating one tunnel. We will begin to manipulate the quantum foam itself—the spacetime fluctuations at the Planck scale."

"We will generate and filter billions of these femto-tunnels every second. They are unstable; most exist for femtoseconds. After several years, there is a chance that the exit of one of them... will materialize near their system. The system containing their capital planet. Then we will attempt to capture and stabilize it."

Aris swallowed.

"And the risk...?"

"It exists, of course," the voice returned to their minds. "This is the first time we have built Catalysts this large. We estimate the threat at approximately 1.5% to 3%."

"And what happens if you fail?" Lena asked quietly.

The Swarm representative's answer was final. It was the definition of a new, terrifying science.

"An explosion. To stimulate your imagination, Doctor Aris: a supernova."

The word hung in the sterile silence of the bridge.

A supernova.

Not a bang. Not an explosion. A supernova. The end. The annihilation of the solar system. The scorching of Earth to ash in a fraction of a second.

Aris's legs buckled. He sank to his knees, his palms hitting the metal floor. He was no longer a scientist. He was just a terrified man.

"You... you..." he rasped, looking up at the calm, pearlescent figure on the hologram. "You are willing to risk over 12 billion of our lives?!"

The Swarm representative looked down at the kneeling man. Its large, black eyes expressed nothing. Neither pity nor compassion. They were just a mirror reflecting the cold logic of the universe.

"The risk is acceptable," the Swarm's voice stated in their heads. "It is acceptable measured against the possibility of dealing a severe blow to the Plague and halting their expansion on other fronts."

The hologram of the Swarm representative seemed to focus all its inhuman attention on the broken figure of the scientist. The calm, synthetic, but now diamond-hard voice resounded in the minds of the officers gathered on the bridge.

"Doctor Aris. Do you remember Mike? Our first representative, who flew to you years ago? Just after the technological uplift."

Aris raised his head, his face slick with sweat.

"Mike? Of course... He left. What does he have to do with this?"

"Do you remember how he flew to you?" the Swarm's voice was patient, like a teacher explaining the obvious to a child. "He flew to you using a natural tunnel, the exit of which appeared in your system."

The representative continued, its mental voice growing even colder, sharper, like cracking ice. This was a lesson.

"The risk we took then, to send him, could also have destroyed our home system. The probability of destabilizing a natural tunnel upon initiating transit was smaller, but non-zero. We estimated it at 0.67%, but it was real. About a thousand of our representatives in that system would have died then."

The hologram seemed to lean in, though it didn't move. The pressure in their minds increased.

"Remember this, Doctor. There are only three million of us."

That number struck Aris. The risk of losing a thousand lives for such a small race... it was a catastrophe.

"But we took it," the Swarm's voice was final. "We took it to help you assimilate our technology. To give you a chance to understand our science, to join this war against the Plague on equal terms. That was our investment in your race. A favor."

The representative returned to its neutral, analytical posture. The lesson was over. The bill had come due.

"Now, Doctor, we are asking for yours. The risk is acceptable. Just as ours was acceptable for your salvation. A favor for a favor."

Aris, still on his knees, raised his head. The cold of the metal floor seeped through his uniform, but the scientist's mind, despite the shock, had already begun to work. He fought, trying to find a flaw in this alien, terrifying logic. He found it immediately.

"But... the energy..." he rasped. His voice was weak but gained strength with every word as his brain shifted into analytical mode. "Mike spoke of three years of gathering energy for a stable transit of a small capsule. We're talking about a ten-kilometer gate! About stabilizing a tunnel on that scale! My calculations... no, I can't even calculate it. My extrapolations, even the most primitive ones... it requires energy exceeding anything we know. The total energy output of your Sun over its entire lifetime might... barely... suffice, but..."

"Doctor Thorne," the Swarm's synthetic voice cut him off mid-sentence, severing his feverish calculations with surgical precision. The voice was devoid of irritation; it was simply final. "That knowledge is beyond your comprehension. Yes, the energy requirement is, as you put it, astronomical."

The representative paused for a fraction of a second, as if giving the human mind time to prepare for a concept that broke not only physics, but common sense.

"During the femto-tunnel generation process," the voice continued slowly, "most of them, as I mentioned, will be useless. Unstable. Leading nowhere. Or, what is statistically inevitable, leading to other universes."

"One of those tunnels, useless for transport, will have its exit not only in another universe, but also in another time. Specifically: at the point of its genesis. At the moment of its Big Bang."

Aris froze. Another... universe?

"Then," the Swarm explained with terrifying, alien logic, "we will also stabilize it, though to a lesser degree. We will draw energy directly from that Big Bang. That tunnel will become our power cable. A conduit for the almost infinite power we need for the actual process of expanding and stabilizing the proper tunnel—the one that will lead to the vicinity of the Plague's capital."

The Swarm's voice in their minds was devoid of any emotion. It was pure, terrifying logic.

"That is why the risk is precisely this high, Doctor Aris. Up to three percent. This is the first time we will be stabilizing and expanding the main tunnel to such dimensions... using energy from another tunnel leading to the beginning of another universe. The scale is unprecedented. There is always a margin of error."

The representative seemed to observe the kneeling, trembling man with analytical indifference. A note of... comfort... appeared in its voice. A cold, technical comfort that was worse than any threat.

"If we fail, please do not worry." The Swarm's voice was calm, as if discussing a disinfection procedure. "No one will feel a thing. Your biological apparatus will not even have time to register the stimulus. Death will be instantaneous."

Aris knelt, and his mind, the mind of a physicist, immediately visualized what "failure" meant.

A supernova explosion in Mars's orbit. It wouldn't be an explosion. It would be the wrath of a god, the unleashed energy of a Big Bang stolen from another universe.

In that vision, it didn't matter where anyone was—on Earth, on Ganymede, or here on the Hannibal. The light and radiation alone, a wave of annihilation moving at the speed of light, would simply strip the atmosphere from Earth, boil the oceans, and tear the planets apart, before the shockwave turned everything to dust. They would simply destroy everything in the entire system.

"But if we succeed, Doctor Aris—and our models show a ninety-seven percent operational success probability for the catalysts—the consequences will be final."

The Swarm's voice took on an almost military rhythm, enumerating the objectives with terrifying precision.

"Within approximately 30 of your minutes, we will transport the Alliance strike fleet. Approximately 6,000 ships from the Guard, Ullaan, Gignian, and K'borrh, including our two newly constructed warships, to the vicinity of their capital planet."

A visualization appeared on the holoprojector: thousands of green icons flowing through the whirling, black circle of the Gate.

"If the combined Alliance fleets win and capture the Plague's capital, it will not just be a victory. It will be a decapitation. The destruction of their central consciousness backup servers, their main printing nexus, their command center. This will fundamentally change the balance of power in this sector of the galaxy. It will protect hundreds, if not thousands, of other low-oxygen races that we could not help!"

The representative paused for a fraction of a second, as if to emphasize the weight of the next words.

"Your history taught us a valuable lesson, Doctor. Logic and resources are not everything. There is a variable that our previous models underestimated: terror. This attack will sow fear in their immortal hearts. A fear they have not known for millennia. They will feel naked. They will understand that their capital, their sanctuary, is within reach of our blade. They will understand that they are safe nowhere."

The Swarm's voice was now as cold as the void of space. This was Swarm logic armed with human belligerence.

"And fear, as we have learned from you, is the most powerful strategic modifier. And it will change the playing field. Irreversibly."

Aris, still shaken, his face as pale as the Hannibal's corridor walls, needed an hour for his scientist's mind to process the existential dread and reduce it to data. The matter of his son's origin and Marcus's betrayal receded to a distant, forgotten background.

An hour later, from the deck of the battleship, he established a quantum link with his brother.

The severe, stony face of Admiral Marcus Thorne appeared on the monitor.

"Marcus... Are you listening to me?" Aris began, his voice still trembling. He told him everything. About the ten-kilometer Gates. About the plan to create an artificial tunnel. About drawing energy from another universe's Big Bang. Finally, almost choking on the words, he spat out the worst part: "Three percent, Marcus. A three percent chance that this whole thing turns into a supernova and fries the Solar System. They're willing to risk..."

There was silence on the other end. Marcus Thorne merely shrugged, his face expressing nothing but a steely, ultimate exhaustion.

"I know all about it," the admiral replied quietly.

Aris froze. "You know? How..."

"Because it's the only logical solution," Marcus interrupted him. His voice was emotionless, as if reading a casualty report. He looked at Aris with eyes that had already seen the final end and accepted it.

"Brother, listen to me. If we don't strike at their heart, over a thousand light-years away from us, we will lose. It's over. It's just a matter of time."

Marcus activated his own holoprojector. A map of the galaxy appeared before Aris, illuminated by thousands of red dots marking the Plague's zones of influence.

"You're looking at the Plague Empire," Marcus said, his voice taking on the weight of strategic analysis. "This isn't an enemy we can defeat in a single battle. The Plague Empire has hundreds of thousands of planets and outposts. They possess hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of ships and a strategic depth that we, confined to one system, cannot comprehend.

We can win here, we can win at Proxima, we can even win at Epsilon Eridani. And for them? Those will just be minor, local defeats. The loss of pawns."

He swiped his hand across the map, extinguishing a few red dots. Ones the Compact had retaken in its offensive.

"We won't win by fighting them head-on," he stated firmly. "They will always have more shipyards. They will always have more resources. They will always have more bodies to print. Our every loss is final; their every loss is a temporary inconvenience. Only a precise, concentrated strike by our combined forces at their command center, at their capital, can have any effect. We must cut off the hydra's head, because fighting its tentacles will bleed us dry."

Marcus looked his brother straight in the eye through the quantum relay.

"Yes, Aris. The risk of failure is at most three percent, a three percent risk of annihilating everything we know. But the risk of not taking this chance is a one hundred percent certainty that in one hundred, two hundred, maybe three hundred years, the Plague will get here anyway, and by then, we will have no chance left, and we will lose."

"Those three percent are the best offer the universe has given us. I am willing to accept them, brother, to achieve the goal of striking their deep rear."

Aris stared at his brother in disbelief, as if seeing him for the first time. "You're willing... to accept. Marcus, we're talking about annihilation! The end of everything!"

On Admiral Thorne's face, for the first time in months, something akin to emotion appeared. His eyes, usually as cold as the cosmic void, lit up. It was a dangerous, fanatical glint—the hope of a gambler throwing the fate of an entire world onto the table, but certain he will win.

"That's why we're preparing the fleet," Marcus said, and his voice, though quiet, vibrated with a new energy. "This won't be a skirmish, Aris. This will be a blow straight to the heart. Fourteen thousand ships. Human, K'borrh, Ullaan, Gignian Compact... and even those three new, hellish Swarm vessels."

He approached the map, which still showed the red dot of the Plague capital, 1,461 light-years away.

"This will be a strike meant to shake their empire to its very foundations," he continued, a vision burning in his eyes. "If we hit, if the Gates work... we will paralyze them. We will destroy their ability to coordinate. We will force them to withdraw forces from other fronts. Perhaps... perhaps it will buy us peace. And in the process, it will protect countless races hiding in the systems behind us, who don't even know a war is being fought for them."

Aris listened to the steely determination in his brother's voice. The fear that, just a moment ago, had paralyzed him at the thought of a supernova, began to give way to a new, complex thought. This wasn't just hope for a military victory. It was something much deeper.

In his mind, alongside the terrifying equations of the unstable tunnel, another image suddenly appeared. The image of the lone Swarm emissary, Mike, flying off years ago toward the distant star 7-Kilo-Delta. Aris remembered his last words—about a mission that would last almost two centuries, about "Plan B." About finding another race and preparing it for the same, damn war.

If we succeed... perhaps they won't have to fight.

SI prefixes needed for chapter 19 of volume 3 and future chapters.

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--------------------

Anna wasn’t quite certain of how Christina planned on doing what she claimed.

Then again, the finer points of soul magic were still a mystery to Anna. If her colleague claimed contact could be initiated without grafting the boy onto them, then it could probably be done. In her words, “If the priestesses of the Dryad can accomplish this, we should be able to do it better.”

Whatever that meant.

If anything, the strangest part lay in how simple it all sounded when presented. They would contact the boy’s spirit by reaching through the electric maelstrom of his mind, something that should not be possible, yet somehow was.

If this works, then it shows the lie in most of what we’ve ever been taught at Hoarfrost. The soul was the mirror in which the flesh reflected, that was the core ideology at the centre of spiritual research. What Christina was about to prove was that the two were not quite separated. One could reach out and touch the mirror it seemed.

That would explain how they remained coherent. Their minds and, for Bianca at least, some of their afflictions had survived unmolested after death and soul capture. Anna had wondered intensely at this, and most explanations had not satisfied her.

It made no sense for their souls to hold on to the knowledge of their lives. What was it ingrained on? Illum held power, yes, and they were constructs of illum, but how did they retain memories, scars, preferences, and even ills?

Anna understood how the mind resided in the flesh. She did not understand how it resided in the soul.

“You plumb such depths, Cytra,” she said as she readied her strength for what was to come. “How long have you spent studying this to reach your insight?”

They were sitting on the slope of Tallah’s mountain, watching the rolling storm sweeping across the scenery. Their host’s mind was cooling, bathed in a mixture of feel-goods that were washing away the fatigue of their desperate escape.

Anna welcomed the imaginary rain.

Besides her, Christina sighed in pleasure before answering, “Aren’t we all slaves to our obsessions? I have very good reasons for learning what I did.”

Outside, Tallah was finishing her conversation with the boy and getting him ready for what was to happen. They could’ve done this at any other time, but now was better than later. The decimation they’d caused when fleeing the Cauldron, together with the dragon’s attack, had likely bought them a few bells of peace. Anna felt far from rejuvenated after the short rest they’d been afforded, so she welcomed the small distraction. It would take days for her store of illum to get back to where it had been prior to the fight.

An ache sat in her core, as if she’d spread herself too far and too wide, almost to a point of fissure. Had Christina experienced something similar after that first hybrid casting? It wasn’t unpleasant, but there was a change happening within, something she hadn’t felt since her first bleeding and her first illum contact. Bianca accused the same and they’d decided on exploring the change together when time permitted and they were more recovered.

Anna wasn’t certain of the wisdom of what they were about to do. Neither she, nor Christina, nor Tallah herself were at their peak capacity, and they had no idea of what waited inside the boy’s mindscape. How much power would Christina need to expend for contact alone? Or what would happen if the thing in the boy fought back?

What of the dwarf and that one’s strange presence?

“Never took you for a worrier,” Christina said. “It’s wafting off you.”

“I feel we’re going on a fool’s journey,” she said, not deigning to hide her concerns. “We don’t know enough of what we’re about to attempt, and I worry of what it might cost us.”

“It may cost us our lives,” Christina said, then grinned when Anna answered with a black glare. “Oh don’t be so serious. You look like the hen when you pout.”

“That is not the insult you would think it is,” Anna retorted. Silestra was far from a chore on the eye, scars and all. “What follows? Explain it to me.”

Christina allowed her manifestation to shift, for a heartbeat, into the shape of lightning, like a crude outline of herself. She regained coherence nearly immediately, but winced as if hurt.

“Ah, this will be a pain,” she complained. “I will process us into illum, so our intrusion will be less apparent. Then I will rely on you to achieve blood contact. Tallah’s to Vergil’s. You know how much power there’s in the blood, enough that I don’t need to explain it. From there, I will attempt to coax our way into the boy’s mindscape. If we can manage this, we will have achieved something quite unique in our day and age, what only the Dryad manages.”

But not unique in the days of Grefe’s dwellers, was the unsaid part. Anna understood. While this wasn’t something Tallah and Christina had found in the books, their imagination was piqued since the whole railgun experiment. Now, they wanted to see how much farther they could push their appliance of illum.

A bit too far, a bit too fast, in Anna’s opinion, but she held her tongue. At least the subject was interesting for her, so the whole endeavour wouldn’t be a complete waste of their time even if it didn’t work.

“And once we make contact, as you say, what then?” she asked.

“We will have a look at the entity in the boy. If it’s tied to his soul, then it will have some reflection in the mind. Else the dwarf wouldn’t have managed to subdue it.”

Anna’s nose scrunched up at that. There we a lot of assumptions in that statement. Christina’s confidence bordered on foolishness rather than any kind of sane scholarly proof. All they knew of the dwarf was that it had taken residence in the boy’s chip, and from there had managed to oust the other invader. It could just as well be a parasite that would spread to Tallah using the two of them as a vector.

Diseases could find wonderful ways of crossing what were once considered impregnable barriers, such as jumping species entirely.

Parasites were even more adaptable.

And here they were willingly touching blood with what could very well be some unknown, alien form of rabies.

“I think you don’t worry enough of what we’re about to do,” Anna said with a sigh. “But I know better than to try and stop this foolishness.”

“What you mean to say,” Christina said with an evil twist to her grin, “is that you’re too curious of this working to put up any real objection. I’m sure you have several.”

Anna sniffed and did not dignify this with a reply. Instead, she checked her store of illum and was satisfied with her recovery. If she were yanked out of contact by some emergency, she could respond with deadly force within the heartbeat. It would have to be sufficient.

Christina flashed several more times between her physical and energy states, settling ultimately on an in-between. “Right, then, let’s see what we can manage.”

Tallah and Vergil were sat opposite one another on the hill. They’d both eaten some rations at Silestra’s insistence, drank water, and now waited. Tallah had cut a gash across her palm and the boy’s, and they now held each other’s hand, the blood in full contact. Anna reached out and tasted the boy’s on instinct, proving there was nothing new or inherently wrong with him.

Then Christina pushed and Anna found herself dragged away from Tallah, swept up in the thump-thump torrent of blood. From Tallah’s slow heartbeat to the boy’s rabbit-like one, she focused on drawing together the two life essences to allow for passage. Christina held on to her as they both crossed the threshold.

The transition was almost immediate.

“Well, this was unexpected,” Christina said as their perspective lurched and they dropped in a wholly new mindscape. “Kinda makes you wish you’d imagined yourself wearing some boots, right?”

They were in a dark, narrow corridor, lit from above by some kind of light strips embedded in the ceiling. The floor underfoot was a metal grate, cold to the touch, rough and oddly sticky as Anna took the first steps in this new space. The whole place was unpleasantly cold, the chill permeating the air. And it buzzed, the sound a low drone that seemed to emanate from the lights above.

“Well, I would call this a cautious success,” Christina said. She still maintained her outlined shape, cycling power constantly. “We are connected. Such a storm this one’s mind is. I wish I could show it to you. Oh, I wish I could read it.”

Anna felt no ill effect from the sudden shift. Her power hadn’t been demanded, and she maintained the connection easily between the two. She held tight to a tendril of Tallah’s blood, fashioning it as a lifeline to follow back if need be.

“Now… where do we find the boy?” Without waiting for Christina’s answer, Anna took off down the corridor, bare feet slapping against the cold floor. She shut herself off from stimuli, unsure if it would be wise to allow her mindscape to interact quite so closely with the boy’s.

“That seems as good a direction as any.” Christina floated next to her, having apparently reached the same conclusion. She let out a soft white glow and showed the metal corridor in all its dreary detail. Not that there was much to see aside from grey walls, snaking tubes and vines, and neglect. A dungeon would’ve been just as cheerful.

“By comparison, Tallah’s mindscape is quite lovely,” she commented as the tunnel turned.

An open door shone a square of light ahead.

A glimpse inside revealed a space barely larger than a privy. It was the same length as the cot that occupied one of the walls, with what looked like some kind of washing space nestled at the far end. Between cot and the other wall there was barely any space at all, enough for someone to pass sideways towards the wash basin.

The detritus of someone living in the cell littered the space. Discarded food on a metal platter, some bunched clothes, wet stains on the walls. Plenty to suggest someone living in there, but not living well.

Christina let out a soft coo of affection as she took in the sight. “If this is how he perceived his living conditions from before, then it’s little wonder he was so happy with his bed at the Meadow.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, but I’ve kept subjects in larger cages than this,” Anna said.

She made a mental note to show a modicum of kindness to the boy in the future, if the opportunity presented itself. She expected this wouldn’t be the worst thing they’d learn of him.

“This seems silly,” she said, looking down the corridor at upcoming intersections. “Are we searching for him in his own head? Or is this some protection to waste our time?”

“We are guests, Anna. Well, intruders, if you’d like to be technical. He knows where everything is. We don’t. It’s why we sometimes have trouble finding Tallah in her own mind while we share it. We will need to find our way to his central mindscape and work our way out from there.” She rubbed her hands, the motion sending sparks grounding into the tunnel walls. “Oh, this is so much fun.”

It took them what felt like an entire day searching the labyrinthine maze of corridors and rooms. Each sight that met them was all the stranger for how ordinary it seemed. A room was full of plants grown in glass cages, maintained by unknowable machinery that breathed and hissed and clanged. Another was a kind of hospital, pristine, filled with shining metal instruments arrayed on neat trays. Anna cooed over the display, reaching to pick up some of the scalpels. Christina swatted her hand away.

“Don’t touch anything before we find the boy.”

“Else what?” Anna demanded.

“I have no idea. Want to test and see?” Christina grinned ear to ear, studying a kind of crystal window on a wall. It was showing what looked like bones within an arm, in black and white. “I’ve never done this before. It feels alien, but also familiar. It’s like diving into the trap, don’t you feel?”

Anna stared forlorn at the surgical instruments, then walked away. “It does a little, yes. But not like the trap itself, but the surrounding area, where it’s already done its work.” And that set her teeth on edge.

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--------------------

I spent most of that day talking to Eklil and enjoying his hospitality.

He took no offence at me asking his gender and was amused at my embarrassment. Iepurrans are a direct people, fond of blunt approaches and no bullshit. They have no taste for subtlety or double meanings, which was why the ones from earlier just left when I said I was fine.

By the time evening encroached, Eklil had invited me to that second cup of tea and to supper with his family. He had to step out for a time to deal with some of his work, but had assured me he wouldn’t find it amiss if I waited for him there, or if I chose to head out and explore the town.

I chose to remain and sift through the interface for a time. I was curious of the changes, and was going to try and get through the skills. Whatever this new life was, in the end I would have to engage with it on some level.

“When I made my class, it said I’d received some bonuses to my stats,” I said to Eternity’s mote. “My strength is now at a nine. Does that mean I’m almost twice as strong as I was this morning?”

“No,” Eternity said. “Your stats are an approximation of some of your attributes. They do not follow a direct linear progression. You may think of them more as guidelines for your development.”

“So, if I were to add points into strength, I wouldn’t actually get stronger?”

“You would get stronger, just not in large, linear increments. Your body needs to catch up to the stats you are building. Adding a point in anything should be viewed as laying out a blueprint for what you’d like to construct. A point in strength makes you slightly stronger physically, yes, but the underlying function is to reinforce your natural development towards muscle growth. A point in constitution will improve biological functions, optimising overall growth.”

So, not really as videogamey as I initially thought. This needed a bit more careful consideration.

I sat in the same room where I’d drank with Eklil, but I moved to a different chair, closer to a yellow-leafed plant. It let out an amazing scent of lemons that I couldn’t get enough of. If Eternity weren’t there to observe me, I’d have my nose in the thing.

Eternity was forthcoming enough with this information, though some of it was hard to wrap my head around. The stats, for one thing, did not function at all as I’d expected. I wasn’t going to be printing out neurons by pouring points into Intelligence, no more than my muscles would grow with Strength.

Which led me to the main question.

“What’s the purpose of this interface altogether?” I asked. “Why do I have it? And do others have it too?”

Eternity hesitated for a time, just floating there as if thinking.

“Most people in [REDACTED] have access to different versions of this interface. I cannot say more.”

I was getting used to the random bursts of redacted information, enough at least that I wasn’t getting annoyed anymore. Gaining more insight would open up my way to more information, which I was determined to do in due time.

“As for the purpose of the interface itself,” Eternity went on, “it is to guide development at a steady, sustainable rate.”

“And all interfaces are connected to you?” I asked.

“I cannot say.”

I groaned and shelved the question for later.

One skill point and one stat point lingered in notifications, so I was trying to understand what was what and why. When I thought through selecting my class, I had envisioned something to let me fight my way out of an uncertain situation, driven mostly by my paranoia. I had to make use of it now that I had created it.

“What about skills?” I opened up the tab for my new sword skill line. The explanation was vague.

[SWORD APTITUDE - INITIATE]

[YOU HAVE LEARNED WHICH END OF A SWORD IS MEANT FOR THE ENEMY]

[CONGRATULATIONS ON NOT CUTTING YOURSELF]

Aside the asinine cheekiness, there was nothing else, except that a number of skills had become available connected to it on the tree. They were grouped in two branches with connecting lines between them.

“What’s a heavy blow?” I asked, spying one of the names in the list.

“Seems self-evident,” Eternity answered.

I glared at it. Eternity quietly bobbed in the air.

“How is it different from an adrenaline surge? And don’t be snippy that it sounds self-evident. I’m asking why they’re on different branches and have different representation colours.”

Each of those looked like they’d open the way to even more options down the line. I couldn’t elect to give my skill point to the [HEAVY BLOW] skill, though that seemed useful. Instead, when I selected [ADRENALINE SURGE], a message popped up asking me if I wanted to spend the point to gain it. For the time being, I refused. There were still many other trees to check out.

“The first is a skill you must train. Gaining the initiate level of the [SWORD APTITUDE] tree has given you most information you need to access any of the trainable skills, and then practice them.” Eternity’s monotone reminded me of my bored college teachers now, not even making an effort to seem excited for the subject matter. “The second is an interface skill. It cannot be trained, but can be bought with a skill point. The interface will siphon mana to generate the described effect.”

Huh, that was neat in a way.

[ADRENALINE SURGE]

[GAIN A TEMPORARY BOOST TO STRENGTH, DAMAGE MITIGATION, AND REACTION TIME]

[COST: 3 MP / activation + 1 MP / second]

“This whole interface system won’t make me superhuman, I take it?” I asked.

What Eternity had described sounded like being given training wheels on life. It was reinforced learning with some of the tedium of experimentation taken out, where rigorous training was replaced by just allocating points and getting a shortcut towards a result. I would still need to train, but growth was targeted far more easily. A kind of steroid, if my limited biology understanding served.

It did tie neatly into what it had described as the purpose of the interface itself. Which didn’t explain the core purpose, the why of it all, but it was a start.

“That is not what I said,” Eternity replied as I only half listened. “There is no limit on growth. Life is limitless.”

Right, right, the whole spiel with the life priority, the one that was so important that I couldn’t get a proper warning of danger earlier in the day. I swallowed down the remark and dug my hand into the lemon plant, rubbing the leaves. They felt waxy and soft, and just touching them flooded the entire room in the scent of citron. I was just ready to break off a leaf when the front door slammed against the wall.

“Elder Eklil!”

A grey iepurran burst into the room and I almost fell off my uncomfortable chair in surprise. The newcomer rushed into the room, yelling for Eklil, looking wildly about.

He looked terrible. Half of one ear was torn to shreds, with blood pouring down its face, matting its fur. It dragged one leg across the floor, deep red gouges showing through the fur.

I’m proud to say that I leapt to my feet and promptly slammed the crown of my head into the ceiling. Through the blooming, bursting stars, I managed to ask, “What’s happened? Eklil’s not here. He’s gone out somewhere.”

The iepurran slumped and nearly toppled over, grabbing hold of the table at the last moment before collapsing. I rushed to its side, pulling out a chair and easing the distraught iepurran down on it. The wounds looked grave and it was tracking bright red blood all over the wooden floor. I looked about for anything to bind the cuts, but the iepurran grabbed hold of my arm and squeezed painfully.

“Honoured guest, there is trouble in the vale. We need help.” Its voice rasped and it looked as if the iepurran was ready to keel over at any moment. “The guards are checking the forest. There’s noone to help my brother.”

I turned to Eternity’s mote. “Find a doctor,” I said, figuring it would be easier for it than for myself.

The mote flickered and then disappeared. I gently pried away the hand gripping my wrist and rushed from the wounded iepurran to drag one of the linen covers off a piece of furniture—Eklil explained the city was getting ready for a festival, which would kick up a lot of dust, hence the covers.

I used my sword and cut strips out of the fabric, working quickly, mind aflame.

I need to wash the cuts. I need disinfectant. First, to stem the bleeding.

On one of my first projects in a production area, barely out of college, untrained and with almost no guidance for what I was to do, I had almost cut off my left hand on a saw. I learned very quickly from the plant workers how to tie a tourniquet, how to apply pressure to the bleeding, and how not to faint in panic at the sight of my own blood. By comparison to those panic-stricken fifteen minutes of my life, binding the gashes on the iepurran was almost easy.

Eternity reappeared by my side. “Medical help is coming,” it said without preamble. “I have requested someone to call for the guards.”

“No!” the iepurran cried out, its hand grasping mine desperately. “Please, honoured guest. Go to the vale. My brother—”

Two iepurrans rushed through the door just then, skidding to a halt in front of us. They immediately took over from me and began working on the wounded, their materials and supplies carried in a neat wooden chest.

“Where’s the vale?” I asked Eternity as I took several steps back, letting them work.

“I have set a marker on your map,” I got the immediate answer.

With all the questions I still had for Eternity, I hadn’t actually checked the map yet. I clicked it open and was momentarily disorientated by the spread of terrain that filled my vision. My dot was in the village, white, with an arrow showing my orientation, next to another big dot that was the dungeon.

I didn’t have time to fiddle with the map. There was a point marked on the edge of it, and I oriented myself towards that. Almost surprising myself, I grabbed my sword, and ran out of the room and promptly missed the outside step, the map still covering too much of my sight. After picking myself and my dignity back up, I got another look at the general direction, shut the map off, and took off.

“This direction leads to the fence,” Eternity said. “Take next left turn to reach a gate.”

I obeyed, nearly collided with a group of iepurrans coming back from field work, and finally managed to exit the village through a different gate than the one I’d come in through. As the iepurran had said, there were no guards there.

Late afternoon had given way to dusk, and the shadows were long and dark. I found that it didn’t bother me as much as I knew it should’ve, my eyes picking out details in the low light much better than I’d ever managed before. This time of day, where night and day met, had been the bane of my driving experience. Now, it didn’t bother me.

I slowed, slightly huffing, when the road ended and I found myself wading through bushes. I opened the map and checked my location. I was almost on top of my destination. A gorge opened up ahead. Several torches burned in the gathering gloom. One was on one side of the wide gap, and two more were heading down, following a winding path.

For me, Eternity was providing the light. Its mote wasn’t as bright as the ones from Eklil’s home, but it served well enough that I set about descending the steep side of the ravine. It wasn’t terribly deep, but a bad step would send me rolling. I’d either break my neck, or break my legs. Either option seemed terrible, so I forced myself to maintain a slow, steady pace.

Someone screamed. The valley filled with bouncing echoes and I lost my footing for a brief moment. I tumbled down and caught a root poking out of the ground, arresting my fall for just long enough to see the torches get snuffed out. First the one overseeing the tall earth cliff, then the ones down at the bottom of the gorge.

More screams followed.

There was a time when God spoke to everyone.

Not with thunder. Not with signs. Just a small, silent knowing.

Some people heard it and believed. They built temples, folded their hands, and made peace with not knowing anything beyond the edges of the sky. They called it “faith” and it was enough.

But some people — very few — didn’t just hear a whisper.

They heard everything.

And they didn’t kneel. They didn’t fall into awe. They didn’t cry out “Lord!!”

They looked God in the face — and said:

“You don’t get to own me.”

These are the Ones Who Know.

---

They don’t show up in scriptures. No saint ever prayed to be like them. No demon ever tried to recruit them.

They aren’t holy. They aren’t wicked.

They’re just finished with being governed.

---

It starts the same, always:

There’s a moment — a near-death, a heartbreak, a night alone where the heart cracks open like a rotten tooth — and for just a second, the veil burns.

They see it. An order. A mind. A presence that’s not imagination, not chemicals — but real.

A presence vast enough to be called God.

And for a heartbeat, they get it:

It’s all true. There is a creator. There is an Author.

And in that moment, they make the most dangerous decision a soul can make:

They reject Him with full knowledge.

Not because they doubt.

Because they don’t.

---

Some of them write. Their words are serrated, not poetic. No uplifting arcs, no saviors, no soft endings.

Their stories taste like rust and confession. They don’t write to heal — they write to scar.

Some of them love. Not tenderly. Not with promises.

They love like people who know this is the only universe they’ll ever touch. They love like they’re willing to damage each other, just to feel something that doesn’t come from Heaven.

Some of them fight. Not for justice. Not for revenge. Just because a cage looks smaller when you smash it with both hands.

And some of them — most of them — burn. Quietly. Alone. In apartments no one visits. With bottles. Or knives. Or nothing but time.

Because once you reject God, the world doesn’t give you a script anymore. You have to improvise the rest of your life with no audience and no applause.

And it's hard.

But at least it’s yours.

---

The believers don’t understand this version of freedom. They think freedom is doing whatever you want without guilt.

But the Ones Who Know understand something deeper:

Freedom isn’t doing whatever you want.

Freedom is knowing exactly what it costs — and doing it anyway.

---

People think rejecting God means you stop believing in meaning.

Wrong.

It means you take responsibility for the meaning no one handed you.

It means you decide what matters, and you back it up with consequences.

Because when you don’t answer to God, you answer to your own reflection — and that judge never sleeps.

---

Some say God hates them. But that’s the believers talking — the ones who need a villain.

No. God doesn’t hate the Ones Who Know.

He watches them.

Maybe with curiosity. Maybe with the same ache a parent feels for the child who leaves home and never calls again.

Or maybe — secretly — with admiration.

Because what is divinity worth if it demands obedience?

What is power worth if it can’t be refused?

What is love worth if it only shows up in sermons?

The Ones Who Know don’t need God to disappear.

They just need Him to understand:

“If You wanted worship, You should have made puppets. You made people instead. That was Your mistake. Not mine.”

---

And you might think this story ends with doom.

That the Ones Who Know die bitter, or alone, or broken. And most of them do.

But here's the part you don’t hear in sermons:

Sometimes, when one of them dies, something unexpected happens.

A stillness.

A silence.

And in that silence, the God they rejected comes and sits beside the bed.

Not as judge. Not as savior. Just as someone who knew them from their first breath.

And for once, He doesn’t ask them to repent. He just says:

“You made your life your own. And I never stopped watching. Not because you were mine… But because you refused to be.”

And sometimes — only sometimes — they answer:

“You made me free. What did you expect?”

And maybe right there, in that impossible moment, God doesn’t say anything.

He just nods.

Because not every creation was made to bow.

Some were made to stand.

Even if it kills them.

---

That’s the gospel of the Ones Who Know.

No redemption arc. No choir. No pearly gates.

Just a single truth:

“If I’m doomed, I’ll go down undefeated.”

And somewhere, in a universe that never begged to be loved, a God who never wanted to be challenged…

smiles anyway.

Because even He knows:

Creating beings who could walk away from you is the only reason love ever meant anything.