The rumble of engines approached as several hovercars arrived at the scene, validating the age-old adage: The police always arrive after the battle’s over. Millard’s security forces were renowned for their rapid response, yet even they couldn’t intercept a confrontation this brief. The spider mech’s inferior specs had doomed it from the start.


    Latham lay prone in the shadows 100 meters away, unnoticed by the warring titans. As the hovercars’ floodlights illuminated the wreckage, his gaze locked onto an anomaly—a wisp of ghostly white light rising from the spider mech’s carcass.


    Impossible. Even at this distance, the glow burned brighter in his mind than in his retinas. A primal understanding surfaced—this wasn’t light, but a resonance only his seventh-level mental acuity could perceive.


    Unbidden, guttural syllables spilled from his lips in silent invocation: ?"Jiriligu, Milimala..."? The words felt ancestral, etched into his DNA. The spectral light streaked across the battlefield, piercing his forehead like a neural spike. Agony flared—then darkness.


    <hr>


    ?"Latham... Latham!"?


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    The voice swam through oblivion. His eyelids fluttered open to reveal a face preserved by rejuvenation tech yet etched with worry—his mother’s.


    ?"Mom?"?


    Tears glistened in her eyes—a sight as alien as the mechs he’d witnessed. ?"The doctors said you collapsed from shock and residual energy pulses."? Her fingers trembled against his temple.


    The door burst open. His father froze mid-stride, face cycling through shock, disbelief, then dizzying relief. ?"You’re awake?? I’ll—I’ll fetch Dr. Vorn!"


    ?"Dad, wait—"? The man already vanished down the corridor.


    Latham studied his mother’s forced calm. This wasn’t about a mere blackout. His parents—both level-headed corporate auditors—radiated the panic of people who’d stared into an abyss.


    The returning entourage included a silver-haired physician whose twinkling eyes belied his age. ?"Remarkable recovery, young man!"? He affixed a neural monitor to Latham’s forehead.


    ?"What’s this for?"?


    ?"Standard procedure after psionic exposure."? The doctor’s chuckle faded as readings flickered. ?"Though I must say, your neural oscillations are... unusually stable for someone who channeled a Class-3 spectral residue."?


    Latham’s blood chilled. They know.


    His mother’s hand tightened around his. The monitor beeped rhythmically, each pulse echoing the mystery now coiled in his synapses.