《Spirit of Two_Alvecore》


 Prologue

    The ship groans like the deep, the metal bending under the weight of a force unseen. I stand at the edge of darkness, where the abyss swallows sound and light alike, yet before me looms something greater.


    A titan.


    The warlord sits beyond my sight, his form indistinct, lost to the black expanse of the chamber. But the hammers¡­ they glisten. They rest beside him, massive, their edges dulled not by age but by the crushing weight of all they have shattered. When he moves, they shift¡ªan avalanche of steel.


    I kneel, pressing my claws to the cold floor. The ship hums beneath me, the vibrations curling up my appendages like the distant echoes of waves through a reef.


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    "The tides have been kind to us, Wraith," the Hammer rumbles. His voice is slow, deliberate, like the drag of a net through water. "But we do not drift aimlessly. The current must be guided."


    I bow deeper, forehead to metal. "Speak, and I will guide it."


    A pause. The ship groans once more, the sound swelling, as if the vessel itself inhales before the storm.


    "Alvecore," he intones. "A desert, dry and barren. That will change."


    The words settle over me like the pull of an undertow. I have never seen Alvecore, but I have seen wastelands before¡ªlifeless, cracked, unworthy of the depths. I imagine it now, parched earth splitting open, rivers threading through its veins, the scent of salt rising into the air.


    "Bring the tides to the desert," the Hammer commands.


    "It will be done."


    The warlord shifts again. Metal grates against metal, a sound like tectonic plates grinding beneath the ocean floor. Then, silence. A dismissal.


    I rise, turning from the abyss, and step toward the corridor where the artificial lights flicker, revealing the obsidian gleam of my scales. I am the Wraith. The ocean follows in my wake.


    And Alvecore will know the depths.

 Chapter 1_Jrake

    First thing you need to know about Ortol? He¡¯s got the hair of a man who lost a bet. A jumbled mess of blonde and black like two warring factions never agreed on a truce. Second thing? He just declared himself the World Mayor of Alvecore.


    I sit back, legs kicked up on the counter of my workshop, staring at the glowing interface of the View. For those of you still using rocks as paperweights, it¡¯s a device that does everything¡ªdata, calls, and making you regret enabling notifications.


    The meeting¡¯s projected mid-air, a neat little conference of galactic higher-ups who probably smell like expensive soap and bureaucracy. Ortol is front and center, looking annoyingly composed despite the fact that he¡¯s winging it.


    "Alvecore is ungoverned, unclaimed, and unstable," Ortol says, fingers tapping together like he¡¯s explaining basic math. "This is a problem. I am the solution."


    I raise an eyebrow. Bold. I admire it.


    The View splits, showing the various participants¡ªdiplomats, governors, corporate suits, yadda yadda. All human, except one. A particularly hairy alien sitting in the corner, saying nothing. He¡¯s a big guy, all shaggy fur and shadowed eyes, like someone shoved a bear into a business suit. He''s just listening. Watching.


    A governor from Vexari Prime leans in. ¡°And what gives you the authority to claim rulership over an entire planet?"


    Ortol smiles. Dangerous. Confident. "I studied law at Mecanet."


    Yep, there it is. His golden ticket. Mecanet scholars are basically treated like gods in legal circles. The kind of people who can argue a rock into changing its molecular structure.


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    The governor frowns. "That makes you a scholar, not a leader."


    Ortol spreads his hands. "Leadership is just law in motion. And motion is exactly what Alvecore needs. The alternative? Let it continue as a lawless backwater until someone less qualified decides to step in. Someone like¡ª" He gestures vaguely toward one of the corporate representatives.


    A woman in a sleek gray suit scoffs. "You''re suggesting we hand control to an independent actor with no oversight? Alvecore is volatile. It has no established infrastructure, no economy, no governance. You''re asking for disaster."


    Ortol tilts his head. "I¡¯m offering avoidance of disaster."


    The talk shifts, concerns about military enforcement, trade risks, legal precedents. But there¡¯s an undertone here, something unspoken. The elephant in the room, or rather, the suspicious ape in the room. He hasn¡¯t moved an inch.


    Maybe he''s just wondering if his hotel has complimentary fur conditioners. Or maybe he''s thinking about his salad.


    Then there¡¯s the fact that this guy¡ªwhatever his official classification is¡ªrepresents a planet where Navorians are packed in like fish in a can. Overpopulation, dwindling resources. And if a species built for war starts looking for a new home? They¡¯ll take one.


    Ortol knows it. The suits know it. And I think the hairy guy is really thinking about it.


    And then Ortol exhales, a thoughtful little hmm, like he just found an extra fry at the bottom of the bag. "You do understand I''m offering stability before someone else offers something worse. And trust me¡ª" his gaze flickers toward the silent, furry alien, "¡ª''worse'' is already watching."


    That¡¯s when the alien stands. Disconnects.


    Gone.


    The View flickers, adjusting to remove him from the session, but the silence he leaves behind lingers like the last note of a funeral march. One governor clears his throat, too loud. A corporate rep shifts in her seat, eyes flicking toward where the alien sat, then away, like she doesn¡¯t want to acknowledge it. Ortol doesn¡¯t react, but I know my step brother. I know what he''s thinking.


    Because if Navorians are looking for a new home, and Ortol just staked a claim on Alvecore¡­ then he¡¯s not just trying to be mayor.


    He¡¯s trying to stop a war.


    Or win one.


    I rub my temples. He¡¯s gonna drag me into this, isn¡¯t he?


    Looks like it''s time to build something that punches through Navorian armor like it¡¯s made of wet paper.

 Chapter 2_Revilsa

    The orphanage is old. It creaks when the wind pushes against it, groaning like an old machine that should¡¯ve stopped working a long time ago. The walls are patched where the wood rotted away, some repairs done by human hands, others by rusty machines that sputter and spark like they don¡¯t want to be here.


    I don¡¯t think anyone really wants to be here.


    I sit on the steps outside, knees pulled to my chest, watching. I do that a lot¡ªjust watching. The sky stretches overhead, vast and gray, the suns hidden behind thick clouds. The air smells like damp wood and metal, like almost everything in this house.


    Klev is nearby, carving something into a block of wood with his knife. I don¡¯t know what it is yet. Maybe he doesn¡¯t, either. He carves a lot, whittling away at nothing, as if his hands need to be busy.


    ¡°You gonna keep staring, or you wanna actually say something?¡± he asks without looking up.


    I don¡¯t answer.


    He smirks like he expected that. He always teases, always finds something to poke at. ¡°Y¡¯know, for someone who doesn¡¯t talk, you sure do a lot of thinking. Maybe one day you¡¯ll overheat that brain of yours.¡±


    I rest my chin on my knees. That wouldn¡¯t be so bad.


    Klev shakes his head and goes back to carving. I watch his hands move, the way the knife scrapes against the wood. Shavings fall into his lap like brittle leaves. He doesn¡¯t stop. He always has something to do, something to create.


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    I don¡¯t.


    Cherry stomps out of the orphanage, her hair tied in a messy bun, eyes narrowed as she glares at the wrench in her hand. It''s at moments like these that I notice how terrifying her green eyes can be. She mutters under her breath about the washing unit breaking down again.


    ¡°I swear, this place is held together with spit and hope,¡± she grumbles. ¡°One more malfunction and I¡¯m tossing every piece of junk into the river.¡±


    She won¡¯t. She always says that. But she¡¯ll fix it anyway, just like she fixes everything else. Cooking, cleaning, making sure we don¡¯t burn down the house¡ªCherry does it all. I wonder if she ever gets tired of holding this place together. I wonder if she ever resents it.


    I would.


    I shift my gaze to the field beyond the orphanage, where Vortex is training again. He¡¯s always training. Always moving, always pushing himself forward. His dark hair clings to his sweat-covered forehead as he swings a heavy metal rod in wide arcs, muscles tensing with every movement.


    He¡¯s leaving soon.


    He decided a long time ago that he wouldn¡¯t stay here forever. He has a goal. A dream. He wants to be a hero, so he works for it. Every single day.


    I watch him, wondering what it¡¯s like. To want something so badly that you throw everything you have at it. To believe that you can be more.


    I don¡¯t have that. I don¡¯t have anything. Just my breathing, days that pass like a fog, and a feeling that maybe I was meant to be background noise.


    A gust of wind kicks up dust, and I close my eyes for a moment, listening to the faint hum of the broken machines inside, the dull scrape of Klev¡¯s knife, the frustrated muttering of Cherry, the rhythmic grunts of Vortex training.


    Then I hear something new.


    Footsteps. Rushed. Uneven. Desperate.


    I lift my head.


    Cherry turns first, brow furrowed, then Klev stops carving, looking toward the figures approaching. Vortex doesn¡¯t stop training, not until he hears Cherry¡¯s sharp inhale.


    A man trudges toward us, breathing hard. His clothes are torn, stained with something dark. In his arms, he carries a boy.


    A boy with crimson hair, limp and bleeding. For a second, my mind connects it to the rabbit Vortex hunted for dinner, but this is different.


    My stomach twists.


    I watch as Cherry rushes forward, shouting for Grandma Rose. As Klev curses under his breath. As Vortex wipes sweat from his brow, stepping closer with narrowed eyes.


    I watch, because that¡¯s all I ever do.

 Chapter 3_Elthraa

    The world trembles on its hinges, and you¡ªboy, flame, little scourge¡ªare slipping through my fingers.


    You woke up. I was there. I saw you stir, saw the sluggish blink of your crimson eyes, the way your breath hitched as pain¡ªso mortal, so meaningless¡ªdragged you fully into consciousness. I was there when the girl with the fiery hair leaned over you, her voice sharp yet gentle.


    But you did not hear me.


    I call to you, my words seething through the spaces between moments, threading into the marrow of your bones. But you do not listen. You cannot.


    You have forgotten.


    How dare you.


    You sit there, dazed, touching the bandages on your arm, as if trying to remember the pain that put you here. But the pain is not what matters, is it? No. It is the absence, the void where your memories should be. I claw at them, try to grasp at the wisps, but they slip away like dying embers.


    They fumble, their crude tongues incapable of your language. And you? You are stranded, lost in an ocean of words that do not belong to you.


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    The sharp-tongued one, Klev, grins. ¡°Amnesia!¡± he proclaims.


    I seethe.


    The red-haired one¡ªCherry¡ªsnaps at him, irritated, but I do not care for their squabbling. I care only for you. For the spark inside you that I have nurtured, that I have watched, that I have waited for.


    And now, it flickers. Dim.


    You were meant to burn.


    A girl speaks, hesitant. Soft.


    ¡°Z¡­ Zett?¡±


    Your head snaps up. The word strikes something inside you. Recognition? Or only instinct?


    You touch your chest, where a scar carves a story you can no longer read. The letters beneath your fingertips feel foreign, distant. But you repeat it. The name.


    ¡°Zett.¡±


    I grip the edges of this moment, shaking it, willing you to feel something, anything. But you are still an ember drowning in ash.


    The girl who spoke¡ªRevilsa¡ªwatches you closely. She alone understands the tongue of your past. She says more, the language rolling off her lips like a half-remembered melody.


    You listen.


    You listen to her.


    The others push you along, show you this place, this crumbling orphanage. They speak, they jest, they move around you as if they can mold you into something new. Something ordinary. But you are not ordinary.


    You are mine.


    And yet, as Revilsa speaks in Korzic, your eyes widen, and something beneath your skin stirs.


    I simply watch, silent.


    Because for the first time since you opened your eyes, since you breathed in this dim, fragile world¡ª


    You are not listening to me.

 Chapter 4_Revilsa

    The snow is deep enough to swallow my feet. I watch as my shoes disappear with each step, leaving behind prints that get softer and smaller the farther I walk. Soon, the wind will come and brush them away.


    Like I was never here.


    I don¡¯t know why that thought bothers me. It shouldn¡¯t.


    Ahead, a man and a woman stand. My new parents. They look like they belong in one of those fancy stores we aren¡¯t allowed to touch anything in. The man is round and soft-looking, like a stuffed teddy bear that always laughs. He¡¯s already smiling, even though I haven¡¯t done anything funny. His hands are shoved into his coat pockets, but I can tell he wants to reach out, to ruffle my hair or pat my shoulder.


    The woman beside him is different. She¡¯s tall and straight-backed, wearing a coat that matches her shoes and gloves, like she planned this outfit for months. Her hair is perfect, not a strand out of place, and her makeup looks painted on. She smiles, but it¡¯s small and thin, and when she thinks no one is looking, I see the corners of her lips fall into a frown.


    I notice things like that.


    People think kids don¡¯t pay attention, but they do. They just don¡¯t say anything.


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    I don¡¯t wave. I don¡¯t smile. My hands stay buried deep in my sleeves, where they are safe and warm.


    Behind me, the orphanage door creaks, and for a second, I think¡ªZett?


    But no. Just Cherry, watching from the steps, her arms crossed tight. I think she wants to say something, but she doesn¡¯t.


    She shifts, unfolds her arms just enough to wave¡ªjust once, quick, like she¡¯s afraid I won¡¯t see it. But I do.


    The wind howls, snow swirling, and then¡ªthe door closes.


    I turn back to my new parents.


    The man¡ªno, Father¡ªsteps forward first. ¡°Revilsa, isn¡¯t it? I¡¯m Daniel.¡± His voice is warm, and he bends down a little, like he¡¯s trying to make himself smaller for me. ¡°And this is my wife, Claudette.¡±


    The woman¡ªMother¡ªnods. ¡°It¡¯s nice to meet you.¡±


    Her voice is careful. Not mean. But not excited either.


    I nod, because I don¡¯t know what else to do.


    Father doesn¡¯t seem to mind the quiet. He claps his hands together, making the cold air snap. ¡°Well! We better get you in the car before we all freeze solid, eh?¡± He laughs like he just told the funniest joke in the world.


    I don¡¯t laugh.


    I look back one more time.


    The orphanage windows stare back at me, empty and still. Somewhere inside, my bed is already being stripped, my spot at the table already being filled, my things already being picked apart by the others. That¡¯s how it works.


    I take a step toward the car. Then another. The orphanage gets smaller, but I don¡¯t feel any bigger. My footprints stretch behind me. I don¡¯t need to look at them, I already know what happens next.


    The wind will come. And soon, they will fade.

 Chapter 5_Cherry

    I wake up before the sun.


    The orphanage is quiet, and for a brief, wonderful moment, I can pretend the day won¡¯t be exhausting. I stay in bed longer than I should, listening to the hum of the purifier cycling water through the pipes. A small light blinks in the corner of my room, signaling that the system is running at sixty-eight percent efficiency¡ªa problem, but not an urgent one. I¡¯ll have to check it later. Another task on the list.


    I sit up, rubbing my face. My View syncs as soon as I open my eyes, flashing today¡¯s schedule across my vision. A breakdown of funds. A reminder of pending reports. A notification that the milk delivery is late¡ªagain. I dismiss it with a flick of my fingers and stand, stretching out the stiffness in my shoulders.


    I walk carefully through the dim hallway, stepping over the sections where the floor creaks, because waking the children before breakfast is suicide.


    The kitchen is a mess.


    The serving trays from last night are still in the air, hovering inches above the counter. The autoclean cycle must have failed.


    Normally, the trays return to their slots once the children finish eating, guided by embedded grav-systems¡ªthin metallic strips lining the furniture that generate localized gravitational fields. In theory, they keep things orderly without manual effort. In reality, they malfunction more often than they work.


    I sigh and press my palm against the wall interface. The View around my ear links with it instantly, bringing up a digital diagnostic screen over my vision.


    Error: Unprocessed Debris Detected. Cleaning Cycle Incomplete.


    I glance down. A single breadcrumb rests on one of the trays.


    You¡¯ve got to be kidding me.


    I brush it off, and the trays immediately lower into their slots with a loud crash to wake the whole neighborhood. Just great.


    Then Klev screams, ¡°Oi! Keep it down!¡±


    Oh shut up.


    I turn back to the pantry¡ªthump!


    I hear a noise from the vents above. I don¡¯t even flinch.


    ¡°Zett,¡± I say flatly. ¡°Get out of there.¡±


    No response.


    I step closer to the wall, tapping my View to scan for heat signatures. The display pulses, and an orange silhouette glows behind the vent grate.


    I fold my arms. ¡°I can see you.¡±


    Silence. Then, in a hesitant, muffled voice: ¡°¡­Really?¡±


    I sigh. ¡°Yes, really.¡±


    There¡¯s some shuffling. A moment later, the vent swings open, and a nine-year-old boy drops onto the counter with a soft thud. His red hair sticks up in every direction, and his crimson eyes are wide with poorly concealed guilt.


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    ¡°I wasn¡¯t hiding,¡± Zett says quickly, as if that somehow explains things.


    I rub my temples. ¡°Then what were you doing?¡±


    ¡°¡­Climbing.¡±


    I stare at him. He stares back, as if that was a completely normal answer.


    I exhale through my nose and turn back to the pantry. There are better uses of my energy than trying to understand Zett¡¯s logic. I pull out the ingredients for breakfast, rolling up my sleeves as I set the bread processor to knead the dough. It¡¯s an old manual machine, one of the few appliances that doesn¡¯t require constant repairs.


    Zett doesn¡¯t leave. He climbs onto the counter, watching me work. His legs swing back and forth in quiet rhythm.


    ¡°Why do you still do it that way?¡± he asks, tilting his head.


    ¡°Do what?¡±


    ¡°Make food by hand.¡± He gestures vaguely at the room. ¡°I thought the machines do everything.¡±


    I glance at the kitchen console¡ªa sleek, wall-mounted unit with built-in dispensers. The auto-cook system technically makes food preparation instant, mixing nutrient-packs and synthesizing meals with a press of a button. It¡¯s efficient. Convenient. Perfectly adequate.


    I hate it.


    ¡°Bread tastes better this way,¡± I say simply.


    Zett hums, considering this. He leans forward, resting his arms on the counter. ¡°So if I make something by hand, it¡¯ll taste better too?¡±


    I pause. Then nod. ¡°Usually.¡±


    Zett grins. ¡°Then I wanna try!¡±


    He reaches for the dough before I can stop him, shoving his hands into the mixture. A second later, his face twists in horrified betrayal.


    ¡°It¡¯s¡ªsticky.¡±


    I try not to laugh. ¡°That¡¯s how dough works.¡±


    ¡°And it stinks!¡± He stares at his hands, as if deeply questioning his life choices. Then, without warning, he wipes them on his shirt.


    I do laugh at that, despite myself. ¡°You¡¯re a disaster.¡±


    He doesn¡¯t seem to mind. ¡°Yeah, but now I made bread!¡±


    I shake my head, gently nudging him off the counter. ¡°Go wash up.¡±


    Zett hops down, still grinning, and runs off to clean his hands. I return to my work, covering up the dough with a sheet. The kitchen is still too cold, which means the yeast won¡¯t rise properly. I make a mental note to increase the room temperature by two degrees next time.


    As I pull the fresh loaves from the oven, I let the warmth rise to meet my nose, the smell of crisp crust.


    Perfect.


    A faint beep pings in my ear. I glance at my notification, expecting another late delivery notice, but instead, it''s a reminder from a few days ago.


    Government Delivery Completed.


    Oh. Right. That thing.


    I lean against the counter, rubbing a bit of flour between my fingers as I think back to that morning. After the new World Mayor was elected, or rather proclaimed, the new government had sent their officials, serious as ever. The mayor had made sure every citizen of the whole planet¡ªme included¡ªwas noted in their system. They spoke about taxes, how they¡¯d start collecting them monthly, but this time, there was a ¡®kindness¡¯ from the new leadership. No fees yet. Instead, every registered citizen received a View.


    It wasn¡¯t the worst deal, honestly. I just wished they¡¯d done it before I spent my own credits on one months back.


    I dismiss the notification and turn back to the bread. The loaves have cooled just enough to slice. I grab a knife, steadying one of them with my free hand.


    Then I hear it.


    A tiny crack.


    I look up sharply. Zett, sitting cross-legged on the counter, freezes mid-bite, his crimson eyes wide.


    I narrow my eyes. Something about him is off. I scan his face, then notice¡ªhis View. Or rather, the complete absence of it.


    I set the knife down. ¡°Where¡¯s your View?¡±


    Zett hesitates. Then, with great effort, he swallows his mouthful of bread and shrugs. ¡°...Gone.¡±


    I pinch the bridge of my nose. ¡°Gone where?¡±


    Zett looks at the ceiling. ¡°...Away.¡±


    I close my eyes. For God''s sake. ¡°How?¡±


    A pause. Then, in a barely audible voice:


    ¡°I¡­ dunno¡­ broke it?¡±


    Really?


    I exhale sharply. ¡°And?¡±


    Zett scratches his cheek. ¡°I, uh. Ate it.¡±


    ¡°You ate it¡ª¡± I rub my temples. ¡°¡ªZett.¡±


    He brightens. ¡°But it¡¯s fine! I didn¡¯t like it anyway.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not the point.¡±


    Zett swings his legs off the counter, grabbing another slice of bread. ¡°I didn¡¯t need it. Hope kept talking too much. Kept showing me words I didn¡¯t care about.¡± He grins. ¡°Besides, I like to see things with my own eyes!¡±


    I sigh. This kid.


    I should be mad. Frustrated. Something. But looking at him, grinning like he hasn¡¯t just wasted government property, I can¡¯t bring myself to yell.


    Instead, I grab a slice of bread for myself and sit beside him.


    ¡°If the officials ask, you lost it in the river.¡±


    Zett beams. ¡°Got it.¡±


    I shake my head, taking a bite.


    It¡¯s going to be a long month.

 Chapter 6_Revilsa

    The dress is too stiff.


    It scratches my skin, pinching at my shoulders when I move. The stockings are worse. They make my legs feel like sausages stuffed in a net. I shift in my seat, but the ribbons tied at the ends of my braids yank at my scalp, so I stop moving altogether.


    I stare at my reflection in the hallway mirror. It doesn¡¯t look like me. It looks like a doll someone dressed up and forgot to put away.


    Behind me, Mother nods in approval. ¡°Much better. You look like a proper young lady now.¡±


    Her lipstick is red today. Her nails match. She leans down, brushing imaginary dust from my sleeve, and I catch the smell of expensive perfume. It reminds me of the time I accidentally walked into the wrong room at the orphanage¡ªGrandma Rose''s room. The place smelt like lotion. The chairs too fancy.


    I felt out of place there. Just like I do now.


    Father walks in, sipping coffee from a mug too small for his hands. He sees me and smiles. ¡°Well now, look at you! All dressed up for the big day, huh?¡±


    I don¡¯t answer.


    His smile doesn¡¯t die out. ¡°Nervous?¡±


    I shake my head.


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    Mother sighs, placing her hands on my shoulders. ¡°She¡¯ll be fine. It¡¯s only school.¡±


    Only school.


    Only a whole building of strangers.


    Only an entire day of pretending to be something I¡¯m not.


    Father kneels beside me, his voice quieter now. ¡°You got this. Just be yourself, alright?¡±


    I don¡¯t look at him. I keep staring at the mirror.


    Because who is me?


    I don''t know.


    I don¡¯t recognize the girl in the mirror.


    I don¡¯t recognize the girl in the car window either.


    The ride to school is quiet.


    Before I know it, the school building looms ahead. The doors swallow me whole.


    The classroom smells like socks and old gum.


    My seat is near the window, but there¡¯s nothing interesting outside. Just the parking lot and the side of another building. I don¡¯t talk to the kids next to me. They don¡¯t talk to me either.


    The teacher gives us a writing prompt: What¡¯s something you love?


    I stare at my paper.


    Vortex.


    I write the name before I can stop myself. I look at it for a long time. The letters don¡¯t feel right. They feel like something from another world. Another life.


    I erase it.


    The other kids are writing about their pets, their favorite toys, their moms and dads.


    I stare at my blank page.


    The teacher walks by, peeking over my shoulder. ¡°Need help, dear?¡±


    I shake my head.


    She doesn¡¯t push. Just walks away.


    The longer I sit there, the more I think. About the orphanage. About Cherry. About Klev¡¯s dumb stories. About Zett.


    Zett.


    I wonder where he is right now. I wonder if he¡¯s okay. I wonder if he even noticed I left.


    Before I know it, my vision is blurry. My throat feels constricted. I sniff, rubbing at my face, but the tears come anyway, hot and embarrassing.


    The teacher crouches beside me. ¡°Sweetheart, are you alright?¡±


    I shake my head again.


    She helps me up, leading me outside.


    The hallway is bright. Quiet.


    The teacher kneels in front of me, her voice soft. ¡°Do you want to talk?¡±


    I shake my head.


    She doesn¡¯t say anything else. Just stays there, waiting.


    I stare at the floor, my hands clenched in my lap. My dress is still annoying. My braids still hurt. Everything still feels terrible.


    I close my eyes.


    I picture the orphanage. I picture Klev whittling a wooden figure, Cherry grumbling about chores, Zett running across the grass.


    I picture Vortex.


    For a moment, I can almost hear them.


    Then the school bell rings, loud and deafening.


    The moment is gone.


    I open my eyes, and I¡¯m still here.


    No one cares about the girl left behind.

 Chapter 7_Vortex

    I wake up with Klev¡¯s damn foot in my face.


    I shove it off, and it flops onto my chest instead. "Brudda, move," I growl, shovin¡¯ him harder. He groans, rollin'' over, but his elbow jab into my ribs now.


    "Five more minutes," he mutter.


    I sit up, feelin¡¯ the stiffness in my back from sleeping half-curled on the edge of the bed. Not my bed. His bed. My bed don¡¯t even exist no more, ''cause Klev took the whole damn space.


    I look around the room¡ªour room. Every corner packed with Klev¡¯s junk. Wood carvin¡¯s, clothes, things he never uses. And I got what? A drawer. One drawer.


    I kick his mattress. "You takin¡¯ up too much damn space, Klev. Move ya stuff."


    He grunts, shovin¡¯ his face into the pillow. "Not my fault you don¡¯t have hobbies, Vortex."


    I snatch the pillow from under his head, and he snaps up like a fish outta water. "Oi!"


    "You a hoarder, man!" I jab my finger at the mess. "Everywhere I look, it¡¯s Klev¡¯s stuff. I ain¡¯t got room to breathe!"


    "You don¡¯t need room!" He shoves me back, rubbin¡¯ his eyes. "You¡¯re just mad because you¡¯ve got nothing to put anywhere!"


    "That ain''t true!"


    "Then where¡¯s all your stuff?"


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    I open my mouth, but nothin¡¯ comes out. I got nothin¡¯ to show him. Just clothes and my dog tags. Ain''t nothin'' worth keepin''.


    Klev smirks, stretchin¡¯ like he won somethin¡¯. "Thought so."


    That smirk piss me off real bad. "Man, I swear, if you wasn¡¯t my best friend¡ª"


    "But I am," he says, yawnin¡¯. "So what are you gonna do? Cry?"


    I lunge at him, grabbin¡¯ his shirt, and yank. He yelps as he topples, arms flailin¡¯, and we hit the floor with a THUD. His elbow smacks my jaw¡ªaccident, probably¡ªbut I ain''t gonna let it slide. I tackle him, drivin¡¯ my shoulder into his ribs. We roll, knockin¡¯ over his stack of wooden carvings.


    "Oi! Watch it!"


    "Then move your damn junk!"


    "Not happening, brat!"


    We grapple, rollin¡¯ into the dresser with a loud BANG. Then the door slams open.


    Cherry.


    "You two wanna explain why I woke up to a warzone?"


    I freeze¡ªKlev does too. Cherry stands in the doorway, arms crossed, hair messy, lookin¡¯ about one sec away from kickin¡¯ both our asses.


    I let go of Klev¡¯s shirt. He lets go of my collar. We sit there like two kids caught robbin¡¯ a cookie jar.


    Cherry sighs, rubbin¡¯ her temple. "Klev, why does the room look like a museum exploded?"


    "Not my fault!" Klev points at me. "Vortex has no hobbies!"


    Cherry turns to me. "And why are you fighting at six in the morning?"


    "Man got too much stuff," I grumble, brushin¡¯ dust off my shorts.


    Cherry looks at Klev. "Start cleaning."


    "But¡ª"


    "Now."


    Klev grumbles but starts pickin¡¯ up his carvings. I smirk, but then Cherry glares at me.


    "You help too."


    "What? Why?!"


    "Because if I hear one more dumbass fight, you¡¯re both sleeping outside. With the squirrels. And I won¡¯t let you back in.¡±


    I groan, but Cherry ain''t someone you argue with.


    As Klev and I start cleanin¡¯, he nudges me. "Still mad?"


    I shake my head. "Nah."


    He grins. "Good. ¡®Cause I¡¯m not stopping my collection."


    I shove him. He shoves me back.


    Then I say it.


    ¡°I¡¯ll find my own place, man. Just wait.¡±


    I expect him to throw some smartass comment, but he don¡¯t. He just keeps pickin¡¯ up his carvings, quiet.


    I know why.


    He ain¡¯t happy. But this ain¡¯t about him.


    This ¡®bout me. ¡®Bout me gettin¡¯ outta here.

 Chapter 8_Revilsa

    The sun is ruthless today. It glares down, burning the soccer field into cracked dust and patchy grass. The wind doesn¡¯t bother showing up. It¡¯s just heat, stretching on and on, till the ends of Alvecore.


    I blink sweat out of my eyes. Across the field, the boys laugh and shove each other, full of energy. The girls shift awkwardly, their ponytails damp against their backs.


    "Alright, teams! Play fair!" Miss Vesper sings out, clapping her hands together like we¡¯re all about to perform a beautiful piece of music instead of chase after a ball in this unbearable heat. She teaches music, not gym, but that doesn¡¯t stop her from throwing us into ¡®healthy competition¡¯ whenever she gets the chance. She believes it builds character. I believe she¡¯s never played a game in her life.


    Boys vs. girls. Brilliant idea.


    I stretch my arms, glancing at my position. Goalkeeper. Of course. No one cares what I¡¯m good at, just where they can stick me so they don¡¯t have to deal with me. Goalkeeper is perfect for that. No one likes the role anyway.


    The whistle blows. The game begins.


    I don''t care.


    It¡¯s been two years. Two long years in this school. I haven¡¯t made a single friend. I haven¡¯t tried. They haven¡¯t tried. That¡¯s fine. I don¡¯t need them.


    Instead, I study. There¡¯s nothing else to do. It keeps my mind busy, keeps me from thinking about what used to be. About Cherry. About Zett. About Klev. About Vortex. About the life that feels more like a dream the longer I stay here.


    Someone shouts. A blur of motion.


    The ball soars past me, straight into the net.


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    Goal.


    The girls groan. The boys cheer.


    I barely have time to pick up the ball before she storms towards me.


    I recognize her instantly. Nessa. Too old to be in this class, but here anyway. She¡¯s bigger, taller, meaner. She pushes through the other girls, her face twisted in disgust.


    "Are you stupid?" she yells. Her voice is worse than the heat. "You just stood there!"


    I don¡¯t respond.


    She steps closer. "Useless. Dumb. Hopeless. What are you even good for?"


    Her hands shove my shoulders, and I hit the ground. Hard.


    The dust stings my palms. I hear laughter. I hear whispers.


    None of it crushes me.


    Not the fall. Not the words.


    Instead, it wakes me up.


    They are looking at me.


    I feel it, like a string inside me, stretched too thin, finally snapping.


    I push myself up. My heartbeat is steady. I don¡¯t think. I don¡¯t hesitate.


    I hit her.


    My fist connects with her face. A sharp, solid impact.


    She staggers back. Gasps. Hands fly to her mouth. Blood.


    I breathe in. Deep.


    That felt good.


    The world moves fast after that. Teachers shouting. Hands pulling me away. The game forgotten. The cheers, the jeers¡ªnone of it matters.


    Then¡ª


    The car.


    I sit in the back seat, tracing the window pane, as the buildings blur past.


    "You just let her do this?" My mother barks, less than womanly looking right now.


    "I¡¯m not saying it was right, but¡ª"


    "Three teeth, Daniel! Three! Do you have any idea how serious that is?"


    A sigh. "I know, I know. But maybe if we just¡ª"


    "If we what? If we ignore it? This is unacceptable! She needs to understand that!"


    I press my forehead against the glass, rubbing the bruises on my knuckles.


    My father exhales through his nose, a little exasperated, a little amused. "Just calm down, alright?¡±


    He peaks at me through the rear view, ¡°We¡¯re heading to the orphanage. Rose invited us."


    I blink.


    The orphanage.


    The heat inside me cools. My face neutral, my voice steady. "Oh."


    Just one word.


    Then the question rises.


    Will they notice me now?

 Chapter 9_Vortex

    "With the rise of criminal activity and instability, the New Government has introduced the Household Service Mandate. To ensure the safety and prosperity of our world, every household must contribute at least one member to the military. Those without proper employment will be given the opportunity to serve."


    The radio buzzes with static before the voice continues, a calm voice.


    "No one will be left behind. No one will be without purpose."


    I ain''t stupid. I know what that really mean. Ain''t about givin'' people purpose. It''s about takin¡¯ control.


    We all gathered for dinner, but I barely taste the food on my plate. My hands rest on my lap, fingers twitchin''. Across the room, Grandma Rose sit at the adult table, stressin¡¯ over nothin¡¯. Two guests sit with her.


    The fat man sink into his chair like it¡¯s a part of him, his suit stretchin¡¯ over his belly. He got a warm look, like he never had to fight for a damn thing in his life. Next to him, the tall woman sit rigid, barely movin¡¯, like every gesture gotta be perfect. Hands folded in her lap, chin lifted just so.


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    I don¡¯t care about them. Ain¡¯t here for them.


    Grandma Rose speak, she scared. "I can''t allow these children to be taken. Not for this."


    The fat man wave a hand, smilin¡¯ like it¡¯s all a misunderstanding. "Miss Rose, we understand your concern, truly. But I assure you none of the orphans will have to enlist."


    "Nobody will force anyone," the woman add, her voice smooth, rehearsed. ¡°That is a promise."


    They talk like they doin¡¯ us a favor.


    Like we supposed to be grateful.


    I push my chair back, the screech loud enough to get through their little conversation. "I don¡¯t need y¡¯all makin¡¯ choices for me."


    The table falls silent.


    The fat man glance at me, then away. The woman don¡¯t even look at me. Like I ain''t worth acknowledgin¡¯. Like I ain''t even here.


    Ain''t nothin'' new.


    I step closer. "You hear me? I ain¡¯t sittin¡¯ around waitin¡¯ for y¡¯all to decide my future. I¡¯ll join."


    Still nothin¡¯.


    My fists tighten, but I don¡¯t say nothin¡¯ else. Ain''t no point.


    I glance at Grandma Rose. She watch me with somethin¡¯ in her eyes¡ªworry, maybe, or somethin¡¯ else. But she don¡¯t stop me.


    I turn on my heel and walk away, heart hammerin¡¯.


    They can talk all they want. They can act like I ain''t there. But when the time come? I¡¯ll make ¡®em see me.


    I''ll leave this place.


    I''ll join the military.


    I''ll follow the steps of a true hero.

 Chapter 10_Revilsa

    I sit at the end of the table, lost in the blur of voices, the clatter of forks against chipped plates. Laughter rises, easy and careless, filling the spaces between mouthfuls of food.


    Across from me, Zett eats quietly, his head slightly down, his eyes somewhere far away.


    Once, he noticed me.


    Once, he played with me.


    But that was a long time ago.


    Now, he¡¯s gone. Not lost like a child, not missing like someone taken¡ªjust gone.


    I stare at my plate, appetite numb, my fork idly smearing mashed potatoes into nothing.


    A scrape of metal against ceramic. Klev leans toward Vortex, grinning.


    "I¡¯m just saying, you don¡¯t need to go all hero mode every second of the day," Klev teases, picking at his food. "It¡¯s not that serious."


    Vortex scoffs. "Yeah? Go tell that to folks who really need savin¡¯.¡±


    Cherry sighs, resting her chin in her palm. "Will you two shut up? You¡¯re making my head hurt."


    Klev only grins wider. "Aw, sorry, mom.¡±


    The conversation shifts, but the thread between them holds¡ªpulling them into something real. Something loud. Something alive.


    They didn''t even realize I came.


    No hi.


    Nothing.


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    I am just here again, and that''s it.


    An ache pools in my ribs, dragging me down. I clench my fists, the bruises on my knuckles throbbing. The girl I hit today never saw it coming. The way she gasped, the way the others stared¡ªit should¡¯ve made me feel bad.


    It didn¡¯t.


    Because for one second, they saw me.


    What if I stood up? What if I spoke?


    Would they pause, turn, let me in?


    I should do that!


    I shift in my seat. My chair creaks. No one looks.


    Cherry is busy rubbing Zetts hair, ¡°Why aren''t you eating? Is something wrong?¡±


    What about me?


    You''ve never asked about me.


    My fingers twitch. I curl them around the knife beside my plate. The handle is rough, the edge dulled from years of cutting cheap meat and stale bread. I pick it up.


    I don¡¯t think.


    I just¡ª


    My heart pounds.


    I squeeze.


    No.


    A sharp inhale. My grip loosens. I¡¯m being stupid. So, so stupid.


    Vortex is passing green peas with his fork to Klev, he laughs the moment he fails to pass back, the pea rolling off the table.


    I squeeze again.


    Maybe this is what it takes.


    Maybe pain is the price.


    I life the blade.


    I could stop.


    I should stop.


    I don''t.


    Then¡ªI drag the blade across my palm.


    Pain.


    It doesn''t burn, it destroys. I shudder, breath hitching. My fingers spasm. The knife slips from my grip, clattering against the table.


    It feels like my hand is screaming.


    I look down, my blood is rolling over my palm, spilling between my fingers, dripping onto the wood. The edges of the room blur.


    It hurts.


    It hurts so much.


    Around me, just the deafening clang of metal against wood.


    Then the room stills.


    I open my eyes. They are staring. Forks stop midair.


    My breath shakes, my whole arm trembling. Pain pulses through my hand, up my wrist, into my ribs.


    But I don¡¯t pull back.


    I don¡¯t hide it.


    I let them see.


    ¡°I¡¯ll become a hero,¡± I say.


    The words leave my lips, without my will.


    They gape.


    Then¡ª


    I hear one of the kids say, "She cut her hand for that.¡±


    Another says, ¡°T-thats crazy.¡±


    My hand shakes.


    But my chest¡ªmy chest is steady.


    I am real.


    I am here.


    And they can¡¯t ignore me anymore.

 Chapter 11_Elthraa

    You stir, boy. A tempest restrained within fragile flesh, yet even now, your spirit betrays your weakness. A single motion¡ªa shift, a tremor¡ªspeaks louder than your own understanding. You have sat among them for three years, spoken their tongue, shared in their ways. Yet you are not of them.


    For you belong to something greater.


    The chair groans beneath you. Such an ordinary sound. Yet in this moment, it heralds the upheaval of something grander, something that has slept within you for too long.


    They do not know it, and neither do you.


    Ah, but I do.


    Your blood courses with memoryless ambition, an insatiable hunger with no name. You have grasped at meaning in this house of forgotten children, learned their language, played the role of the brother, the fool, the kind-hearted stray taken in from the cold. You have laughed with Cherry, basked in the warmth of a sister not by blood but by bond. And yet¡ªhas it been enough? Do you belong, or have you merely been tolerated?


    A fire does not ask if it belongs. It simply devours.


    Revilsa stands before you, her blood marking the table, an oath carved into flesh. And you¡ªI see it now¡ªthe way your hands clench, your breath shudders, the war between impulse and hesitation waging deep within.


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    You are nothing. You are everything.


    I watch as you reach for the knife. Not for the steel, nor for the pain¡ªbut for the meaning.


    The others watch. Their gazes pressing against your skin like a star''s core. Do you falter? Do you yield?


    No.


    For you, blood is no loss. It is a currency. A sacrifice. A declaration.


    You pull it to your palm.


    But, you hesitate.


    Cherry¡ªthe mother without children¡ªrushes forward, cloth in hand, pressing it to the girl¡¯s wound, eyes wide with something between fury and fear.


    ¡°What are you doing?!¡± she demands, her voice fraying at the edges. "You can¡¯t just cut yourself like this! This isn¡¯t¡ª" Her words falter when her gaze lands on you. ¡°Zett,¡± she demands, ¡°put that down.¡±


    You look at what you hold.


    The weapon of promises.


    You question her, why should I put down something that forges dreams?


    You do not.


    And, at last boy, you know not to. So you smile defiantly, and respond to her, ¡°No.¡±


    A thousand thoughts crash inside you¡ªbut none louder than the one that drives your hand forward. The blade rips into your palm, and the crimson follows, spilling upon the table, mingling with the girl¡¯s sacrifice¡ªa covenant unwittingly forged.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be the strongest man ever!¡±


    Your voice erupts like a war horn, shattering the silence, a thunderclap splitting the heavens. There is no doubt, no hesitation. Only truth, one none can deny.


    You wish to be the strongest?


    Why?


    Is it because of your predecessors who were warriors?


    No.


    Because it is impossible.


    Because you know this will keep you running for eternity.


    Ah, Zett.


    You have spoken your truth.


    Now burn.

 Chapter 12_Vortex

    Blood stain the table.


    Zett¡¯s hand still clenched, red slippin¡¯ through his fingers, his face lit up like he just seen somethin¡¯ real. Revilsa too.


    And me?


    I ain¡¯t move. Hands curled up on my knees, heart beatin¡¯ loud in my ears like it¡¯s tryna fight its way out. Everyone just whisperin¡¯, gasps poppin¡¯ off like sparks in the silence.


    Klev mutter somethin¡¯ under his breath, all disgust. Cherry grabs another cloth and makes Zett clench it, frantic now, her anger frayin¡¯ into fear.


    They ain¡¯t wrong.


    This reckless. This stupid.


    And yet¡ª


    I get it.


    I look at ¡®em, blood soakin¡¯ into the wood, and I see it. A promise. A declaration.


    They kids.


    But they dreaming.


    I can¡¯t just sit here.


    I made my own promise too.


    I swore I was gon¡¯ be a hero. I swore I was gon¡¯ be like him.


    My body move before my mind catch up. I stand, reach for the knife.


    Cherry¡¯s breath hitch.


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    "Vortex?"


    Her voice replaced by somethin¡¯ fragile, somethin¡¯ pleadin¡¯. She grabs my arm rough, but I barely feel it.


    "Don''t do this."


    I don¡¯t answer. Ain¡¯t no words for it.


    ¡®Cause this ain¡¯t just for them. This ain¡¯t desperation. This ain¡¯t about nobody seein¡¯ me.


    This ¡®bout me.


    I yank my arm free.


    The blade feel heavier than it should¡ªain¡¯t just metal and edge. It¡¯s the weight of every promise I made, every dream I swore to chase. It¡¯s Alzumo watchin¡¯, waitin¡¯.


    I press it to my palm.


    Sharp breath. Slow cut.


    Pain flare up, but I don¡¯t flinch. I let it burn. Let it live. The blood rolls off my dark skin, slow, drippin¡¯ like ink on a contract. Ain¡¯t just blood¡ªthis a seal, something that makes it real.


    "I¡¯m gonna be a hero.¡±


    The words come steady. Ain¡¯t no doubt in ¡®em. But no one move.


    ¡°A goddamn hero! You hear that!?¡±


    They all flinch. Good, that''s what I wanted.


    Then softer, just for me¡ª


    "Just like Alzumo."


    I close my fist, the blood juicin¡¯ out.


    That felt good.


    Then¡ª


    A gasp.


    Ain¡¯t from Cherry. Ain¡¯t from Klev. Ain¡¯t from Zett or Revilsa.


    I turn.


    At the doorway, wide-eyed and lookin¡¯ shook, stand Revilsa¡¯s mama.


    Nobody move. Nobody breathe.


    Then the silence snap.


    "What¡ªwhat is going on here?!" she shrieks, lungin¡¯ forward, snatchin¡¯ Revilsa¡¯s wrist, yankin¡¯ her up so fast the chair go crashin¡¯ to the floor. "What is this?! What did they do to you?!"


    Revilsa don¡¯t fight. She just stare, dazed, the moment she carved up ripped right outta her hands.


    "Come now!" her mama say, voice breakin¡¯. "We¡¯re leaving!"


    Her daddy steps up, palms raised. "Claudette, calm down¡ª"


    "Calm down?!" she snaps. "Look at her!"


    She clutches Revilsa¡¯s arm tight, knuckles pale, showin¡¯ him the scar. She drag her away.


    Revilsa don¡¯t look back.


    Her daddy hesitates. Then curses low under his breath and follows. The door slam behind ¡®em, the echo carvin¡¯ into the quiet they left behind.


    Not what I expected, but they ain''t the point.


    Then¡ª


    A sound.


    Choked.


    I whip ¡®round just in time to see Grandma Rose staggerin¡¯.


    Cherry moves quick, catchin¡¯ her ¡®fore she collapse. "Hey¡ªhey, I got you." Her voice soft, but tight. "Are you okay?"


    Grandma Rose don¡¯t answer. Her eyes wide, old and weary, locked on the table. The blood. The knife.


    Us.


    Cherry swallows hard, her grip firm on the old woman.


    The others just stare. No words to say.


    And for the first time, I wonder¡ª


    Not if this the right thing.


    Not if I regret it.


    But if this oath, this mark carved into my skin¡ª


    Is the start of somethin¡¯ I can¡¯t never take back.

 Chapter 13_Revilsa

    A week is long enough for wounds to scab but not long enough to forget. The whispers haven¡¯t stopped. The looks haven¡¯t faded. But I''ll make sure they see something different now.


    The razor hums in my hand. A noiseless vibration.


    I press it to my temple, and the first strand of hair falls. It drifts down, weightless, lifeless.


    Then another. And another.


    I watch them pile in the sink¡ªdark remnants of someone I don¡¯t recognize anymore. Someone I don¡¯t want to recognize.


    The girl who never got anything. The girl who got pushed, ignored, dismissed. The girl who let that cold, burning thing sit inside her quietly for too long.


    I run the razor higher, feeling it strip away the hesitation. The fear.


    The buzzing stops.


    I look up.


    The mirror is unkind. It never lies. It shows me exactly what I am now.


    The same scars. The same eyes. But the girl looking back isn¡¯t the same.


    Good.


    I trail my fingers along the buzzed sides of my head, feeling the sharp bristle. The rest of my hair¡ªwild, untamed¡ªsweeps back like black spines.


    A Crown of Spikes.


    I tilt my head, watching how the light catches the edges. Sharp. Uncompromising.


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    I no longer see a victim. Neither an outcast.


    I see danger.


    And I like it.


    I head downstairs, my shoes tapping against the wooden steps. The house smells like fresh toast and mom''s perfume. Morning sunlight drapes lazily over the furniture, casting long shadows across the polished floors.


    She''s in the kitchen, standing by the counter, coffee in one hand, swiping something in the air with the other via her View. She doesn¡¯t look up right away.


    ¡°Remember,¡± she says, flipping through something. ¡°You¡¯re back at school today. I expect you to behave after your little¡­ incident.¡±


    Then she looks at me.


    The words die in her throat. Her face freezes.


    Crash.


    The coffee breaks like her temper would, and her lips press just a little too tightly together.


    A week ago, she would have sighed. Given me a lecture about being presentable. Something about how a proper young lady should look.


    Now?


    She says nothing, and that''s good.


    I grab a slice of toast off the plate and bite into it as I walk past. Then, the door clicks shut behind me.


    The air outside is crisp, the morning sun already scorching the air. I sling my bag over my shoulder and head towards school, my shadow stretching long in front of me.


    This school is an uneasy truce.


    The rich kids carry their last names like weapons. The poor kids carry their scars the same way.


    The polished and the broken. The ones who take and the ones who endure.


    I used to think I belonged with the latter. That suffering made me one of them.


    But I was wrong.


    I don¡¯t belong to either.


    And they don¡¯t know what to do with me.


    When I step in, they whisper. Stare. Try to pretend I don¡¯t exist.


    But the bullies? They¡¯re always the first to test what''s new.


    They think I¡¯ve lost it. That I¡¯ve gone crazy. And crazy is funny to them.


    One of them¡ªa thick-skulled idiot with hands too big for his brain¡ªblocks my path. He¡¯s taller. Bigger. Slower.


    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± he sneers, looking me up and down. ¡°Playing dress-up?¡±


    I don¡¯t answer.


    He moves to shove me. Careless. Like I¡¯ll stumble, like I¡¯ll laugh it off, like I¡¯ll let it happen.


    I don¡¯t move.


    His hand hovers for half a second too long. His fingers twitch¡ªjust a bit, but I catch it.


    He feels it.


    And just to make sure, I take a step forward. Just one.


    He shifts back. Instinct. A reflex. Doesn¡¯t know he¡¯s doing it.


    Then his jaw tightens. Now he knows.


    And that¡¯s worse for him.


    His mouth twists. He scoffs, mutters something about me being a freak, then turns and walks off.


    I don¡¯t smile.


    But I want to.

 Chapter 14_Rain

    I don¡¯t like Illume.


    I don¡¯t think he likes me either.


    I don¡¯t care.


    I sit in my room, curled up on the cot, staring at the View¡¯s visualization. It''s soft and blue, showing me words I don¡¯t want to read. Hope¡¯s voice chimes in.


    "Rain, we should continue your lesson. Today¡¯s topic is¡ª"


    ¡°I don¡¯t wanna,¡± I mumble, turning on my side.


    "It is important to keep learning. Your brain is still developing, and¡ª"


    ¡°I said I don¡¯t wanna!¡±


    She doesn''t talk. Then, the screen changes. A picture of a bird pops up, big wings stretched wide. "Would you like to learn about this creature instead?"


    I shake my head. I don¡¯t want birds. I don¡¯t want lessons. I want¡­


    I don¡¯t know what I want.


    The ship hasn¡¯t moved for days. I know because I¡¯ve been counting. I press my hand to the cold wall, feeling the hum of the engine. It¡¯s weak, barely even there. We¡¯re just sitting here, stuck in the middle of a desert with no name.


    I roll onto my back and sigh. I can¡¯t stay in here anymore.


    My stomach growls as I slip out of bed, dragging my feet into the hall. The ship is quiet. It¡¯s always quiet. Only my breathing and the soft click, click of my steps make any sound. When I reach the dining area, I stop.


    Illume¡¯s not here.


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    He¡¯s always here. Sitting in the corner. Not talking. Not eating much. Just staring at me like I¡¯m something he stepped on. But now, the chair is empty. The room is empty.


    I peek around. ¡°Illume?¡±


    Nothing.


    A shiver creeps up my arms. He wouldn¡¯t leave. Would he?


    I take another step forward¡ªand that¡¯s when I see it.


    The gate is open.


    I freeze. The wind howls outside, kicking up swirls of dark pink dust. It spills into the ship, curling like fingers reaching inside. My heartbeat thumps hard in my chest.


    "Rain," Hope warns, her voice sharp. "You are not permitted to exit the ship. It is dangerous outside. Please return to your room."


    I don¡¯t listen.


    I don''t care.


    I have to know where he is.


    ¡°Rain!¡± Hope orders, but before I let her speak anymore, I press my fingers to my ear and mute her. The silence feels strange. I never mute her.


    My feet move before I can stop them. One step. Two. Then, I¡¯m outside.


    The wind screams past my ears, shoving against me. Sand needles my skin, filling my mouth when I gasp. The air tastes sharp, dry. The sky is dark and swirling, and I have to squint just to see where I¡¯m going. I shield my eyes, pushing forward, up the hill next to the ship.


    I don¡¯t know why I¡¯m doing this. I just¡ª


    Then, I see him.


    Illume is sitting at the very edge of the cliff.


    His back is straight, arms resting on his knees. His long coat flaps in the wind. His hair is messy, stuck to his face. He doesn¡¯t move. Not even a little.


    I step closer. The sand shifts under my feet. ¡°Illume?¡±


    Nothing.


    I swallow. He¡¯s been out here for days. I know he has.


    I inch forward, my hand reaching out. ¡°Illume, are you okay?¡±


    My fingers brush his shoulder.


    He shivers.


    A second later, he turns.


    His eyes¡ªred. Bloodshot. Wild. Like a monster¡¯s.


    Then, he shoves me.


    I hit the ground hard, coughing as dust flies into my mouth. Before I can get up, his hands are on me. Tight. His fingers curl around my throat.


    I choke. My legs kick, my arms flail, but he doesn¡¯t let go. His grip is strong, squeezing, squeezing¡ª


    ¡°You thought you could sneak up on me?¡± His voice is rough, shaking. His breath smells bitter, like something rotten. ¡°You think I wouldn¡¯t notice?¡±


    I can¡¯t breathe.


    ¡°You¡ª¡± His voice is cracked, raw, like he hasn¡¯t spoken in days. ¡°You don¡¯t get to sneak up on me. You don¡¯t get to¡ª¡± His fingers tighten. ¡°I could kill you. Right here. Right now. And no one would care. You hear me? No one. Because you¡¯re the reason I¡¯m here!¡±


    My vision blurs.


    I try to fight, but my arms feel weak. My chest burns.


    I don¡¯t know what he means. I don¡¯t understand.


    I just¡ª


    The world turns black.

 Chapter 15_Klev

    The cabin breathes around me, its old bones groaning in the cold. I sit hunched over my work, my fingers gliding over the carved figure in my lap. The Great Sister¡ªhalf-finished, her face still rough, her body waiting for life. I carve slower now, like stalling will make time pause.


    But time doesn¡¯t care. It keeps moving. And soon, he¡¯ll be gone.


    A shadow falls over the window. Heavy footsteps. The door swings open.


    I don¡¯t look up. I already know who it is.


    ¡°Klev.¡±


    His voice is firm, steady. No trace of the carefree tone I used to mock. I grit my teeth. ¡°Don¡¯t just stand there. If you''re gonna come in, at least make yourself useful.¡±


    Vortex steps inside. He doesn¡¯t say anything, just looks around¡ªlike he¡¯s trying to memorize the place.


    Like he¡¯s already gone.


    I keep carving, ignoring him. ¡°So, tomorrow¡¯s the big day, huh?¡±


    He nods. ¡°Yeah.¡±


    He stops talking. I don¡¯t like it.


    ¡°Guess I should be honored," I say, my voice light but forced. "The great hero Vortex decides to grace me with his presence before running off to be some military dog.¡±


    His jaw tightens, but he doesn¡¯t rise to it.


    I set my carving knife down. ¡°You really think you¡¯re ready?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    A simple, unwavering answer.


    My stomach knots. I shake my head, scoffing. ¡°You don¡¯t belong there.¡±


    He exhales through his nose. ¡°I don¡¯t belong here.¡±


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    I hate that he says it like a fact. Like I¡¯m just supposed to accept it. I grip the Great Sister tighter, pressing my thumb against the ridges I carved into her spine.


    A sound breaks through our thoughts¡ªa deep, low rustling from outside.


    I glance at the window. ¡°What was that?¡±


    Vortex turns, stepping closer to the door. I peek too, a shadow shifts between the trees. A slow, hulking form¡ªthick fur matted with dirt, steam curling from its nostrils. The air suddenly smells like old hides.


    He touches my face pushing me back, ¡°A bear,¡± he says, ¡°Klev, why''s there a goddamn Bear comin¡¯ at your cabin?¡±


    I remove his hand from my face. ¡°Oi! The hell do I know! Maybe it''s after you.¡±


    A snort, closer this time. My pulse spikes.


    Vortex steps toward the door. I grab his wrist. ¡°Hey¡ªwhat are you doing?¡±


    He doesn¡¯t answer. He just reaches for the handle, but before he can react, the door slams forward with a heavy THUD. Wood splinters. Then a growl.


    The bear is trying to get in.


    Vortex shoves his weight against the door, holding it shut. ¡°Klev, move that crate over!¡±


    I freeze.


    ¡°Klev!¡±


    ¡°I¡ª¡± My thoughts scatter. ¡°What if it breaks through?¡±


    ¡°Then I¡¯ll deal with it,¡± he snaps. ¡°Move the damn crate!¡±


    I don¡¯t. My body locks up, my breath shallow. I hate this. I hate how sure he sounds. How he takes control without hesitation. Like he¡¯s already better than me.


    The bear slams into the door again. Vortex grits his teeth. ¡°Klev, I swear¡ª¡±


    ¡°Why do you even think you can do this?!¡± I spit out. ¡°You can¡¯t join the army. You¡¯re not¡ª¡±


    I don¡¯t finish. But he knows.


    His breath stills. His grip tightens.


    Then, without a word, he lets go of the door.


    And opens it.


    The bear lurches forward¡ªbut Vortex doesn¡¯t step back. Instead, he roars.


    Not a yell. Not a scream. A full, deep, roar.


    The bear doesn¡¯t flinch. But it stops. Ears flick forward. A slow, testing exhale clouds the air between them. Then, just as it starts to lunge again¡ª


    Vortex moves first. He plants his feet, his breath steady. Not tense¡ªcontrolled. I see it now, the way his muscles coil beneath his shirt, the way his stance shifts slightly. Like a fighter. Like he¡¯s done this before.


    A blur of motion. His fist slams into the bear¡¯s nose.


    A solid, bone-shaking crack. The bear recoils, dazed.


    I did not just see him do that.


    Vortex can''t do that. He¡ª


    The bear shakes its head, snorting, confused. Blood dribbles from its nose where Vortex struck. It shifts, its breath heavy, a low growl bubbling in its throat¡ªbut it doesn¡¯t charge again.


    It watches him. The way he stands. The way he doesn¡¯t back down.


    And then, as if deciding it¡¯s not worth the fight, it huffs and turns and trudges away.


    Vortex watches until it disappears into the trees. Then he exhales, rolling his shoulder.


    I stand there, still frozen, my pulse hammering in my ears.


    He finally looks at me. ¡°You done standin¡¯ around?¡±


    My fists clench. My throat burns. I hate him. I hate how he makes me feel small.


    He steps past me, rubbing his knuckles. ¡°I¡¯m leavin¡¯,¡± he says, like I didn¡¯t already know.


    I swallow hard. ¡°...Fine.¡±


    He doesn¡¯t wait for me to say more. He just walks away, disappearing into the trees like the bear.


    I grip the Great Sister in my hands. The wood is solid. Unmoving. Unlike everything else.


    I press my thumb against the carved ridges and whisper, ¡°You won¡¯t leave me.¡±


    Not like him. Not like everyone else.


    I squeeze my eyes shut, and for the first time in years, I wish she were real.


    Because then maybe I wouldn¡¯t be left alone.

 Chapter 16_Rain

    The walls are covered in spirals. Twisting, endless spirals carved into the decrepit wood, their grooves deep from years of obsession. I sit in the hollow center of my cabin, the knife in my hand, my breath fogging the air. Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. I don¡¯t count anymore.


    These spirals mean nothing. Just the mindless markings of someone who forgot what normal felt like.


    ¡°This is your world now,¡± the voice slithers through my thoughts, curling cold against my spine. ¡°Not much of one, is it?¡±


    I shut my eyes, but it only makes the voice louder.


    It wasn¡¯t always like this. In the beginning, there was Hope.


    She lasted a few months before the isolation tore her apart. First, it was static. Her voice cracking, glitching, twisting into something warped and wrong. She¡¯d say things that made no sense. Whisper numbers that meant nothing. Sometimes she laughed¡ªjagged, broken sounds that sent shivers down my spine.


    And then, one day, she started screaming.


    I muted her. Permanently.


    After that, there was only silence. And Illume.


    Not in the flesh, but in the spaces between my thoughts, where his voice festers and the phantom of his grips around my throat. I tell myself it isn¡¯t real, that it¡¯s just the ghost of memory gnawing away at me. But the cold has a way of making ghosts real.


    I press my palm against my View, activating it. The projection flickers weakly¡ªstatic-laced, barely functional. Years of trying to amplify its range, all for nothing. The storm outside devours signals. No messages. No way to get out of this frozen hell.


    ¡°You don¡¯t. It''s simple.¡± Illume laughs.


    I suck in a breath, fingers tightening around the knife. Not real. Not real. But then the scarf flashes in my mind¡ªwhite against the storm, vanishing into the blizzard as I screamed his name.


    He didn''t even look back.


    ¡°I did look back once,¡± his voice scratches through my skull. ¡°Just to be sure I wasn¡¯t dragging dead weight anymore.¡±


    I slam the knife into the wood, splintering against the grain. My hands are shaking.


    And then¡ª


    A sound.


    A faint shudder through the floor.


    I freeze.


    Crunches of footsteps.


    My pulse spikes. Slowly, I wipe the frost from the window. Snow whirls in violent gusts, but something moves within it. A dark figure, shifting with the storm, its edges blurred by wind and ice.


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    A scarf flutters. White.


    I stagger back from the window.


    "No. You¡¯re not real."


    ¡°Keep telling yourself that.¡±


    "Why?" I whisper. "For what?"


    The voice in my mind stirs, too familiar. ¡°To finish what I should¡¯ve done long ago.¡±


    ¡°K-kill me?¡± I gulp, shutting my eyes for a moment. "No," I hiss, opening them, "I¡¯m not letting you do this."


    The crunching grows louder. Closer. My breath fogs faster. I stumble back, fumbling for my pack. My hands shake as I shove supplies into my bag.


    The cabin door groans as I push it open, and the storm devours me.


    The wind slams into my body, ice spiking at my face, but I force my legs forward, which drown in shallows.


    The boat¡ªI just have to reach the boat.


    I know leaving is stupid. Suicidal. The ice stretches forever¡ªI don¡¯t even know if there¡¯s land out there. If I go, I might never stop drifting.


    But if I stay¡­


    The crunching behind me grows faster.


    I picture his hands around my throat again. I picture the spirals in the wood, the silence, the freezing nights where my own breath felt like my biggest enemy.


    I can¡¯t stay here.


    I¡¯d rather drown.


    The crunching turns into a sprint.


    He¡¯s chasing me.


    I lunge for the boat, its frame sagging under layers of ice. The ropes are frayed, the hull warped. I don¡¯t care. I shove it into the water, my legs numb as the icy waves rush over them. I leap inside, hands fumbling for the paddles.


    The shore starts to fade.


    I think I¡¯ve escaped.


    He can''t get me anymore.


    ¡°Don''t be so cocky.¡± he says, full of venom.


    I hesitate. He is a voice in my head, but he''s never wrong.


    I turn, looking behind.


    Nothing.


    By air?


    No. The evening sky is clear.


    Then¡ªI see it.


    A shape beneath the surface.


    The water trembles. A dark mass coils beneath my boat, fast, massive. My stomach twists. The View flickers.


    Warning¡ª


    Shut up.


    Then¡ª


    A crack splits the air. The water erupts, a geyser of ice and darkness. Something rises¡ªa twisted amalgamation of spirals and scales, its body shifting like a living storm. Black, empty eyes bore into me, indifferent. The same look Illume had before he left me. But this is not him.


    It moves, a step shaking me to the core.


    I lurch back, fingers scrambling for my knife. It¡¯s useless. This thing twists, writhes, shifting between water and sky, storm and flesh.


    My knife is a joke.


    ¡°You see it, don¡¯t you?¡± Illume¡¯s voice drips into my mind. ¡°The reflection of your failure. Now it hunts you, thriving on your weakness.¡±


    This thing¡ªis after me?


    The creature surges forward, claws slicing the air. I dodge, the impact sending a shockwave through the boat. Ice splinters. Water sloshes over the sides.


    I can''t fight this.


    It''s going to kill me.


    ... Damn it.


    I¡ªI only ever wanted to see it for myself.


    A life where I control my decisions.


    A life where I can dream.


    A life where I have some value¡ª


    ¡°Goodbye Rain.¡±


    SHUT. UP.


    The monster takes a step back.


    I didn''t realize it.


    The frost.


    It clings to its body, creeping into the spaces between its shifting form. The cold resists it. Fights it.


    The same cold that¡¯s been my prison¡ªit¡¯s protecting me.


    I lunge forward, shoving with everything I have. The creature thrashes, roaring as ice spreads over its body, locking its limbs, freezing it mid-motion. I collapse to my knees, gasping, my fingers numb.


    Eat that Illume. I am alive.


    I look back at the shore.


    Dark figures stand against the blizzard, watching. Motionless. Their silhouettes distorted by the storm.


    There are more¡­ What are they?


    I activate the View. The display glitches, text blinking in and out.


    ¡­ Scaled¡­ and¡­ vile¡­ Genetic¡­ Conglomerate¡­


    My throat tightens.


    Then, a red warning¡ª


    RUN.

 Chapter 17_Vortex

    The ship groans as it settles, metal joints screechin¡¯ like some beast draggin¡¯ itself ashore. Soon as my boots hit the ramp, the air switch up on me. That cold, sterile ship air? Gone. Now it¡¯s thick, sticky heat, like the island tryna choke me out before I even step foot on it.


    Bacteria Island. Man, even the name sound like a death sentence. I flex my fists. Ain¡¯t no turnin¡¯ back now.


    Up ahead, recruits movin¡¯ in a long-ass line, slow like cattle. They steppin¡¯ up one by one, names gettin¡¯ called off. I hear voices nearby before I even see ¡®em.


    "Commander Romeo is hot," some girl scoffs, soundin¡¯ real amused.


    "Yeah? You have a thing for statues?" some dude shoots back.


    I glance forward. There he go. Romeo. Built like somebody carved him outta gold and bronze, standin¡¯ there like he own the sun. He don¡¯t gotta try¡ªhis stance just solid, effortless. A commander. A soldier. A hero. That¡¯s all I know ¡®bout him. That, and what these two runnin¡¯ they mouths about.


    The girl talkin¡¯ like she own the whole damn island. The dude got that kinda smirk that say he don¡¯t take nothin¡¯ too serious.


    "Name: Lanny."


    Dude steps forward, mock-salutes, walks like this all a joke.


    "Name: Canny."


    Girl flick her hair back, walkin¡¯ smooth like she on a runway.


    "Name: Vortex."


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    I step up. A scan washes over me¡ªheight, weight, all that. They don¡¯t ask. They just take. The examiner don¡¯t even look up. Just another body in a line.


    Next room colder. Smell like antiseptic and somethin¡¯ metallic¡ªblood? The examiner¡¯s hands cold as hell, pressin¡¯ into my skin like he tryna calibrate me or some shit. A needle jab my arm, fast and careless. No warning. No explanation. Just movin¡¯ through the motions. I flex my fingers, sting still sittin¡¯ there, but he already done with me.


    "Healthy," he mutters, barely even soundin¡¯ interested. "For now."


    I step out into the sun again, jaw tight. Out in the field, rows of recruits standin¡¯ in formation. I spot Lanny and Canny, slide up next to ¡®em.


    "What¡¯s goin¡¯ on?" I ask.


    "You new?" Lanny grins.


    "We all are, idiot," Canny sighs.


    Lanny chuckles. "Yeah, yeah. They¡¯re splitting us into squads. About thirty per unit. We¡¯re getting a trainer. Bet he¡¯s a real lovely guy."


    Lovely ain¡¯t the word I¡¯d use.


    A man steps forward. Big as hell, barrel-chested, beard looking¡¯ like it¡¯s carved outta iron. Scar across his nose, cigar hangin¡¯ from his teeth, smoke curlin¡¯ lazy in the air. When he talk, his voice shake the ground.


    "You will sleep standing," he grunts. "Eat hanging. Die laughing."


    I squint. Front right, a recruit strugglin¡¯ with his belt¡ªdude tryna hold up his pants without makin¡¯ it obvious. One bad buckle away from flashin¡¯ the whole squad. Canny nudges me, sees it too. I bite my lip.


    "You think war is some glorious march?" Klaus growls. "You think you¡¯re heroes?"


    Dude¡¯s belt finally gives up on life. His pants hit his ankles.


    A stiff breeze. Nobody breathes.


    Except Lanny, who chokes out, "Bro¡­" before I lose it. A sharp exhale, barely a laugh, but it enough.


    Klaus¡¯ gaze snap to me like a gun barrel turnin¡¯.


    "You."


    Shit.


    His boots pound the dirt, until he right over me. That cigar still burnin¡¯, ember glowin¡¯ like the devil¡¯s eye.


    "You find that funny?" he asks. ¡°Tell me soldier, what are you doing here?¡±


    I freeze up. Mouth open, no words. My brain screamin¡¯, but my tongue? Dead.


    Klaus leans in, voice droppin¡¯ low, like he pryin¡¯ my ribs open with sound alone.


    "Why are you here?"


    Heat pressin¡¯ down. Eyes on me. The whole damn squad watchin¡¯. My heart slammin¡¯ against my chest. And then, like my body decide before my brain can catch up¡ª


    "I wanna be a hero!"


    Everything go quiet.


    Then¡ª


    A wheeze.


    Laughter.


    A wave of it, crashin¡¯ over me. Some folks chucklin¡¯, others straight-up howlin¡¯.


    "A hero? Oh, that¡¯s rich!"


    "What, you tryna be in a movie?"


    "Bro, you lost?"


    But Klaus don¡¯t laugh.


    He just stare. Long. Hard. Like he lookin¡¯ past my words, past me, tryna find somethin¡¯ buried deeper.


    Then he straightens up, turns away.


    "Then act like you mean it," he says, voice sharp as steel.


    And just like that, he roll right back into his speech.


    "You are meat. Flesh and bone, waiting to be devoured."


    I exhale, chest tight. Ain¡¯t no rewind button on what I just said.


    But maybe I don¡¯t want one.


    ¡®Cause that ain''t a lie.


    I mean it.

 Chapter 18_Rain

    The sky is a smear of blue, the twin suns clinging to it with a small hue of red. The boat beneath me creaks with each icy wave that slaps its sides. I lay on the shivering carcass adrift in this vast graveyard, watching my foggy breaths curl into delicate wisps before dissolving.


    Numbness has become an old friend, one that wraps itself around me like the algid I can¡¯t escape. I glance at my hands¡ªstiff, curled into fists that haven¡¯t unclenched in hours.


    And pain. It has dulled to a slow throbbing, a kind that is enough to remind me that I¡¯m alive, even if it feels like a joke at this point.


    ¡°You should have died there.¡±


    His voice slithers.


    ¡°I shut you out,¡± I rasp, on my final breaths. ¡°You¡¯re not real.¡±


    ¡°I was never real to you, was I?¡± He muses, tone laced with venom. ¡°But that didn¡¯t stop you from screaming my name in the storm, did it?¡±


    I clench my teeth.


    Shut up.


    The water rocks beneath me in a slow, rhythmic lull, calling sleep to latch against my skull. But I don¡¯t let it take me. I can¡¯t. The cold will eat me alive if I do.


    I reach for my bag. I have some ice there. I can drink it¡ª


    My frozen hand drops it in the water.


    I gasp, sitting straight, throwing my arms to grab it, but it''s gone.


    Shit.


    Shit.


    Shit.


    Maybe I should turn back.


    Maybe that frozen hell is better than this after all.


    ¡°It is only going to get worse.¡± Illume whispers. I can feel his hot breath against my ear.


    The wind howls through the emptiness, dragging ghosts across the water. I pull my coat tighter, but it does nothing against the ache buried underneath.


    A thunderous rumble wakes me from my failing slumber. I open my heavy eyelids.


    It''s not from the sky, but from the ocean itself. The tremors rise through the wood, the waves ripple, pulled by something massive.


    I push myself up, lightheaded, muscles under the spell of the cold. And then I see it¡ªemerging from the mist like a behemoth splitting the horizon.


    A ship.


    Not just any ship.


    It is colossal, a silhouette of steel and hunger, its engines growling menacingly. The hull rises from the water, glistening with frost, its surface jagged like the spine of some ancient beast. It moves with purpose, cutting through the ocean, bound for something unseen beyond the horizon.


    I forget to breath.


    I stumble forward, gripping the boat¡¯s edge, raising a trembling hand. I have to make them see me.


    ¡°I am here.¡± I croak.


    But they don¡¯t hear me. They don''t slow. The ship doesn¡¯t acknowledge my existence.


    Because to them, I am invisible.


    ¡°Insignificant. Like driftwood,¡± Illume whispers, almost fondly. ¡°You always were.¡±


    No.


    If they can''t see me, I''ll find my own way in.


    I start paddling, my bones grinding against each other, stripping flesh off my arms. But I won''t stop. I can¡¯t stop. If I miss this chance, I''ll¡ª


    I''ll be a dead corpse floating in this ocean.


    A warning flickers in my vision: Do not trust anyone.


    I let out a sharp breath, half in frustration, half in acknowledgment. Five years of isolation drilled that lesson into me well enough. I made that mistake once. Not anymore, and the View is here to make sure of it.


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    My eyes dart upward, catching the glint of a heavy chain swaying just above the waterline.


    I grit my teeth, reaching out, and yank it. The chain rattles, digging into my skin, but I don¡¯t loosen my grip. My foot slips against the hull as I hoist myself up. The View pulses in the corner of my eye¡ªMuscle fatigue detected. Risk of collapse. I shove the alerts aside, pulling my body higher. I¡¯ve come too far to stop now.


    I''m halfway up, almost there. But my grip is faltering. I can feel my fingers peel away from the frozen links, one by one¡ªthen, with a violent jerk, I latch onto the chain again.


    I bite down a scream, forcing my limbs to obey. Not yet, I can do more.


    The wind howls past me, whipping through my soaked clothes as I haul myself over the railing and collapse onto the deck.


    For a long quiet minute, I just lay there, sprawled across the metal, gasping for breath. I did it.


    I shut my eyes feeling the ship breathing beneath me, the hum of its engines sending warmth through the floor.


    Warmth.


    I exhale. Steam rises from my skin. My breath¡ªmy body¡ªis releasing heat.


    Fascinated, I push myself up on shaking arms, watching the thin wisps curl into the sunlit air. The suns¡ªthey''re rising. Golden. The rays stretch across the ship, catching on the frost that coats my sleeves, turning it into glistening droplets. The moisture slides off my skin like melting glass.


    It¡¯s strange. Alien.


    I lift my hands toward the light, watching as the heat soaks into my fingers, prickling like tiny needles. My bones, my muscles, everything aches, but the warmth dulls it. I don¡¯t remember the last time I felt something this¡­ gentle.


    Laughter.


    I flinch.


    Down the deck, voices rise¡ªtalking, laughing.


    Human voices.


    People.


    I haven¡¯t heard another person in years.


    I¡ªI can finally get out of this nightmare.


    My feet lift before I can think. I¡ª


    Do not trust anyone.


    The View cuts through my thoughts, static ripping at the edges of my vision.


    I freeze.


    The warmth, the golden light, the voices¡ªit all fades under that single reminder.


    I swallow hard. My stomach churns, twisting with something ugly. It doesn¡¯t matter how much I want to go to them. I mustn''t.


    The ache in my gut sharpens, my stomach growling heavily.


    My eyes dart around, landing on a man slumped in a chair, snoring softly. A bag hangs from the back of his seat.


    I move.


    Slow. Careful.


    I reach into the bag, fingers brushing over plastic¡ªit''s water¡ªand something crinkly. I pull out both and retreat. But then¡ª


    A sharp clang.


    Shit.


    My foot hit a loose crate. The man stirs, muttering.


    ¡°Hey¡ª¡± he shouts, searching around. ¡°Where¡¯s my damn water!?¡±


    I duck behind another crate, heart hammering.


    I need this more. He should eat ice for a change.


    I scan the ship¡ªan iron container looms just ahead. If I climb it, I can get a vantage point.


    I claw my way up, fingers still slick with seawater. Sunray hits my face as I roll on top.


    I tear open the food packet with shaking hands. The scent wafts up, rich and earthy. I know these¡ªtruffle chips. My View stutters, they¡¯re bitter.


    But it¡¯s all I have.


    As soon as I shove one into my mouth, something inside me explodes.


    Salt. Oil. Flavor.


    It¡¯s overwhelming. My throat tightens. I don¡¯t know if I want to laugh or cry.


    I shove another in. Then another. I can¡¯t stop. I don¡¯t want to stop. It¡¯s so different from the bland, dense bricks I had to survive by.


    This is life. This is pleasure.


    I twist the cap off the water bottle, tilting it back. The lukewarm liquid rushes down my throat, and I nearly choke on it. It burns in a way ice never could. My body shudders as the warmth spreads through me, deep into my frozen bones.


    I stare down at the bottle, fingers curling around it. How could something so simple be so¡ª


    The View flickers again, flashing warnings:


    Body temperature rising.


    Fever detected.


    Risk of system failure.


    I scroll past them, half-focused, my fingers sluggish. The usual alerts¡ªfatigue, muscle degradation, hypothermia¡ªblur together.


    I want them gone.


    I just want to enjoy this.


    Then¡ª


    It glitches. A flicker of corrupted text.


    And in its place¡ª


    The Consummates. The pinnacle of human evolution.


    I freeze.


    The food I was enjoying, the water that felt like nectar sliding down my parched throat¡ªall of it dies away.


    The Consummates. Better. Smarter. The ones who reshaped themselves into something beyond human.


    And here I am. A half-dead wreck, picking scraps from a sleeping man¡¯s bag.


    ¡°You are worse.¡± Illume mutters, returning with a breeze.


    I remember his hands pressing against my throat.


    He said his state was because of me.


    ¡°That''s right,¡± he agrees, almost gleefully, ¡°Just end it already.¡±


    I squeeze my eyes shut. My pulse pounds in my skull.


    Then¡ª


    A deep rumble.


    I jolt upright. The deck beneath me is vibrating.


    A shadow falls over me.


    I glance towards the horizon.


    The suns, once golden and high, now hang behind a wall of black water.


    A tidal wave.


    It stretches across the ocean, blotting out the sky, swallowing everything. The ship tilts as the engines roar, fighting against the pull of the oncoming wave.


    Shouts rise from the crew. Alarms go blaring.


    Panic. Fear. Urgency.


    The wind howls, and with it¡ª


    ¡°Here, an easy way out.¡±


    Illume¡¯s voice.


    I grit my teeth.


    I won¡¯t drown.


    I won''t die.


    My eyes dart around the deck.


    ¡ªthere!


    A lifeboat. To the side of the ship. Small, but enough.


    I push myself up, legs weak but moving.


    The waves are closing in.


    One kilometer till impact.


    The View practically screams.


    I ignore it.


    Seven hundred meters.


    I jump the lifeboat, fingers closing around the release lever. I yank. It jams.


    Four.


    I grunt, bracing myself, and shout, ¡°Open!¡±


    ¡ªTwo.


    Pulling again. Harder¡ªOne!


    The lever snaps free. The lifeboat crashes into the water. The wave comes crashing against the ship.


    I don¡¯t have time to jump¡ªI fall over.


    The ocean swallows me whole. Cold. Darkness.


    I am not dying.


    I am not dying.


    I break the surface, gasping, reaching. My fingers latch onto the boat¡¯s edge.


    I haul myself inside.


    I made it.


    But now what?


    What difference does this make?


    Then¡ª


    The world breaks apart.


    Another tide. Bigger.


    The ocean itself¡ªCrash.


    The shouts drown. Metal groans. The ship tilts, the deck lurching. I grab at my wooden boat, twisting as the shadow of the ship looms. The sky vanishes. Water swallows everything in a wall of black.


    Impact¡ª


    Like being slammed into stone.

 Chapter 19_Jrake

    This is going to be another glorious disaster.


    Last time, Ortol threw me into a thallasorid siphoning nest. Which, in non-insane terms, was a cave swarming with alien hemorrhoids.


    And now? He¡¯s telling me to check out some weird heat signatures in the middle of a scrapyard. Get some fresh air, he said. Do something productive, he said.


    Right. Because when Ortol tells me to leave my lab in the dead of the night and go investigate something, it¡¯s definitely about my well-being and not a ploy to get me killed by some eldritch horror.


    Naturally, I grab my wrench, scanner, and zero survival instincts.


    The ship ride is a quick¡ªwhoosh¡ªand I land in a grand display of questionable piloting skills.


    ¡°Behold!¡± I announce, stepping out, arms wide. ¡°A man armed with caffeine and a complete disregard for self-preservation!¡±


    The scrapyard greets me with its signature cocktail of rust, oil, and terrible ideas. But today, there¡¯s a new note in the fragrance¡ªsomething damp, salty, and very fish-adjacent. Not in a ¡®seared salmon'' way. More in a ¡®something drowned here, and we just stopped pretending to care¡¯ way.


    I frown at my scanner, which flickers with something too warm to be metal and too organized to be a malfunction.


    That¡¯s not normal. And that¡¯s definitely not scrap.


    "Hello?" I call out. Echoes answer.


    Hmm... I slap my scanner. Could have been a false alarm¡ª


    A shadow shifts between two jagged piles of junk.


    It''s freakishly tall. Moves like water, stands like a weapon with limbs. Sharp ridges cut along its body, each one catching the dull glow of my ship¡¯s lights. But the real problem?


    Its eyes.


    Two glowing orbs, way too bright, scanning me like I¡¯m its leftover dinner.


    I swallow hard but, hey, never let common sense ruin a moment.


    ¡°Stop it. You¡¯re making me blush.¡± I blurt, with my pathetic attempt to start a conversation.


    It steps forward.


    Baddum.


    Smooth.


    Baddum.


    Effortless¡ªNot good. My heart¡¯s about to hit the Emergency Eject.


    Options:


    Run? Straight into its arms. Or, you know, ¡®approximation of arms¡¯.


    Fight? Sure, if I want my obituary to read ¡°Tried to punch death.¡±


    Talk? If it enjoys sarcasm.


    Regret? Already there.


    Flirt? Bold strategy for a virgin.


    Then it speaks. Not with a mouth. With some translator device latched to its neck, spitting out its words in real-time.


    "You are not¡­ what I expected."


    Fantastic. It expected something.


    ¡°Yeah, I get that a lot. Most people expect I''d be dead by now.¡±


    No laughter. Tough crowd.


    ¡°You are coming with me.¡±


    Wh¡ªwhat did it just say?


    Why is he coming towards me?


    ¡°¡ªWait, no, see, I actually already have a date¡ª"


    Nope. Energy-bound cuffs snap around my wrists, and before I can yell something heroic like ¡®unhand me, fish overlord!¡¯, I¡¯m hoisted over its shoulder like a particularly annoying sack of potatoes.


    I can¡¯t tell where we¡¯re going. The guy¡ªlet¡¯s call him Triton¡ªknocks the wind out of me the second I try looking around.


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    We must have gone quite far in a short amount of time, because when I woke up, the sound of metal gave way to sand, and soon, the salty breeze confirmed my suspicions: shoreline. We¡¯re near the ocean.


    The guy ran faster than an ostrich.


    Once I get a glimpse of where we are, I regret my entire existence. A sprawl of machines and labs, half-buried in sand, half-standing like relics of a war not yet fought.


    The other half; towering spires, clusters of consoles flickering with alien scripts, a central dome housing tanks of swirling liquid.


    This isn¡¯t just a camp.


    This is a factory. A machine priming itself to remake the planet.


    More of Triton¡¯s kind dwell here, moving in perfect unison, their scaled bodies working in eerie efficiency. It''s different from humans. Not sloppy.


    And the smell¡ªsalt, metal, blood.


    ¡°Not the best spot for a date.¡± I muse.


    Triton doesn''t pay heed to me. He ties me up to a hunk of metal in the middle of camp, my arms magnetically secured so I dangle like some weird fish-man pi?ata. Is this his idea of revenge on us hanging salmon?


    And leaves me be¡ªgreat.


    I am fish food.


    Some of them take hungry glances at me. Others wear masks, hiding those sharp teeth that would otherwise glint in the firelight. One in particular stands out¡ªa spiky bastard, covered in jagged ridges that look more like weapons than armor. He¡¯s mid-argument with another Navorian, their voices rising.


    ¡°The Hammer is the strongest,¡± Spiky declares.


    ¡°No,¡± the other hisses. ¡°The Gauntlet.¡±


    They explode into motion¡ªtwo three-meter-tall war machines crashing into each other, claws slashing, muscles straining. The fight sends sand and sparks flying.


    I¡¯ve seen bar fights over less.


    And then¡ª


    A knife meant for Spiky¡¯s throat, but nope¡ªbad aim, great luck. It cuts through my restraints instead.


    I drop, hitting the ground with all the grace of a dying starfish.


    New plan:


    Crawl.


    Avoid getting stepped on.


    Don¡¯t die.


    The two titans crash through the battlefield, throwing each other against metal and earth. I scramble backward, but the fight doesn¡¯t care about personal space. A stray swing nearly turns me into Jrake-flavored pavement.


    And then¡ªit stops.


    Not because they¡¯re tired.


    Because of him.


    Triton, my hero. (baddum, baddum)


    His shadow glides between them, effortless, undeterred. Where the others are raw aggression, he is precision.


    There¡¯s no rage in his movements, only a quiet, knowing strength that makes the others freeze mid-motion.


    My, this is too much for my heart.


    His voice is low. ¡°Enough.¡±


    The fight dies instantly.


    I¡¯ve seen people command a room. I''ve seen them command armies. This. This is something else. This is a predator deciding when the hunt ends.


    The spiky one grunts but steps back.


    And then Triton turns¡ªto me.


    I want to make a joke. Something to cut through the overwhelming ¡®I am going to die¡¯ feeling my spine is wriggling about.


    But his eyes lock onto mine, and my brain shuts down.


    ¡°You,¡± he says, each syllable haunting. ¡°Are not supposed to be here.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, well,¡± I manage, ¡°tell that to my older brother.¡±


    No reaction. He studies me, then turns. ¡°Bring him.¡±


    Darkness.


    Again? Come on! I''ve got hostage rights. Where''s the lawyer?


    A few minutes later, the blindfold comes off. I¡¯m tied to a chair.


    Clich¨¦.


    Across from me, Triton, sharpening a very sharp sai.


    "Nice place," I say. "Ever consider interior lighting? Really opens up a room."


    He doesn¡¯t look up. Just keeps sharpening.


    "Okay, straight to it. What¡¯s this, Navorian hospitality? Should I expect turn-down service?"


    The scraping stops.


    His voice is quiet. "Why were you at the scrapyard?"


    "Parts," I say. "For my¡ªuh¡ªhobby."


    Silence. Then the blade scrapes again.


    "Mock me again," he says, "and you¡¯ll learn sarcasm has a price."


    Well, that¡¯s... ominous.


    "Look," I sigh, "I picked up heat signatures. Thought I¡¯d check it out. Didn¡¯t expect a ¡®talk-or-die¡¯ situation."


    Triton studies me.


    He leans forward, shadows crawling over his face like they¡¯re drawn to his presence. He¡¯s got this way of speaking¡ªlike every word is a current pulling you under, slow but unstoppable.


    And those eyes are starting to freak me out.


    "You remind me," he says, "of a Navorian long ago. A fool."


    Great. I love where this is going.


    "There was once a Navorian," he continues, "who saved a clam from death. A large thing, trapped in the shallows. He freed it, and it spoke to him."


    "Wait, wait," I say, raising my binded hands. "Talking clams? That¡¯s a thing?"


    Triton¡¯s gaze is unimpressed. "Everything speaks, if you listen."


    Well. That¡¯s weird.


    He goes on. "The clam was no ordinary creature¡ªit was an emperor where it reigned. Grateful, it gifted the Navorian a pearl as large as his head. Enough to buy a ship, a fleet, a city."


    "Nice," I say. "Happy ending, let¡¯s roll credits¡ª"


    "He wanted more."


    Of course he did.


    "He thought, ''If a lord has such gifts, what could a king offer?'' So he returned. Begged the clam for another gift, claiming he had done a great deed. The clam considered. And it gave."


    Triton¡¯s claws scrape against the edge of his sai. "The Navorian became wealthier. His name spread. But wealth breeds hunger. He returned once more, saying, ''I saved a great emperor. Do I not deserve an emperor''s reward?''"


    I shift in my chair. "Lemme guess. The clam starts seeing red?"


    "The clam hesitated. His kind struggled, their own pearls dwindling. But the Navorian insisted¡ªyou owe me your life. So the clam gave once more. And the Navorian became an emperor of his own oceans."


    A pause. Triton watches me like he¡¯s gaging whether I get it yet.


    I don¡¯t.


    But that doesn''t stop him from continuing the tale.


    "The Navorian," he says, softer now, "believed himself greater than the clams. Richer. Mightier. So he returned a final time¡ªnot to ask. But to demand."


    I lick my lips. I sure don''t want to know what happens next.


    "He ordered tribute," he says. "For his due. After all, the clam owed him everything.


    The clam did not argue. Did not refuse.


    The clam ate him."


    Silence.


    I''ve heard nothing worse. That ending sucked.


    Outside, the wind howls.


    Triton slowly trudges towards me, studying me like I¡¯m a puzzle missing a single, crucial piece. "The humans," he says, "are like that fool of a Navorian. They take. And take. And take. They demand what is not theirs. And so¡ª"


    His claws slowly move for my face. I move my head back, my heart about to burst out.


    "They will meet what comes for them.¡±


    Then¡ªunexpectedly¡ªunlocks my restraints.


    "Go."


    I rub my wrists. "Just like that?"


    He steps toward the cave entrance. The dawn is breaking, casting silver light across the ocean. But beyond it¡ª


    A glow.


    Brighter than the suns.


    Wind surges through the cave, not from the sky, but from the sea itself, tides smashing against the shoreline rashly.


    Something enormous is happening. Something irreversible.


    My stomach drops. ¡°What the hell was that?¡±


    ¡°Progress.¡±


    I step back. ¡°This is, what? A terraforming op? You¡¯re flooding the planet¡ª¡±


    His gaze snaps to mine. Cold. Absolute.


    ¡°This is just the beginning.¡±


    I don¡¯t stick around for the sequel. I run.


    Back to the scrapyard. Back to a world that has no idea what¡¯s coming.


    And as I stumble into the dust, a single thought pounds in my head:


    Yep, we''re screwed.

 Chapter 20_Cherry

    I wake up late.


    The wind howls outside, rattling the orphanage¡¯s brittle walls, but I don¡¯t move right away. The blankets are warm, clinging to me like vines. I really want to stay buried in them. But I can¡¯t. I¡¯m already behind.


    I push myself up, groggy and slow. My hair is a mess¡ªworse than usual¡ªand I barely manage to shove it out of my face as I stumble toward the door. The floor creaks beneath my steps, the orphanage groaning like an old man, as if it resents me for not waking up sooner.


    The kitchen is supposed to be empty. It always is. I¡¯m the one who does breakfast.


    But Klev is there.


    He¡¯s setting down plates, casual, like this is something he does every morning. The sight stops me in my tracks.


    "Wow," I say, still half-asleep. "Did I hit my head on the way down?"


    Klev glances up, smirking. "Good morning to you too, Cherry. Don¡¯t worry, you¡¯re not hallucinating. Unless you''re seeing me as a noble hero, bravely saving the household from starvation.¡±


    I blink, my brain catching up. "You¡¯re¡­ helping?"


    "I know. Shocking," he says, placing another plate down. ¡°Figured I should, since someone¡¯s making everything ten times harder around here."


    Zett.


    I let out a breath, shaking my head. "I should be the one thanking him, then."


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    "You really shouldn''t," Klev says, grinning. "He¡¯s the reason I¡¯m suffering."


    Breakfast is easier with an extra pair of hands. For a moment, I let myself enjoy the small mercy.


    But the day doesn¡¯t stay easy.


    Zett has changed.


    Since the blood oath, he¡¯s restless. More than that¡ªhe¡¯s going wild. A force that never stops moving.


    He runs. Every day. Through the forest, into the unknown, like something out there is calling him. He comes back covered in dirt, in leaves, in streaks of mud that cling to the floors no matter how hard I scrub them.


    He eats. More than he should. Three times what¡¯s normal, clearing his plate with a focus that borders on obsession.


    He¡¯s active¡ªclimbing things, jumping over fences, balancing on railings while holding rocks on his hands. And it doesn¡¯t help. It doesn¡¯t make anything better. It just makes my days harder.


    The orphanage is stretched thin as it is. The food. The chores. The constant mess. I can¡¯t keep up with him.


    And today is the last straw.


    He bursts through the door, dripping water, tracking mud, laughing. His hair is soaked, his grin wide.


    "You won¡¯t believe the river I found!" he says, breathless. "It was rushing fast¡ªI mean, really fast¡ªbut I jumped in. The current almost took me!"


    Klev looks up from his carving, unimpressed. "Did your brain get washed out or did you just lose a fight with common sense?"


    Zett laughs, shaking water from his sleeves. "Come on, it was awesome."


    I don¡¯t laugh. I don¡¯t even smile. I watch the water drip from his clothes onto the floor I¡¯ll have to wipe later. I think of the food disappearing faster than we can afford. I think of how tired I am, how I''ll barely get a break today. And I know¡ª


    I know he¡¯s going through something.


    But I can¡¯t carry it for him.


    "Zett."


    He turns, still beaming.


    "We need to talk."


    The words dim his expression. But he nods, following me to the side.


    I exhale, trying to find the right way to say this. "You need to stop."


    "Stop what?"


    "This," I gesture at him¡ªat the dirt, the exhaustion he''s clinging onto like it it''s actually important. "Running through the forest. Coming back like this. Eating more than we have to spare. I know you think¡ª"


    "I need it," he interrupts. His voice is firm. "To be strong."


    I press my fingers against my temple. "Zett, you don¡¯t need to¡ª"


    "I do," he says. His face is serious now, more than I¡¯ve ever seen it. "Cherry. I know what I need to do."


    The way he says it¡ªit sends a chill through me.


    I want to argue. I want to tell him that he¡¯s just a kid, that he doesn¡¯t have to carry something like this. That being strong isn¡¯t about running himself into the ground.


    But I see it in his eyes.


    This isn¡¯t something I can take from him.


    So I say the wrong thing.


    I tell him he¡¯s making things harder. I tell him the orphanage isn¡¯t built for this.


    And he looks at me¡ªhurt.


    Then he turns, without another word, and walks away.


    The second he does, I want to call him back. But I don''t. Instead, I just stand there, watching the water puddle he left behind, realizing too late that I should have said something else.


    He¡¯s going through something¡ªsomething important. And I told him to stop.


    I shouldn¡¯t have said that.

 Chapter 21_Rain

    I open my eyes and instantly feel the salt water burning my eyes and the acrid taste of it on my tongue. The last thing I remember is the ocean pulling me under, dragging me into its depths. Now, I¡¯m sprawled across something wooden, my legs dangling over the edge, seawater licking at my feet.


    A rooftop. What¡¯s left of one, at least.


    The world around me is drowned, buildings reduced to skeletons poking out from the flood. Tree branches twist from the water like the fingers of the dead. There is not a soul in sight.


    What happened?


    No. How am I alive?


    That wave should''ve ended me. But¡­


    ¡°Stop whining.¡± Illume jitters in, ¡°Just handle it yourself like a man.¡±


    Handle it like a man. Shut up. I am not going to take that from someone who tried to suffocate a nine year old.


    My view stutters as always, showing an update progress.


    It''s connected to the world server.


    Finally, one sliver of hope: I can make some sense of this mess.


    But first¡ªI need to move.


    My boat lay shattered nearby, but it''ll do. I drag it closer and break off a smaller piece to use as a paddle. The water is deceptively calm as I push off, the boat skimming across the surface. In the distance, a larger building promises shelter.


    "You¡¯ve always been resourceful," Illume¡¯s voice slithers through my mind. "What a shame it¡¯s never enough."


    I clench my teeth and shove the voice aside.


    As I crawl into the dark room, the View overlays fragmented news onto my vision.


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    A nuclear detonation at the poles caused the floods. Global instability. The world crumbling. And then¡ªMecanet.


    I sit behind a pillar. Mecanet, the name alone is a beacon. The galaxy of stability¡ªwhere chaos is controlled, where dreams come true. This planet just got a new world mayor from there, he announced the MECAT, a test for those who are worthy of education where he learnt. The first trial will be held in eighteen months. If I pass¡ª


    No.


    I have to pass.


    "Always running," Illume taunts. "Tell me, Rain¡ªdo you think leaving will make you anything more than what you already are?"


    I grind my teeth, but a sound pulls me from my thoughts. Footsteps.


    I freeze, pressing myself against the pillar. Peering out, I see him¡ªtall, silver-haired, his soaked clothes still bearing the faint mark of wealth. He moves with an air of entitlement, as if even this drowned world belongs to him.


    My hand creeps into my pocket, grasping my knife. In the cold wastelands, my only enemies were the elements and my own thoughts. But here? Everyone is a threat. Every survivor is desperate.


    And so am I.


    The man stops abruptly, his gaze snapping toward my hiding place. ¡°You can come out,¡± he says eloquently. ¡°I know you¡¯re there.¡±


    Warnings flash in my View, but I ignore them, stepping into the open. I keep my knife close.


    He flicks a strand of his hair arrogantly. ¡°Well, honest. Didn¡¯t think rats could swim.¡±


    He strolls toward me, inspecting me like I¡¯m less¡ªless than him, less than human.


    He clicks his tongue. ¡°You look like a stray. You do know what happens to strays, right?¡± He jabs his boot on my leg. I stagger back. ¡°They get put down.¡±


    I don¡¯t flinch, but my grip on the knife tightens.


    What''s he? A theatrical?


    His eyes flick to the weapon, then back to my face. ¡°Oh? Gonna use that? Please. You wouldn¡¯t last a second against someone like me.¡±


    He¡¯s toying with me. I don''t know what that means.


    ¡°Come on,¡± he drawls, poking my shoulder now, harder. ¡°Say something. Or are you just that pathetic?¡±


    "So," Illume whispers. "What¡¯s your plan, Rain? Beg your way out?"


    No. I¡¯m not here to beg. I¡¯m here to survive.


    He leans in, his breath hot against my face. ¡°You¡¯re breathing borrowed air. Do you even know the name Garnot¡ª¡±


    I move.


    It¡¯s not impulse. It¡¯s instinct.


    The knife slices down. Fast. Precise.


    His smirk shatters into a scream. Blood arcs through the air as his wrist splits open, his hand dangling by a thread of skin. He stumbles back, eyes wide.


    Just another obstacle.


    And I cut through it.


    "Good," Illume murmurs, his voice a dark caress. "You¡¯re learning."


    I am not learning, this is just who I am, Illume.


    I turn and run.


    Behind me, Garnot¡¯s voice is raw with pain, twisted with rage. ¡°Come back! I¡¯ll find you! You¡¯re dead, do you hear me? Dead!¡±


    His threats fade into the mist as I leap from the window and paddle into the flood.


    ¡°This is just who you are?¡± Illume laughs, ¡°Am I supposed to be scared?¡±


    No.


    But in eighteen months, I''ll get out of this planet.


    And then.


    I will find you.


    "Well then," he rumbles, "I can¡¯t wait.¡±

 Chapter 22_Elthraa

    You move, boy. Your body weaves through the emerald maze, a beast of hunger, of foolish conviction. The sack upon your shoulder bulges with plunder¡ªmushrooms plucked from shadowed roots, vermin snatched from branches, their warm bodies cooling in death¡¯s quiet grip. You kill, you gather, you feed. It is not for yourself. It is never for yourself.


    Cherry told you to stop. To cease your dream, your reckless devouring, your mess. Fool that she is¡ªdoes she not see? If you must take, you must also give. And so, you decide to bring them offerings, your hands stained with the wild¡¯s sacrifice.


    But ah, Zett, you are a creature of impulse. This is no mere act of atonement. It is instinct, unshackled.


    You wade into the river. A fish moves, sleek and silver, a bolt of life surging against the stream. You lunge, muscles igniting, hands closing around its thrashing body. The struggle is brief; your grip tightens, and it stills. Another. And another. Until the sack strains with your quarry.


    Then¡ªstillness.


    Your eyes lift.


    Across the water, a beast stands, its great bulk half-submerged, paws swiping through the shallows in pursuit of its own meal.


    A bear.


    You watch it. It watches nothing but the river, oblivious to your presence, too enraptured by its own hunger to acknowledge yours.


    For a moment, your mind stirs. Could I?


    You could not.


    But you do not listen, Zett. You never listen.


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    A grin carves its way across your face, teeth bared in reckless delight.


    And then you run.


    The bear does not see you at first. It does not expect such madness. But as you close the distance, its head jerks up¡ªtoo late. Your fist meets its face with the force of a fighter unchained.


    Flesh upon fur.


    A foolish act.


    The bear rears, its eyes igniting with fury, its roar a sound that shatters the world. The air trembles, the trees shudder, the river recoils.


    Then beast swipes.


    You remember Vortex, the way he would weave through phantom strikes, fists cutting the air like blades. You mimic him, and drop low, the instinct buried within your bones guiding you beneath its wrath.


    And yet, the wild is no training ground. A fish leaps¡ªpanicked, oblivious¡ªand its tail slaps your face.


    You slip and the river claims you.


    You thrash, the current dragging you, spinning you into chaos. Ahead, the bear lunges, undeterred by the water¡¯s grasp. It swims toward you, its hunger now eclipsed by fury.


    You will not lose.


    A boulder rises from the river¡¯s heart, slick with moss and time. You reach, fingers clawing at its surface. The world narrows to this moment¡ªthis single struggle. Your arms burn, your breath vanishes, but you pull. And then¡ªyou rise.


    The bear surges forward, teeth gleaming, death in its eyes.


    Your gaze shifts. A tree looms nearby, its form a ruin¡ªhalf-wrecked, half-standing, its trunk fractured by age and storm.


    Could you throw it?


    You could not.


    But you don''t heed logic.


    Your fingers press against the bark, muscles tensing, willing the impossible. It does not move.


    Above, the sky groans.


    A storm stirs, unseen until now. The heavens gather their fury, clouds thickening, whispering their warning.


    The bear climbs. Claws scrape against stone, its massive form ascending toward you, hunger and rage entwined in its every motion.


    The tree will not move.


    But the storm has other plans.


    A crack of light. A roar not of beast, but of sky.


    Lightning descends.


    The tree does not resist. It breaks, falls, finds its mark.


    The bear does not roar again.


    The air shudders with the scent of scorched bark, of something greater at work than mere coincidence.


    Zett. Not only are you a creature of madness, but of favor.


    But even the chosen are mortal.


    Your body falls. The ground rises to meet you, and the world fades before your mind can grasp what has occurred.


    The storm rumbles above, murmuring secrets to those who can listen.


    And you¡ª


    You do not hear.

 Chapter 23_Jrake

    The elevator rockets up so fast my stomach is about three floors behind me. I grip the rail like my life depends on it¡ªbecause if this thing malfunctions, I¡¯ll be a personalized smear on the ceiling.


    Ding. Doors open. I bolt.


    Through the pristine, white-lit hallway. Past the reinforced glass walls overlooking a world that¡¯s rapidly going off the rails. The closer I get, the worse the pit in my stomach feels.


    Ortol¡¯s office.


    The door is wide open.


    Inside¡ª


    Absolute carnage.


    Papers scattered like a hurricane had a personal vendetta. Furniture overturned. Glass shattered into a minefield of jagged pieces, catching the light like this is some detective¡¯s murder scene. His sleek, ultra-modern desk? Barely standing.


    I exhale through my nose, running a hand through my hair.


    This always happens when something breaks Ortol in half.


    I don¡¯t even know where to start. Too many problems. Too many questions. Maybe with Triton?


    But before I can open my mouth, Ortol moves.


    Not walks. Rushes.


    Face pale, red-eyed, dark circles so deep you could lose a damn spaceship in them. He looks like he hasn¡¯t slept in days¡ªand knowing him? He hasn¡¯t. His hands clamp onto my arms, shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps.


    ¡°They¡ª¡± He stops. Swallows hard. Starts again. ¡°They laugh at me.¡± His voice is hoarse. Raw. ¡°The galaxy officials. They call me the world mayor who lost to some half-witted fishes.¡±


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    I blink. What.


    He lets out a hollow laugh and steps back, gripping his own arms like he¡¯s trying to hold himself together. ¡°They say I let them slip through my fingers. That I let this happen." His voice cracks. "They nuked the poles, Jrake. They drowned cities.¡±


    His breath shudders.


    ¡°Millions.¡±


    The word drops like an anvil. And then Ortol does something I haven¡¯t seen since we were kids.


    He cries.


    Not a dignified, manly tear. Not the silent, brooding type of sadness you see in movies. No.


    Ortol breaks.


    I stand there, helpless, watching my oldest friend crumple under the weight of it all. He turns away, stepping toward the window, the city stretching far below¡ªstill intact. For now. His voice is barely a whisper.


    ¡°Do you know what you do when you fail this hard?¡±


    His fingers curl into fists. His shoulders shake.


    ¡°You kill yourself.¡±


    The room stills.


    Then, Ortol darts to the table, snatching something¡ª


    I don''t let him pull the trigger.


    I bitch slap him.


    Hard.


    His head jerks to the side, a sharp gasp escaping him.


    ¡°Get it together.¡± I shove him backward, forcing him into his chair, ignoring the dazed look he gives me.


    I start pacing. Left. Right. Like I¡¯m the older brother here.


    "You think that''s the answer? You screw up, so you just¡ªquit?" I scoff. "What, you think dying is gonna magically fix this? Think it''ll bring back those millions?"


    He swallows hard. Doesn¡¯t answer.


    ¡°No.¡± I shake my head. ¡°It won¡¯t. And you know what? You¡¯re not the only one responsible.¡±


    He blinks at me.


    I take a breath, forcing my brain to put the pieces together. ¡°We knew the Navorians were messing with the planet. That¡¯s not news. But now?¡± I gesture vaguely to, well, everything. ¡°Now it¡¯s gone too far. The nukes knocked the whole system off balance. The climate¡¯s gone from ¡®interesting science experiment¡¯ to ¡®we are all so, so dead.¡¯¡±


    Ortol exhales, rubbing a shaking hand over his face.


    ¡°But here¡¯s the real problem,¡± I continue. ¡°They¡¯re still here. And if we don¡¯t stop them, this planet is going to be uninhabitable within months.¡±


    Things go quiet.


    Then Ortol nods. Just once.


    His voice steadies. ¡°We need to act.¡±


    Damn right we do.


    He straightens in his chair, pressing a palm to his temple like he''s trying to glue himself back together. ¡°We should take precautions from the effects the nukes will have on global temperatures. Maybe build domes. And Romeo.¡±


    I frown. ¡°Commander Romeo?¡±


    He nods. ¡°He¡¯s got a squad¡ªmercenaries turned soldiers. New elites.¡± His eyes pin me on the spot. ¡°I want them separate from the rest. Their job will be to hunt the Navorians down.¡±


    I stuff my hands in my pockets. ¡°And?¡±


    Ortol exhales, then looks at me.


    ¡°It¡¯s time you make something for the army.¡±


    My stomach grumbles in disagreement.


    ¡°They can¡¯t fight creatures twice their size and ten times their strength with guns.¡± He leans forward. ¡°They need more.¡±


    I gulp.


    Shit.


    Is it too late for the harakiri idea?

 Chapter 24_Cherry

    I don¡¯t notice at first.


    The night stretches long, pulling me through the usual motions. Washing dishes, sweeping floors, checking the doors. The storm outside rumbles low, but the orphanage is quiet.


    A little too quiet.


    I pause, broom in hand, scanning the room. I listen.


    No footsteps. No dripping water. No mud smeared across the floorboards.


    No Zett.


    I don¡¯t want to jump to conclusions. Maybe, for once, he listened. Maybe he finally stopped, finally stayed in bed like the rest of them. Maybe I should just be glad.


    But I know better.


    I set the broom aside and walk down the hall, past the rooms where the others sleep. A glance inside his room tells me what I already knew¡ªempty sheets, untouched, like he was never there at all.


    The wind wails outside, rattling the windows.


    Something is wrong.


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    I step onto the porch, the cold making it''s way through my sleeves. The world beyond is chaos¡ªrain slashes against the earth, the trees bend and shudder under the sky¡¯s fury, lightning cracks through the dark like jagged scars. The storm is alive, and Zett is out there somewhere.


    I hug my arms, forcing my pulse to steady. He¡¯ll come back. He always does.


    Minutes pass.


    He doesn¡¯t.


    ¡°Dammit Zett.¡± I curse, and before I second-guess it, my feet are moving, taking me down the worn steps, into the night.


    The wind pushes against me. My hair whips across my face, soaked within seconds. Each step through the mud is an effort, the rain drowning the earth, pulling at my ankles, but I keep going.


    "Zett!" I call, my voice nearly lost to the storm. "Zett, where the hell are you?"


    Nothing.


    ¡°Zett!¡±


    I yell tell my throat''s dry.


    I can''t find him.


    Then¡ªmovement.


    Between the trees. Something big coming. Klev warned me about a bear being around.


    I should return¡ª


    I freeze.


    Lightning cracks, illuminating the world in a violent flash. And there¡ªjust beyond the orphanage¡¯s reach.


    Zett.


    Soaked, staggering, barely upright. His arms are hooked around something massive, hauling it through the mud. My breath hitches.


    He lifts his head, eyes finding mine through the rain. And then¡ª


    He collapses.


    "Zett!"


    I sprint toward him, heart slamming against my ribs. The mud sucks at my feet, the storm fights to hold me back, but I don¡¯t stop until I reach him.


    He¡¯s on his back, chest rising and falling in quick succession, his face streaked with dirt and rain. But he¡¯s smiling.


    "I got food," he breathes.


    My eyes snap to the sack beside him. Heavy. Bulging. Caked in mud.


    And then¡ªI see it.


    The bear.


    Dead. Its hulking body sprawled across the earth, fur slick with rain and blood, its massive frame half-buried in the filth.


    My stomach drops.


    This isn''t a rabbit, a bird, or some half-dead thing he found in the woods. This is a bear¡ªhuge, heavy, something that should''ve crushed him before he even got close.


    Zett killed this.


    Zett¡ªreckless, restless, impossible Zett¡ªdragged this thing all the way back.


    The storm howls around us, but for a moment, all I hear is my brain hammering against my skull.


    "You¡¯re insane," I whisper.


    "Told you," he pants. "If I don¡¯t get strong... I won¡¯t survive.¡±


    I don¡¯t know what to say to that.


    His body goes slack, his eyes shutting.


    I catch him before the mud does.

 Chapter 25_Vortex

    The jungle stink like sweat and blood. My chest heavin''. Muscles screamin''. Every breath burn like hellfire.


    We runnin''. We crawlin''. We marchin''. Suns go down, but this grind? It don¡¯t stop.


    Canny stumble, barely catchin¡¯ herself. Lanny draggin¡¯ his feet like he one step from fallin¡¯ six feet under. But that trainer? Man don¡¯t let up. His voice bursts through the dark like a damn cannon.


    "Pick up the pace, you maggots! You want to rest? Rest when you''re dead!"


    I don¡¯t even know how long it¡¯s been. Time don¡¯t mean nothin¡¯ no more¡ªjust pain. My lungs raw. Sweat stingin¡¯ my eyes. Ain''t nobody talkin''. Ain¡¯t nobody dumb enough to try.


    But he still goin¡¯. Don¡¯t even breathe like us. Don¡¯t need rest. Just marchin¡¯ ahead, big-ass cigar clenched in his teeth, eyes burnin¡¯ through the dark. He don¡¯t sweat. Don¡¯t stumble. A machine built for war.


    And us? We ain¡¯t shit.


    "Tonight," he say, voice rollin¡¯ over us like thunder, "you will fire in the dark. And if you miss¡ª" He spits somethin¡¯ dark and goey that falls directly on my boot. "You will stay up until the last damn target is hit."


    A groan ripple through the squad, but ain¡¯t nobody protest. We learned better.


    We reach the field. Weapons laid out¡ªsleek, metallic, hummin¡¯ like they got a pulse. The Argov rifles. Straight-up sorcery in steel form.


    Trainer start pacin¡¯. "These are not your grandfather¡¯s rifles. These are everything." He lift his own, and when he fire? That shot rip through the dirt like a damn storm. Another¡ªlight carve a bright-white gash in the dark. Third¡ªsoundwave slap through the air, shakin¡¯ my skull.


    "Argov energy is neutral," he say. "It does what you command. Fire a bullet of compressed air. Release a siren to deafen your enemy. Use heat, cold, pressure¡ªcontrol it. Or die."


    Then the targets pop up.


    Black discs. No lights. No markers. Ain¡¯t no way to hit ¡®em unless you see what ain¡¯t there.


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    "First round: compressed air. If you cannot strike in the dark, you are dead weight."


    First recruit fire. Miss. Another. Miss. Some get close. Close ain¡¯t good enough.


    Canny step up. Steady herself. Breathe. Fire. Miss.


    Again. Miss.


    Lanny grittin¡¯ his teeth. His shot damn near hit¡ªbut ¡®damn near¡¯ don¡¯t count for nothin¡¯.


    Trainer exhale smoke. "Useless."


    Then¡ªcrack.


    A disk shatters, it''s pieces falling into the mud.


    Then another. And another. Perfect hits.


    I turn. And I see him.


    Min-Joon Park.


    He stand calm while the rest of us pantin'', shakin¡¯. Hands steady. Eyes sharp. Like he done this a thousand times.


    Trainer nod, just once. "That," he say, "is a soldier."


    Min-Joon lower his rifle. No words. No flex. Just quiet confidence.


    I swallow hard.


    Ain¡¯t never talked to him much. But I need to.


    Before my turn, I step over, voice low. "How?"


    Min-Joon glance at me. Then he chuckle.


    "I played lots of games," he whisper.


    I blink.


    He lean in, voice smooth. "But either way¡ªadjust for wind, steady your core, exhale before you fire. Don''t just see. Feel. If you only rely on your eyes, you''ll fail."


    It¡¯s quick. It¡¯s simple. But it¡¯s enough.


    My turn.


    I step up, rifle heavy in my grip. Trainer watchin¡¯.


    I breathe.


    Listen.


    The wind shift. A whisper of movement. A sound that don¡¯t belong.


    I fire.


    A hum, a split-second crack¡ªthen thunk.


    Target down.


    Again. Adjust. Fire. Another hit.


    The dark move different now. I see it. Feel it. By the end, I ain¡¯t one of the ones left standin¡¯ in failure. Ain¡¯t one of the ones waitin¡¯ for another shot at redemption.


    Canny and Lanny, though? They still out there.


    I catch ¡®em in my periphery¡ªshoulders tight, exhaustion weighin¡¯ ¡®em down. Their shots go wide. Their hands shakin¡¯.


    Trainer ain¡¯t lettin¡¯ up. Ain¡¯t never do.


    "You will fire until you are dead on your feet," he snarl. "Until your bones scream for rest. Until your mind shuts down, and even then¡ª"


    His boot slam the dirt.


    "You will fire."


    I step back. Should feel relieved. Should feel proud.


    I don¡¯t.


    Even when I make it back to the tents, collapse onto that hard-ass cot, I still hear ¡®em.


    I close my eyes.


    They still firin¡¯.


    Just crack¡ªcrack¡ªcrack.


    I roll onto my side, pressing my face into the cot, but the sounds follow.


    Gunfire. Orders. The ragged breaths of the desperate.


    I ain''t sleepin¡¯ tonight.


    Ain''t nobody sleepin¡¯ tonight.

 Chapter 26_Rain

    The View¡¯s faint glow flickers at the edge of my vision, marking a town just across this waterlogged wasteland.


    After drifting through the water, I ended up in this endless muddy terrain. But my view confirms what I need to know. I am getting close to Kernel¡ªthe newest and greatest city on this doomed planet. A place of efficiency, progress¡­ people with purpose. And mostly, the site of the MECAT.


    Whether they see me as anything but a vagrant dragging filth through their clean streets is irrelevant. I need a foothold. Some kind that doesn¡¯t sink beneath me. I adjust my hood, glance at the map hovering before me, and start considering my options.


    The View displays routes, flashing warnings in its emotionless and calculated manner¡ªI could get Hope again, but I don''t need an Ai right now. I need a way out of here.


    Risk of slippage 73%. Minimum traction detected on forward right terrain.


    I look right¡ªit¡¯s too far. Instead, I take the shallower path ahead. I may have to weave through silt and mud, but I¡¯ll move carefully.


    "Still letting a machine hold your hand, Rain?" Illume mocks. "What a vision of independence."


    The greatest creations of mankind involved its usage.


    So yeah. I am holding its hand. At least I won''t trip like you did with your life.


    He laughs, ¡°You think I tripped?¡± His voice is ghostly. ¡°No, Rain. You fell, and you latched onto me. So I had to make you let go.¡±


    I pause. This voice, it''s like he is actually here, like he actually knows things.


    I bite the inside of my cheek.


    I get it.


    Ghosts like him don¡¯t fade. They linger.


    But even ghosts can¡¯t stop progress.


    The ground turns to sludge, clinging to my boots with each step. The brackish stench burns my throat.


    Suggested route ahead.


    Risk factor 58%. Moderate success predicted.


    ¡°Moderate,¡± I mutter. Dense brush cuts across the path. But doubling back isn¡¯t an option. I push forward, bracing as thorns snag at my clothes.


    The View is my guide now¡ªa far cry from the glitch-ridden mess it was back in that frozen prison. If it had worked this well back then, maybe things would have been different.


    A soft snap jolts me back to the present. The branch I grabbed for balance shatters, and the ground shifts beneath me.


    Then, I fall.


    My foot smashes into the ground, bending unnaturally. I gasp, my teeth grinding together as I struggle to steady myself. The muck doesn¡¯t relent, pulling at me with the desperation of a starving beast.


    Path sub-optimal. Recalculating¡­


    You don''t say¡­


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    I grunt and haul myself out, dragging my injured leg through the sludge. It feels like I¡¯m carrying the weight of the world on that one limb.


    My pace is slower, and with each movement, the thought of Mecanet is the only thing keeping me from collapsing.


    Then, at last¡ªthe land flattens out. The town is just ahead.


    I just have to make it.


    I stumble.


    Catch myself.


    Breathe.


    Keep going.


    Mecanet. Mecanet. Mecanet.


    Next thing I know, I am already there. The place is small and unassuming, its buildings worn by time, their walls stained by past floods. The View displays my balance:


    10,000 Meccets.


    A familiar bitterness rises in me.


    "Don¡¯t say I never gave you anything," Illume¡¯s voice jeers. "I left you with just enough to see how much mud you¡¯d eat before you squeal."


    You won¡¯t get that honor.


    I push past the thought, limping toward the square. The streets are empty, save for a few locals keeping to themselves. I spot a cloth store tucked between buildings and force myself toward it.


    Inside, I find a woman behind the desk. The moment she notices me, she gapes, ¡°Out!¡±


    I dragged mud into her shop. Now I feel terrible.


    Not that I should, she was a jerk.


    I make my way through the town. At its edge, there is a bathhouse. The only one by the looks.


    The is an old woman sitting by the door, she slides me a entry card. I make it in, turning the shower on as warm water falls over me.


    It stings.


    Yet it feels rejuvenating.


    It slowly turns scalding hot and then rushes down, turning dark as it peels away the filth. Mud swirls down the drain in spirals, carrying away years of grime, blood, and suffering. My skin, raw from scrubbing, feels unfamiliar.


    I feel like I left the old me behind.


    The one who had only known pain.


    ¡°No.¡± he whispers, ¡°I don''t think so.¡±


    I punch the wall, muttering under my breath, ¡°Shut up.¡±


    But regret it instantly.


    It hurt, and the result? Bruised knuckles.


    I limp towards my clothes, only to remember they were filthy.


    But there is a new pair.


    Neatly folded. Clean. Waiting for me.


    Thats weird...


    I didn¡¯t hear anyone come in. Didn¡¯t see anyone. So why are they here?


    My fingers brush the fabric¡ªsmooth, untouched, expensive.


    Did the bath lady leave them? Out of pity? Or is this a setup?


    I check the pockets. Empty.


    If it''s from her¡­ I should probably thank her.


    ¡°My Rain,¡± Illume''s voice slips through, ¡°don''t hold back, let her know how you feel.¡±


    Am I supposed to take that as a joke?


    Not from Illume.


    I grab the clothes and place them on the stone platform. In front there is a mirror.


    I look at the stranger.


    Black eyes.


    Black hair.


    Pale skin.


    This is me.


    I don''t know me.


    I look like a ghost.


    ¡°You are getting there.¡±


    I unfold the clothes.


    I won''t get where you are.


    A durable black pants and a rugged shirt¡ªsturdy enough for the road ahead, dark enough for anonymity. It''s almost as if she knew what I like.


    As I slide the fabric over my arms, I pause. The fit is snug, almost like it was made for me. A strange sensation.


    ¡°Does it remind you of anything?¡±


    It does.


    The day before you landed the ship in the middle of that desert.


    Dust swirled everywhere, we were in a crumbling market, this merchant barely sparing me a glance.


    And you. Tossing a bundle of clothes at me with a frown. ¡°You¡¯re filthy,¡± you had said. ¡°Wear these before you embarrass yourself further.¡±


    They had felt like a gift at first. But in the end, they were just another reminder of your control. My uniform in that desolation. Worn threadbare as I trudged through a world that mirrored my hollow existence.


    ¡°That''s right.¡±


    I press into the fabric.


    But, these clothes are mine. Not your choice. Some random old lady''s.


    I thank her, but she doesn''t notice me. I save it for myself, and step outside, trying my best to ignore the throbbing of my leg. Scanning the road, I finally see it¡ªmy way forward.


    A floating caterpillar.


    The sleek, segmented transport at the station, its long metallic body lined with energy nodes. Argov-powered gates pulse beside it, their vibrant currents shimmering in the evening air. When activated, they will launch the train into the sky, sending it wriggling through the atmosphere like an enormous mechanical larva.


    Fancy but not the point.


    This is a direct route to Kernel. No more slogging through filth, no more tangled brush¡ªjust a straight shot to my goal.


    I watch as passengers board, I should get there before it''s too late.


    And once I reach Kernel, my real challenge begins.


    Prepare for the MECAT.

 Chapter 27_Vaurun

    The jungle folds over me, its canopy decaying. The air here is sick. It does not shift as water does, does not cradle movement in the way currents do. It is stagnant¡ªclinging to my scales like dead things caught in the tide.


    I stand at the edge of my camp, where my warriors once dwelled. They are gone, as commanded. I remain, as commanded.


    The Hammer''s will is law, and his law will shape this world.


    For a decade, I have guided the tides. I have raised the waters, stretched them across the bones of this planet, drowned the earth in liquid dominion. The depths now rise to meet the sky, warm and vast, enough to cradle my kind. It is what we were promised.


    Yet it shall rise more.


    The planet''s true savagery has not even begun.


    This world will crumble.


    And then it''ll rise.


    For that, I linger.


    The jungle breathes in the hush of night, but I do not. My gills are aided by my gear, drawing in what little remains of the ocean¡¯s kiss. The mask over my mouth shields me, yet the air still burns dry against my tongue. A Navorian does not belong on land.


    But I must know.


    The humans remain. They scuttle across their shrinking land like barnacles on a sinking wreck, clinging to what will not last. They should be nothing. They should be washed away, swept into the abyss without thought.


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    And yet, I must know.


    I slip between the trees, my form a shadow cast by the moon¡¯s silver sheen. My steps are silent, my scales drinking in the dim light. I am the abyss. I am the stillness before the storm.


    And then the gear I use for communication sends signals to my sonar detectors.


    Voices.


    I move closer, the jungle peeling away to reveal the intruders. Men, standing where my kind once made their hold. Their faces are hard, their armor built sturdy. Their leader is taller than the rest, for as short as humans are, broad like a reef grown strong against the tide, for as broad we Navorians are. He speaks, his words dry.


    "Burn it."


    My claws flex against the bark.


    They will destroy what remains. They will scorch this land to claim victory over ghosts. No bodies. No blood. And yet they will call this conquest.


    It matters not, for all that remains will be swept by the tides. Yet¡­


    They do not know I am watching.


    The wind shifts.


    Above, a shape, humming, shifting in the sky. A drone. It drifts in lazy circles, its underbelly swelling with something heavy. Then, with a hiss, the payload drops.


    A roar of flame erupts, tongues of heat swallowing the trees, the camp, the earth itself. The air swells with smoke. The jungle screams.


    Fools.


    They burn their own world to chase shadows.


    A flicker of heat licks against my shoulder, searing through my gear. I move, twisting through the inferno, my body a flash of obsidian against the light. Flames chase me, hungrily crawling their way across my limbs. My breath stammers, my gills tightening as the device sputters against the damage.


    I need water.


    I run.


    Through fire. Through smoke. Through the wretched, broken air. My vision swims, the world tilting, the jungle a blur of molten light. Then¡ªthere.


    A river.


    I leap.


    Water crashes over me, swallowing the world in silence. The fire is gone. The smoke is gone. Only the deep remains.


    For a moment, I am whole again.


    But this water does not give me oxygen.


    I live where salt water thrives, not something so bland.


    I breach, dragging myself onto the shore, the dim moonlight reflecting against my charred scales. My gills no longer supply me. The fire has warped its edges, making my lifeline fragile.


    My vision wavers. My limbs weaken. The abyss calls.


    Humans destroy their own land for the sake of victory.


    They are not worthy of this world.


    The Hammer has to fulfill his legacy, and put this kind to rest.

 Chapter 28_Vortex

    The food court hummin¡¯ with low convo, boots scuffin¡¯ metal floors, officers barkin¡¯ at folk like they got nothin¡¯ better to do. Air dense with the smell of reheated rations¡ªsalt, grease, and somethin¡¯ that might¡¯ve been protein once. Lingers on you, stick to your skin. Ain¡¯t no runnin¡¯ from it. No matter how hard you train, how bad you wanna be somethin¡¯ more, you still just another body in the system.


    I grab my tray, slide into a seat at an empty table. Lanny and Canny drop they trays down like they tryna wake the dead.


    ¡°Tell me why we¡¯re still acting like this is edible,¡± Lanny mutters, pokin¡¯ at the lump on his plate.


    Canny smirks. ¡°Because if we don¡¯t, we¡¯ll start asking worse questions¡ªlike what the hell it actually is.¡±


    I take a bite. It¡¯s nasty. But it¡¯s fuel. That¡¯s it.


    Next thing we know, some big dude plops down like we invited him. Grinnin¡¯, shovelin¡¯ food like it¡¯s the best thing he ever had.


    ¡°Ah, damn, this hits the spot.¡± He pats his stomach. ¡°So, what¡¯s good, boys?¡±


    Lanny squints. ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡ªwho the hell are you?¡±


    Dude grins wider. ¡°Huck. And you¡¯re Lanny, you¡¯re Canny, and you¡ª¡± he point his fork at me, ¡°¡ªyou¡¯re the one that thinks he¡¯s gonna be a hero.¡±


    I stare at him. ¡°How you know that?¡±


    ¡°People talk.¡± Huck shrugs. ¡°You train like you mean it. Hard not to notice.¡±


    Lanny shakes his head. ¡°More importantly, how¡¯d you end up here?¡±


    Before Huck can answer, movement at another table catch my eye. Min-Joon sittin¡¯ low, eatin¡¯ in silence. Three cadets hoverin¡¯ over him, pressin¡¯ down on his shoulders like they own him.


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    ¡°Damn, Min-Joon,¡± one of ¡®em laughs, squeezin¡¯ his shoulder so hard he flinch. ¡°That shooting yesterday? You were a machine. We should all take notes.¡±


    Min-Joon¡¯s eyebrows knot. Just for a second. Then they go still. Learned not to react.


    The dude rufflin¡¯ his hair stand out. Korin. Lean, built, the type that try way too hard to let folks know he strong. Laughin¡¯, but ain¡¯t no humor in it.


    I grip my fork tighter.


    Lanny notice first. ¡°Don¡¯t.¡±


    I stand up.


    ¡°Vortex¡ª¡± Canny warns.


    I don¡¯t listen.


    I cross the room in a few steps and stop behind Korin¡¯s group. ¡°Fuck off.¡±


    The laughin¡¯ die. Korin turn slow, eyes runnin¡¯ me up and down. He my height, maybe a little broader, but I see the way he straighten up.


    ¡°What are you gonna do about it?¡±


    I don¡¯t answer. I slam my forehead into his face.


    Korin lurch back with a snarl, blood spillin¡¯ down his lips. The slap of bone on bone still ringin¡¯ in my ears. His boys step up, but he throw a hand out, stoppin¡¯ them. Silence stretch for a moment¡ªthen he chuckle.


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard about you,¡± he says, grinnin¡¯. ¡°The wannabe hero.¡±


    He step closer, voice droppin¡¯ low.


    ¡°You¡¯re not gonna make it.¡±


    He says it real slow.


    ¡°Not after this.¡±


    His smirk widen.


    ¡°And then? You¡¯re gonna regret messing with me.¡±


    I don¡¯t blink. Don¡¯t react. But my fists clench.


    Korin and his crew walk off, laughin¡¯ like this just another game.


    Min-Joon keep his head down, but his jaw tight. Fork tremblin¡¯ in his hand like he tryna force himself to keep eatin¡¯. Ain¡¯t no real winnin¡¯ here¡ªonly survivin¡¯.


    I sit back down.


    Lanny exhale sharp. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have done that.¡±


    ¡°They mean what they say,¡± Canny adds. ¡°Word is, back in school, they crippled people who crossed them.¡±


    I don¡¯t say nothin¡¯.


    Huck, still shovelin¡¯ food, shake his head. ¡°Man, you got guts, but that¡¯s a bad investment.¡±


    ¡°Forget them.¡± Canny stretch, crack her knuckles. ¡°They¡¯re on our side, anyway. Bullying¡¯s just normal here.¡± She gesture at our trays. ¡°You know who we should actually hate?¡±


    Lanny smirk bitter. ¡°The Elites.¡±


    ¡°The ones under Romeo?¡± I ask.


    Canny nod. ¡°Handpicked. Special treatment. Better gear, better pay, better food¡ª¡± she flick a piece of whatever-we-eatin¡¯ off her fork, ¡°¡ªwhich is personally offensive.¡±


    Lanny shake his head. ¡°Bet it¡¯s the same on the battlefield. We go in first, get wrecked, and they take the credit.¡±


    I hit my fork down harder than I meant to.


    I ain¡¯t tryna be somebody else¡¯s steppin¡¯ stone.


    I ain¡¯t come here to make nobody look good while I bleed in the dirt.


    Korin might make things difficult, but he ain¡¯t the real enemy.


    The system is.


    And I¡¯ma prove I don¡¯t belong at the bottom.


    I¡¯ma climb ¡®til I¡¯m standin¡¯ over them all.

 Chapter 29_Cherry

    Zett is an idiot.


    I knew that already. But seeing him sprint barefoot through the fields, his soles slapping against the dirt like he¡¯s never heard of common sense, really cements the fact.


    "Zett!" I yell after him, but the wind swallows my voice.


    He doesn¡¯t stop.


    I groan, rubbing my face.


    Fine. Whatever. Run yourself into the ground. Not my problem.


    ¡­Except I¡¯m already following him.


    At first, it¡¯s just a few steps, muttering under my breath about how much work I already have to do today. But before I know it, I¡¯ve walked farther than I realized. The orphanage is so far it looks like a button from where I am.


    What''s more I am bare foot, the grass cold between my toes.


    I stop, exhaling. "Damn it."


    I hear a thunk.


    I look towards the river flowing nearby.


    Is it Zett?


    I walk slowly.


    Something dark, slumped in the dirt ahead. My stomach tenses. That''s not Zett. It¡¯s too big. Way too big.


    I move closer. The shape becomes clearer, massive and unmoving. My breath wavers as my View displays the kind.


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    A Navorian.


    He¡¯s huge¡ªthree, maybe four times my size. His body is twisted awkwardly, limbs half-folded beneath him, like some deep-sea predator stranded on shore, which, I guess, is exactly what he is. Armor scorched, scales dark as obsidian.


    I don''t move, breathing slow.


    What is a Navorian doing here?


    I swallow. My fingers twitch. Then a really, really dumb thought pops in my head.


    I should poke him with a stick.


    Not my smartest. But I find a branch and prod a limb.


    Nothing...


    I prod harder.


    Still nothing.


    I frown. It must be dead. It''s breathing gear¡ª


    My vision flickers as my View scans it. A sharp pulse of information floods my brain.


    Status: Critical.


    Time until death: Imminent.


    My grip tightens on the stick.


    He¡¯s dying.


    Good, a small voice in my head says. They¡¯re the enemy. Let them die like the vermin they are.


    But another voice¡ªlouder¡ªsays, he¡¯s just a person.


    And I help people.


    This is going to be the dumbest thing I have done in my life.


    I turn on my heel and sprint back to the orphanage.


    By the time I reach the porch, my legs ache, my feet caked in mud. Klev barely looks up from his View, lazily scrolling through whatever¡¯s caught his interest today.


    He glances at me. "You¡¯re supposed to be dragging Zett from the mud, not yourself."


    "Shut up," I mutter, heading for my workbench.


    "Oi, come on¡ªwhat¡¯s with you?" He leans back, staring vaguely. "You look like you¡¯ve seen a¡ª"


    I slam my toolbox shut. "Don¡¯t finish that sentence."


    His eyes narrow, but he shrugs, going back to his reading.


    I don¡¯t waste another second.


    The run back is worse. The sun presses heavy against my back, and every step feels slower, like the world is fighting me.


    By the time I reach the Navorian, my breath is short, my hands already moving. The damage isn¡¯t beyond repair. I work fast, sealing cracks, reinforcing the edges. My fingers shake as I finish, placing the gear back round his gills.


    Then, it clicks.


    I just saved a Navorian.


    And if he wakes up?


    Yeah. I don¡¯t wanna be here when that happens.


    I run.


    By the time I reach the orphanage, the sun is setting. Klev is digging through the kitchen, looking for food. He notices me, eyebrows raised.


    "You''re early.¡± he mocks. ¡°Had a brand adventure?¡±


    I wipe my feet, exhaling. ¡°You have no idea.¡±


    Klev just snorts, turning back to his food. The normalcy of it feels wrong¡ªlike I haven¡¯t just broken some unspoken rule. Like I haven¡¯t just changed something I can¡¯t take back.


    Who cares. I have too much work to be bothered with that.


    And wasn''t today supposed to be easy?

 Chapter 30_Jrake

    The Argov suits are my magnum opus¡ªa project I tinkered with between arguing about Ortol¡¯s tragic taste in fashion and recalibrating the generator that powers his ego. And yet, despite my undeniable genius, I¡¯m currently being slapped in the face by a rogue mechanical arm.


    "Steady, Kinetica," I mutter, glaring at the glowing interface as the suit¡¯s kinetic reservoir spikes like a child on a sugar rush. ¡°Therma, do your damn job and balance it out before we all explode.¡±


    If I don¡¯t fix this energy distribution issue, the Argov suits might turn soldiers into human firecrackers¡ªan outcome I¡¯d consider karmic justice if not for the inevitable court-martial.


    I massage my temple as I tweak the settings, feeling more like a bomb defuser than an engineer. The suit twitches, energy flaring. A warning sign flashes across my View:


    Destabilization Imminent.


    I take a deep breath. This is fixable. I can fix this.


    Then Ortol walks in, his pants tighter than my budget.


    "Morning, Ortol," I say without looking up. "Lose a battle with fabric physics?"


    ¡°No,¡± he replies, blissfully oblivious to his suffering. ¡°I am visiting the military tommorow. I thought it reasonable for you to come along.¡±


    Me? What, is he auctioning me off?


    Fast-forward to the next morning, and we¡¯re strolling through military grounds, escorted by several armed men whose job is to ensure our own soldiers don¡¯t get any ideas. I say let them. Maybe it¡¯ll stimulate their brains a little. Because right now? They¡¯re heaving and puffing like an overworked donkey in its third trimester.


    A couple of soldiers approach¡ªRomeo¡¯s division. The Elites, with jawlines sharp enough to file paperwork.


    Romeo greets Ortol, ¡°Emperus wishes to greet us, how generous of you.¡±


    Then he claps Ortol on the shoulder like they¡¯re old war buddies and launches into his favorite topic¡ªhimself.


    ¡°I took a Navorian base,¡± he says, smug as hell. ¡°Stormed in under the cover of night, precise as a blade. Not a single one of those scaled freaks left standing.¡±


    By ¡®precise as a blade,¡¯ he means ¡®set everything on fire.¡¯ No bodies retrieved, no intel gathered¡ªjust ashes. The forest, the buildings, the very air? Incinerated. Amazing strategy, General Arson.


    Cue Ortol, stroking his ridiculous hair¡ªa black-and-yellow catastrophe¡ªin a way that demands admiration. He grins and delivers the line he rehearsed a thousand times last night, ensuring I suffered through each revision:


    ¡°Your loyalty to this cause will etch your names into history.¡±


    Yeah, sure. The soldiers get statues, the generals get history books, and the engineers? We get stress-induced ulcers.


    Romeo turns to his soldiers, shouting something that sends them into a frenzy. Then he leans in, his smirk oozing self-importance. ¡°I heard there was a new weapon in the works. What of it?¡±


    Ortol¡¯s eyes gleam with that dangerous mix of charm and shark-like cunning. ¡°Jrake, our brilliant engineer¡ª¡± He gestures at me.


    Goddamn it, Ortol.


    ¡°He has outdone himself with the development of the Argov Powered Suits. These are extensions of your very being, designed to enhance reflexes, strength, and endurance to unprecedented levels.¡±


    A hundred gazes turn toward me. Sweat beads on my temple. ¡®Brilliant engineer,¡¯ huh? More like ¡®guy trying to avoid public execution when this inevitably backfires.¡¯


    Romeo barely acknowledges me, looking away as if I¡¯m a stain on his national pride.


    How dare he? I, too, am a scholar from Mecanet¡ª


    Oh wait, Ortol¡¯s only bothered advertising himself.


    Romeo grins. ¡°I already imagine a future where battles are won by precision, not numbers! Where these suits will define the battlefield!¡±


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    I glance at my schematics through my View. Or a future where soldiers pop like balloons because Kinetica is still throwing a tantrum.


    Romeo and Ortol keep bickering, their voices blending into the background noise of my impending headache. Since I seem to be as invisible to Romeo as common sense is to him, I take my leave.


    That¡¯s when I spot the real entertainment¡ªsuffering soldiers in training.


    Such art.


    Their agony is framed perfectly against the backdrop of their trainer:


    Klaus Richter.


    A walking steel beam. Every word out of his mouth sounds like it¡¯s meant to be carved into stone, preferably while the sculptor weeps in terror.


    "You are lower than filth! You are the rot that filth gags at! If the universe could vomit, you¡¯d be the stain on the floor! If I could legally bury you alive and let the worms negotiate your fate, I would! But instead, you get the honor of my presence! Now, DROP AND GIVE ME AN ATTEMPT AT BEING HUMAN!"


    Bodies hit the dirt like a synchronized execution. One soldier in particular¡ªbroad, shaking, sweat-drenched¡ªlooks like he¡¯s auditioning for a one-way trip to the afterlife. And yet, he keeps going.


    Yes. Suffer, weakling! Your pain is nourishment!


    Wait. No. That could be phrased better. How does Ortol do this? Maybe I should step on him and cackle like a villain who just stole his kidneys.


    Before I can perfect my monologue, Klaus barks, ¡°STAND.¡±


    Hey. I was enjoying my mental cinema.


    Then his eyes lock onto me.


    "It seems the engineer has something to say," he growls. "For you maggots who don¡¯t know, he¡¯s making the suits."


    Ah, yes. I absolutely planned a speech for this moment.


    I didn¡¯t.


    But if Klaus wants a show, I¡¯ll give him one.


    With my View:


    AI, make me sound inspiring.


    Text populates.


    I read aloud, "This war shall carve the future of our world into stone¡ª" My eyes skim the next line. I blink. "¡ªor, you know, into something less permanent, depending on how things go.¡±


    I gesture skyward as a plane streaks overhead. "That¡¯s heading to the poles, reducing radiation from past nukes, preventing storms that could rip cities apart." Then, quieter, "At least, that¡¯s the theory. Pretty sure they¡¯re just hoping for the best."


    Then I get to the good part. "The suits Klaus mentioned, they use Argov energy to enhance¡ª"


    Pause.


    "Oh. Right. You guys aren¡¯t getting these. You¡¯re stuck in basic gear, running on adrenaline and ego."


    Silence...


    Yeah, I should not have said it like that.


    Then a voice cuts through.


    "Is that all we are?"


    A soldier steps forward¡ªdark skin, short hair, an intensity that could set steel on fire. Vortex.


    His name alone makes the murmurs spread like an oil spill.


    Another soldier snaps, "We are being sent to die, aren¡¯t we?"


    Then it goes wild.


    A rumble moves through the crowd, no longer a statement but a wave, rolling, building, crashing toward something ugly. This is bad. Oh. This is bad. This is so bad. Someone save me before I faint¡ªI cannot handle this many humans barking at me.


    Wait, there¡¯s Klaus¡ª


    He¡¯s unzipping his pants.


    A hiss of liquid against a collapsed soldier. The guy doesn''t even flinch.


    Classy.


    The crowd stirs, anger boiling. Then she steps forward.


    A woman with fiery orange hair tucked under her cap. Red freckles scattered across her cheeks. The kind of cool confidence that says she could end a man¡¯s entire bloodline with one well-placed insult.


    She looks at me. Her gaze is steady, assessing. A commander¡¯s calm wrapped in a quiet confidence. Then a smile, followed by a nod.


    My View sputters her name: June.


    Oh. Oh no. My brain seizes up like a motor choking on oil.


    Public speaking? A nightmare.


    Social settings? A slow, torturous death.


    June looking directly at me? Full cardiac arrest. Someone fetch a defibrillator¡ªor better yet, just let me short-circuit in peace.


    Then she turns to the soldiers, her voice slicing through the noise. ¡°Respect who stands before you. He does not decide your performance.¡±


    A beat.


    A pause.


    Soldiers exchange glances, shifting on their feet. Then, like clockwork, ¡°That¡¯s right.¡± Ortol steps in¡ªfinally¡ªRomeo beside him. ¡°This war cannot be won by conflict. You will be sent to win. Some will lose their lives¡ªthis is what you signed up for.¡±


    A murmur spreads, a whisper at first, then growing. Boots shift, shoulders square. A soldier clenches his fists. Another shakes his head. Then Vortex moves. The way the soldiers part for him tells me enough¡ªhe¡¯s the kind of guy that makes people reconsider their life choices.


    His voice is ice. "We train, we bleed, we break¡ªand we get scraps,¡± he growls. ¡°But when your golden boys burn an entire base, they get statues. If we die in the mud, we get forgotten.¡±


    Romeo steps forward, radiating smug superiority.


    "Vortex," he croons, "homo sine armis nihil est." The Latin drips from his lips like wine poured for peasants¡ªsweet to him, bitter to everyone else.


    Then, with all the grace of a lion toying with prey, he claps a hand on his shoulder.


    "We are superior in every way. The death of just one of us could shift the tide of this war."


    His grip tightens. The smirk on his face practically qualifies as an independent nation.


    "But," he adds, voice dripping with faux generosity, "since you doubt my methods, perhaps you¡¯d like to prove me wrong."


    Silence...


    Then Ortol steps forward, voice like a hammer.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t a playground for personal grievances, Vortex. And Romeo, we lead by unity, not division.¡± His gaze sharpens. ¡°You may question each other¡¯s methods, but in the end, you fight for the same cause. I will not have this mission compromised by egos.¡±


    For the first time today, he actually sounds like a leader.


    Then his eyes land on Vortex. ¡°You think you¡¯re being treated unfairly? Then prove yourself.¡± He turns to all the soldiers. ¡°All soldiers who return from their first battle successfully will be considered for the armor, depending on performance.¡±


    His gaze lands back on Vortex. "Am I clear?"


    Vortex¡¯s jaw tightens. Then, with forced restraint, he nods.


    Romeo, ever the insufferable aristocrat, drops a Latin phrase so casually you¡¯d think he invented the language. ¡°Fiat victoria, non misericordia.¡±


    His team chuckles like it¡¯s an inside joke.


    Vortex¡¯s fists clench before he turns and walks off.


    He¡¯s pissed. Rightfully so.


    But me?


    I¡¯m just the guy who makes the suits. And if anyone needs me, I¡¯ll be at my lab trying to stop Kinetica from turning the lab into molten slag.


    Again...


    Now excuse me while I escape this disaster before it drags me any deeper.

 Chapter 31_Vaurun

    I wake.


    Not in the depths. Not in the silence of the abyss, where the currents whisper secrets only the sea can hold.


    No, I wake to air. Dry, still, lifeless.


    The machines over my gills hum, feeding me what the land cannot. It is functional again. The last I remember, it had failed me¡ªcracked, broken, its pulse dwindling to nothing. I should have suffocated in the ruin of this wretched world.


    Yet I did not.


    Someone touched the machine. Repaired it.


    A human.


    I see her now, red-haired, small, her hands moving with careful purpose. A creature of warmth and breath, yet not like the ones who burn. Not like those who set the woods ablaze.


    She was mercy where I had known only ruin.


    I had believed them all the same. That the humans who scorched the land, who swallowed fire as easily as breath, were the only truth of their kind. But this one¡ªshe did not watch me fade. She did not let the abyss take me.


    Does this change what I know?


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    No.


    Yet still¡ªshe will be good. She will teach me.


    And if she proves false, if she is only an illusion of kindness before the tide turns¡ªthen she, too, will drown.


    There is but one abode in this green ocean¡ªwooden and small, caught between the swaying trees. The night folds over its roof like a closing maw, shadows stretching long against the dirt.


    And I perch above, watching, unmoving. The cold air does not touch me. The silence does not disturb me.


    Then, I descend.


    The ground does not groan beneath my weight. I move as the ocean moves, soundless, shifting only when I must. The day creeps forward, sluggish and weak, its light casting long fingers against the grass.


    The door opens.


    A boy steps out.


    His form is small, fragile, his scent lost to me, his heartbeat steady yet growing erratic. He sees me.


    He falls.


    I do not pause. I step over him, my form casting a shadow through the open threshold. The weak do not concern me.


    Inside, warmth clings to the air, a dim contrast to the lifeless cold beyond. The space is crude, built of old materials, but it stands. It shelters.


    Then, a voice.


    A call.


    "Hey, Klev? What was that?"


    A presence moves, unseen beyond a doorway. I hear the shifting of fabric, the scrape of metal against wood. Then, she steps into view.


    The red-haired one.


    She stirs something in a pot, her form half-turned. But then she sees me.


    She stops.


    The color drains from her face. Her hands freeze, trembling against the wooden spoon she holds.


    Her heart¡ªbeating. Rapid.


    Good. She understands what stands before her.


    I step closer. She does not move. She does not breathe. She is prey, locked in the moment before the hunt.


    I speak.


    The words ripple through the air, warping, shifting, before the machine translates them into sound.


    "You have ten days."


    Her lips part, but no words come.


    "Ten days to prove your kind is not worthy of obliteration."


    She gulps. The sound is small, swallowed by the tension in the room.


    Then, finally, a whisper:


    "Me?"

 Chapter 32_Rain

    Kernel does not welcome outsiders.


    The moment I step off the train, the city swallows me whole. Smog chokes the air. Noise slams into me like waves, crashing over and over. Colors blur, faces meld, all spinning into a vortex that drags me deeper into the city¡¯s gut. I stagger, trying to adjust to this endless whirlpool. Towering skyscrapers stretch high above, their shimmering lights flickering like false stars against a steel-gray sky.


    It¡¯s so different from the prison of cold I left behind. Back there, silence was king, each sound a small reminder that I was still alive.


    But here, I¡¯m just one voice out of thousands, smothered by the excess. I suddenly miss that quiet, the way it kept me on edge but somehow in control.


    For intelligible reasons, I stay away from the underbelly as long as I can. I blow through my meager credits on the cheapest places I can find in the more civilized districts, but it¡¯s a losing battle. The View keeps flashing warnings about the obscene costs of living here.


    So, I had to choose.


    Mecanet demands five thousand for travel. A month in this place has drained me to nine. I can¡¯t stay.


    "You were never meant for comfort," Illume''s voice lingers, distant and hollow.


    Shelter is a luxury I can''t afford. I go where life is cheap.


    Cracked sidewalks, layered in grime. Neon signs flicker in slow, dying spasms. The alleys twist endlessly¡ªveins in a decaying body.


    I keep my hood low, my pace steady. My heart hammers when I pass a group, when whispers slither from the shadows.


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    At the corner market, a man bartered a slap to his own face for a half-spoiled loaf of bread. The vendor grinned, amused. "Another," he said, like a noble sealing a deal with blood.


    The man hit himself again.


    I guess that¡¯s one way to get by.


    "A second slap for a second meal," Illume murmurs. "Tell me, Rain, how many would you take?"


    I swallow, my throat dry.


    None.


    Not one.


    But the thought lingers, sticky as hunger itself.


    Then, at the mouth of an alley, movement catches my eye¡ªa gang of punks, the kind I¡¯ve been avoiding since I got here. They¡¯ve cornered a woman.


    She¡¯s crying, her voice raw with desperation. No one stops. No one looks.


    The punks laugh, their leader circling her like a predator savoring its game. Then, for a brief moment, her eyes find mine¡ªwide, pleading. A punk shifts, blocking my view.


    ¡°So, Rain,¡± Illume howls, voice curling through my mind like smoke. ¡°Going to be a hero?¡±


    I grip my coat tighter as the tyrant waves me off, dismissing me like I was never here.


    I¡¯m no hero. This city would chew me up and spit me out if I got involved.


    ¡°As I thought¡­¡±


    After wandering the tangled streets of the lower districts, I find a decrepit, inexpensive apartment building that looks like a stiff breeze could knock it over. The owner, a broad man with a bushy beard and a kind smile, greets me at the door.


    "It¡¯s 1,600 Meccets for a year."


    My View translates that¡ªfour credits a night. Not a bad price. If things go smoothly, I¡¯ll have plenty left for Mecanet.


    The man leans in, lowering his voice. "Tell you what. My girl just got married, so I¡¯m feeling generous. What do you say to 1,200?" He grins.


    I don¡¯t hesitate. "I¡¯ll take it."


    He pats my shoulder. "Go rest for the night. We¡¯ll handle the payment tomorrow."


    For the first time in weeks, my guard drops¡ªjust a little.


    Maybe this place isn¡¯t all that bad.


    But in Kernel, kindness doesn¡¯t last.


    A sharp knock rips me from sleep. The View flickers on, outlining the figure standing behind the door¡ªa scrawny man with a form of a crooked door handle.


    "Time to pay up." He leans against the frame, rolling a coin between his fingers. "It¡¯s one-point-six K."


    I frown. "The man downstairs said¡ª"


    "The man downstairs is dead." His voice is flat, final. "Killed himself after some thugs messed with his daughter. Guess life¡¯s tough all over, huh?" He chuckles, a sound empty of humor.


    Then, "Pay up."


    My fingers twitch.


    Messed with his daughter¡­ It couldn''t have been her from last night, could it? If I had stepped in¡ªwould things be different? Would she still be alive? Would he?


    Or would I be just another body in the gutter?


    "You already know," Illume sneers. "You¡¯d be lying next to her, skin cold, mouth full of gutter water.¡±


    I clench my jaw. Shut up.


    "Go on. Say it."


    I transfer the credits.


    Better her than me.


    "That¡¯s right."

 Chapter 33_Cherry

    I wake up groggy, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. My head''s foggy, my body feels like lead, and everything¡¯s annoyingly slow. I blink, stretch, and¡ª


    Freeze.


    There¡¯s something in my room.


    A huge something. A dark something. A why-the-hell-is-this-happening-to-me something.


    Vaurun.


    He¡¯s hunched in the corner, broad enough to make the whole freaking room feel smaller. The shadows eat him up, his breathing gear humming. He doesn¡¯t move.


    I should be scared. I should be screaming. But my brain¡¯s still booting up, running on the world¡¯s slowest startup sequence. Instead, I just sit there, staring at him, blinking slugishly.


    Then I notice my View is on.


    And he¡¯s using it.


    Crack.


    I nearly fall backward. Not out of terror¡ªthough, yeah, some terror¡ªbut mostly because I¡¯m still half-asleep, and my balance is garbage right now.


    I don¡¯t say anything. He doesn¡¯t either.


    I stand up. Walk past him. Out of my room. Down the hall. Into the kitchen.


    This is fine. Totally normal. Just an apex sea predator snapping my life savings in half. No big deal.


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    I inhale. Exhale. Get to work.


    New mission: Feed the ocean demon before he decides to feed himself.


    I grab a tray and start piling meat onto it. A lot of meat. Bear meat, thanks to Zett(don''t ask why I butchered it). Because I am not about to find out what happens when Vaurun gets cranky and carnivorous.


    I grunt, adjusting the ridiculous weight in my arms. Just as I step into the hall, Klev wanders in, View open, lost in whatever nonsense he¡¯s reading. Then he sees me. Sees the tray. The absurd mountain of food.


    He quirks a brow. "What¡¯s with the feast?"


    "Jerky," I say, deadpan. "Zett¡¯ll like it."


    He snorts. "Yeah, sure. That¡¯s a normal amount of jerky. Not suspicious at all."


    I smirk, sweat glistening, then keep walking. Klev, luckily, just flops onto his self-proclaimed couch like everything in this place belongs to him.


    I don¡¯t stop. I can¡¯t stop. I have a sea monster to feed.


    Vaurun is exactly where I left him. Still massive. Still making my room feel like a shoebox.


    I set the tray down. The metal clinks.


    He looks at me.


    Not a normal look. Not a human look. It¡¯s slow, heavy¡ªlike he¡¯s peeling me apart, piece by piece, deciding if I fit into whatever deep-sea horror show he crawled out of.


    I cross my arms. "Eat."


    Nothing.


    Then, his voice¡ªlow, rippling, distorted through the translator.


    "I can hunt."


    I sigh, rubbing my temple. "Yeah, well, you can¡¯t leave."


    He tilts his head. "You mistake this for a cage."


    I wave a hand at him, at the situation. "This was your idea."


    A pause. Then, finally, a slow nod. "It was."


    Good. At least he acknowledges that.


    I turn to leave. The door creaks as I step into the hallway¡ª


    And Klev is right there.


    Grinning. "So, uh. Funny thing. Saw a massive black shadow yesterday. Nearly made me faint."


    I squint. "Nearly?"


    "¡ªOkay, fine. Actually."


    I blink. "Oh."


    "Yeah..."


    Silence.


    Then, he strolls past me, stretching. "Looked so insane, I have to carve it out. Y¡¯know, artists and their truly blessed hallucinations."


    I watch him go. Exhale slowly.


    This is going to be difficult.


    And worse? If Vaurun doesn¡¯t find what he¡¯s looking for here?


    It¡¯s bad. Real bad.


    I could call the cops. Tell Vortex¡ªhe¡¯d bring the whole freaking military.


    But that¡¯s not what Vaurun asked for.


    He asked me to prove him wrong.


    So I will.


    I¡¯ll show him humans aren¡¯t what he thinks.


    Even if I have to shove an entire history book down his gills.

 Chapter 34_Elthraa

    Reckless, wretched thing. A creature of impulse, shackled to folly, driven by the fevered ruin of your own making. You linger at the precipice, the wind clawing at your skin, urging you forward. Below yawns the ocean, vast and unfeeling¡ªan abyss without mercy, a beast whose hunger knows no end.


    It calls to you. Murmurs through the gale, lacing its whispers with promises it will never keep.


    You believe it holds an answer. You believe it holds salvation.


    The lie will sink its fangs into you.


    For the ocean does not save. The ocean devours.


    Yet you leap.


    Wind keens past your ears, a lament as hollow as the void. The world upends¡ªsky, cliff, breath¡ªall swallowed in the crushing embrace of the deep.


    And the sea reminds you.


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    It is not the river you once waded through, not the orphanage¡¯s timid streams lapping at your ankles. It is vast. Endless. A thing of salt and suffocation.


    Water scalds your throat. Your lungs seize. Your foolish, unseeing eyes sear with abyssal spite. You thrash¡ªgagging, choking¡ªgroping for breath that does not exist.


    The waves scorn you, laughing in their eternal cadence.


    You tear free from the tide¡¯s grasp, wrenching yourself from the abyss with riven limbs and bared teeth. The ocean has rejected you. Cast you aside like a feeble thing unworthy of its depths.


    You kneel upon the shore, panting, seawater dripping from your lashes. The salt stings your lips, but it is not pain that tightens your fists. It is fury.


    No.


    Defeat is a Wraith unfit to Hunt your path.


    So you plunge back in.


    This time, the sea does not seize you so easily. You do not flail. You do not beg the waves for mercy. You carve through, a blade among tides. Chaos buckles. Rhythm takes root, uncoiling into something abyss-born. Something chthonic, older than the sky¡¯s first shudder.


    Instinct.


    Your body moves as if it remembers what your mind has forgotten. The strokes sharpen, breath steadies, muscles flow like currents long known to the marrow of your bones. This is not the way a man swims¡ªno.


    This is the way of something more will-wrought. More zeal-forged.


    Something that does not merely dream of celestial strength¡ªit hungers for it, bone and breath bound to the pursuit.


    The suns sink, their embered gazes fixed upon you, silent arbiters of your ascent. And then, at last, the land rises to meet you.


    Ah, Zett. The trial of the tides is not the only one, for the shore is no sanctuary.


    Within the jungle, darkness wades.


    They see you.

 Chapter 35_Vortex

    They slam me onto the table, and that rancid-ass stench of medicinal herbs punch me right in the face. My ribs screamin¡¯ with every breath, blood still drippin¡¯ from my arm, stainin¡¯ up the white sheet like I ain¡¯t already tore up enough. Medic don¡¯t even look at me, just diggin¡¯ through his tools like I¡¯m some scrap metal he gotta hammer back into shape.


    "You recruits always show up half-dead," he mutters, all sour. "Can¡¯t even handle a little training?"


    I glare at him but keep my mouth shut. This ain¡¯t no lil¡¯ trainin''. They had us runnin¡¯ till our legs gave out, pushin¡¯ till we couldn¡¯t breathe, damn near drownin¡¯ in sweat. Half the squad barely even walkin¡¯. But what¡¯s the point in sayin¡¯ somethin¡¯? Ain¡¯t nobody tryna hear it.


    Then dude just grab my arm¡ªno warnin¡¯¡ªand dump some stingin¡¯-ass liquid straight into the wound.


    Pain hit me like a live wire, yankin¡¯ the air right out my lungs. Vision go spotty. Muscles lock up like I just took a sledgehammer to the ribs.


    "Damn¡ª!" I hiss, teeth clampin¡¯ down so hard my jaw might crack. He just scoffs.


    "Oh, grow up," he says, unimpressed. "You¡¯ll live."


    Then he get to stitchin¡¯, raw as hell, draggin¡¯ that needle through my skin like he patchin¡¯ up a torn boot. No anesthetic. Nothin¡¯. Every pull feel like he doin¡¯ it on purpose, like he makin¡¯ sure I feel every inch of that pain. My fingers dig into the table, jaw locked tight. Whole room blur for a second, heat pricklin¡¯ at my skin.


    I breathe through it. Just another trial. Another test. I ain¡¯t breakin¡¯ here.


    Finally, he ties off the last stitch and slaps a bandage over it¡ªhard.


    "There. Done."


    I let out a slow breath, sweat clingin¡¯ to my back.


    He nods toward a tray with some kinda bowl on it, steam risin¡¯ up. "Drink. It¡¯ll numb the pain."


    I pick it up, scowlin¡¯ at the thick, grayish soup sloshin¡¯ inside. Smell like burnt rubber and shit.


    The medic raises a brow. "You¡¯d rather just suffer?"


    Man, I shoulda. But instead, I take a sip.


    Regret. Instantly.


    The taste hit like rottin¡¯ meat and straight-up chemicals. I damn near gag, but I choke it down. Few seconds later, the pain dull out, but not in a good way¡ªit feel wrong, like my body ain¡¯t even mine no more.


    The medic smirk, satisfied. "You¡¯ll be back out there by morning."


    I don¡¯t thank him. He don¡¯t deserve it.


    I push off the table, but damn, my body feel wrong. Fingers tinglin¡¯, stiff, like they forgot how to move. Stomach churnin¡¯ slow and heavy, and for a second, I swear the floor tilt under my feet.


    I grip the table, blink hard. Room feel distant, like I¡¯m watchin¡¯ it through a busted screen.


    The medic just chuckles, already cleanin¡¯ his tools. "Side effects. It''ll pass. Probably."


    "Probably?" My voice sound far away.


    He shrugs.


    I exhale slow, jaw tight. Whatever in that soup, it¡¯s messin¡¯ with me.


    Shake my head. Push past it. Can¡¯t stand here questionin¡¯ it. I step outside, suck in that cold night air, but even that feel off. Like the whole world movin¡¯ just a little too slow. I press a hand to my ribs. Still hurt.


    But the real damage ain¡¯t somethin¡¯ no stitches can fix.


    This place don¡¯t train you. It break you. Grind you down till they see who still standin¡¯. I done watched good soldiers drop, bodies twitchin¡¯, and all they get is a look of disgust.


    Not fast enough. Not strong enough. Not worth rememberin¡¯.


    For what?


    I clench my fists. This whole thing harder than it¡¯s supposed to be. They ain¡¯t buildin¡¯ us up¡ªthey just seein¡¯ who can survive.


    Then I hear it¡ªthis faint rurururu, all soft against the silence.


    I look up just in time to see a delivery drone swoop down, metal frame catchin¡¯ the moonlight. It hovers for a second before droppin¡¯ a small box right at my feet.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    I don¡¯t move.


    The Delicacy System. That¡¯s what they call it. Special drones for elite soldiers¡ªthe ones who earn rewards.


    This? This ain¡¯t for me. Couldn¡¯t be.


    I crouch down, run my fingers over the box. That sleek military frame still hummin¡¯.


    Then why''s my name scrawled across the top.


    It ain''t printed either. Handwritten. Slanted, familiar.


    I already know who it¡¯s from.


    I open it. Ain¡¯t no fancy rations. No high-grade gear. Just a stack of letters.


    I pull out the first one. The handwriting too neat.


    I squint at the flourishes, tryin¡¯ to piece the words together.


    Cherry.


    Of course.


    I force myself to focus, pickin¡¯ apart the loops and curls.


    Vortex,


    I swear, things have gone to another level since you left. It¡¯s like the world flipped upside down just to spite me.


    Klev¡¯s latest project? He swears he saw some monster and now he¡¯s obsessed with sculpting it. He says if he gets the details right, it¡¯ll ¡°mean something.¡± (It¡¯s hideous. I hope he doesn¡¯t expect me to compliment it.)


    As for Zett¡ª


    I stop.


    Somethin¡¯ about the way she wrote his name make my stomach twist.


    He¡¯s going crazy. Worse than usual.


    You remember the blood oath? The one he did with you and Revilsa?


    Well, it¡¯s been a day, and we haven¡¯t seen him.


    We thought he¡¯d come back, but nope. He¡¯s still out there, training like a lunatic. Klev swears he saw him fighting trees another day¡ªactual trees¡ªbecause ¡®it¡¯s the only opponent that doesn''t get scared off.¡¯


    Zett¡¯s going to get himself killed.


    I exhale slow, willin¡¯ my pulse to steady.


    Zett, you idiot.


    I scan the rest of the letter¡ªmore updates, more reminders of home. The broken tech, the long days. Cherry tryna keep things together, barely holdin¡¯ on.


    I can see it all clear as day.


    My fingers tighten around the page.


    I glance at my right palm. The scar burn with the memory.


    We swore we wasn¡¯t gonna be just another nobody.


    And I swore I was gonna be a hero.


    Yet just minutes ago, I was sittin¡¯ here complainin¡¯. Talkin¡¯ about how unfair this was. But Zett?


    Zett out there fightin¡¯ trees, fightin¡¯ himself, fightin¡¯ for somethin¡¯.


    Maybe I been forgettin¡¯ what that feel like.


    Greatness ain¡¯t meant to be easy.


    I exhale, close my eyes for a second. Then I fold the letter real careful, slidin¡¯ it back into the box.


    I can¡¯t stop here.


    I walk up to the bunker, and soon as I enter, the air switch up. Chatter cut. Heads turn. Eyes on me like I just walked in drippin¡¯ gold. Some of ¡®em sizing me up, tryna see what I¡¯m on. Others? Straight hatin¡¯.


    Can¡¯t blame ¡®em. If I was them, I¡¯d hate me too.


    Comin¡¯ first in today¡¯s obstacle course wasn¡¯t just a flex. It was a message. And messages got consequences.


    I don¡¯t slow up. Just weave through the bodies sprawled ¡®cross the metal floor, keepin¡¯ my head high. My bunk up top. Lanny already stretched out underneath, hands tucked behind his head, lookin¡¯ all kinds of lazy. As I climb up, he tilt his head, a smirk sittin¡¯ on his face.


    ¡°Look at you, golden boy,¡± he say, drawlin¡¯. ¡°First place and a fresh set of bruises? Really trying to make us all look bad, huh?¡±


    I don¡¯t say nothin¡¯. Just ease onto my bunk, but I don¡¯t lay out. My hand come up instead, fingers tracing the faint scar cuttin¡¯ across my palm.


    I gotta try even harder now.


    Huck crash onto Lanny¡¯s bunk like a damn boulder, damn near knock the wind out his lungs.


    ¡°Get the hell off me, you oaf¡ª¡±


    ¡°Nah,¡± Huck say, grinnin¡¯ like he comfortable. ¡°You are a good mattress.¡±


    Min-Joon pull up next, quiet as usual. His eyes linger on me a second longer than they should. Then he speak.


    ¡°I just wanted to say thanks.¡±


    I arch a brow. ¡°For what?¡±


    He shrug. ¡°For being the kind of soldier who actually gives a damn.¡±


    I scoff, shakin¡¯ my head. ¡°You think I¡¯m some pure-hearted hero or somethin¡¯?¡±


    Min-Joon let out a dry chuckle. ¡°Not exactly. But I¡¯ve seen a lot of people who are only in this for themselves. You¡¯re not one of them.¡±


    Huck, still half-suffocating Lanny, slap Min-Joon¡¯s back. ¡°Alright, wise one, tell us your tragic backstory.¡±


    Min-Joon sigh, the usual stiffness in his face slippin¡¯ just a little.


    ¡°Hard work,¡± he say. ¡°That¡¯s my story.¡±


    Lanny groan. ¡°Sounds boring.¡±


    Min-Joon keep goin¡¯. ¡°My parents expected perfection. No breaks. No excuses. Just results. And I gave them that¡ªfor a while. Then it became too much.¡± His hands clench, then relax like he forcing it. ¡°So I ran. Lived alone. Slacked off. Told myself I was free, but really, I was just scared of going back. I drowned it out with games, distractions¡­ anything but responsibility.¡±


    He hesitate, then add, ¡°Then my father died. And my mother asked me for one thing¡ªto get a job.¡± His jaw tighten. ¡°I had the build for this. I was good at shooting. So I signed up.¡± He laugh, but it¡¯s empty. ¡°Didn¡¯t expect it to be so damn unfair. But I guess we all learn that sooner or later.¡±


    Huck pat his shoulder, quiet for once. Lanny still tryna push Huck off but ain''t got the strength. ¡°For the love of everything, move¡ª¡±


    Instead of helpin¡¯, Huck shift his weight, damn near kill Lanny on the spot.


    Lanny, red-faced and wheezing, shoot me a glare. ¡°Alright, champion, your turn. What¡¯s your story?¡±


    I freeze. My fingers curl, scar diggin¡¯ into my palm.


    I don¡¯t talk about my past.


    Not ¡®cause I don¡¯t wanna. But ¡®cause I never had to. Nobody asked. Nobody cared.


    But now¡ª


    Maybe I should.


    Maybe it¡¯s time¡ª


    A voice cut through the room.


    ¡°Vortex.¡±


    One of the soldiers near the entrance. Tone unreadable.


    I frown. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Somebody''s looking for you.¡±


    Shoulders lock up, muscles wired tight. Ain¡¯t nobody ever looked for me with good news. I jump down, land light on my feet. On my way out, I tap Min-Joon¡¯s shoulder¡ªsilent acknowledgement. Then I step outside.


    The second I do, somethin¡¯ slam into my gut.


    Pain explode through me, straight up vicious. My breath tear out my chest. Knees buckle. Another hit¡ªstraight to the face, jaw snap sideways.


    Then another. Then another.


    I don¡¯t even get a chance to move before they swarming.


    A fist crack against my ribs. A boot drive into my thigh. My body lurch, damn near drop, but I grit my teeth, refuse to fold.


    I don''t last. I hit the mud hard, breath shakin¡¯. They still goin¡¯.


    Somebody inside the bunker shoulda heard this. Shoulda ran out. Shoulda stopped it.


    But instead¡ª


    I hear voices.


    Singing.


    They covering it up.


    My blood chill.


    I try to push up, but a boot crash into my side, make me damn near curl up. Fingers claw at the dirt, but ain¡¯t nothin¡¯ to hold onto.


    World shrink down to just pain.


    I don¡¯t know how long it last. But by the time they done, my body don¡¯t even feel like mine no more.


    And this time it ain''t ''cause of the medicine.


    I taste blood. Feel it hot on my lips. Head pounding. But I don¡¯t make no sound.


    I just breathe.


    The bastards walk off, satisfied.


    And I stay there, in the mud, starin¡¯ up at the sky.


    Going back to the medic?


    Not a way in hell.


    So I just stay there, in the mud, starin¡¯ up at the sky¡ªvowing this ain¡¯t the end. ''Cause even when they break my body, they can¡¯t break my will.

 Chapter 36_Elthraa

    Ah, boy. You wake as the suns anoint your flesh in their celestial fire, their fervor seeping through sinew, nesting deep within the marrow of your frail vessel. Your stomach howls its lament, for you are but a pitiful thing¡ªa being of need, of insatiable hunger, a whisper of mortality lost in the tide of greater wills.


    You rise, blinking against the blinding expanse, your gaze cast into the vast unknown. The land is a miser in its mercy. Nothing but trees, trees, and more trees¡ªan unbroken assembly of uncaring sentinels.


    Yet above, the sky bestows its gift. Fruits¡ªswollen, glistening, alien. Not of the orphanage¡¯s feeble plots, nor the tamed fields of lesser men. No, these are wilder¡ªrelics of a world indifferent to your longing, pulsing with a vigor beyond your reckoning.


    You leap. Hands claw bark, legs coil and spring, and you ascend¡ªnot as a man, but as a beast reborn, unshackled from meekness. The birds scatter in your wake, fleeting, feeble things, unfit to witness the trials you would welcome.


    Then, the waters rupture.


    From the abyss, something emerges. A form armored in spines. The ocean itself, birthing a scourge of coral and cruelty. Nearly three and a half meters of sharpened malice¡ªthe kind only the Navorians could sculpt into their own flesh. A warrior. A nightmare. A harbinger.


    You do not know what he is.


    But I do.


    Still, your gaze does not falter. For within your eyes burns that maddening gleam¡ªthe glimmer of defiance, of untempered will. Oh, you reckless, wretched thing.


    You do not ponder survival.


    You do not ask if the beast will end you.


    You wonder how strong he is.


    You wonder if he is strong enough.


    If shattering him would make you any more than you are.


    But first, you feast.


    The fruit shatters between your teeth¡ªsharp, sweet, a war of flavors waged upon your tongue. Yet even as you chew, the taste is an afterthought, drowned beneath the hunger that writhes deeper still. The hunger for fire, for fury, for the inferno that awaits beyond the silence.


    And so, you run.


    Through the jungle, wailing, shrieking¡ªa specter of madness unbound, a creature of neither prey nor predator, but chaos incarnate. The world trembles beneath your feet, the trees shudder at your passing. And the Navorians hear you.


    Three of them. Engaged in a ritual befitting their kind¡ªdriving spears through the writhing body of an ape, not for sustenance, but for sport. They turn. They see you.


    The spined one, the leader, laughs.


    Oh, what a laugh. You may not hear it, but I hear what men cannot. You have found a brother, perhaps. A fool wrought of scales, as you are wrought of flesh.


    He does not hesitate.


    His arm moves.


    The air itself recoils at the violence. Even your erratic instincts, so sharp, so honed, fail to carve an escape. His strike finds you.


    The world turns white.


    And then, you are flung unto the sky.


    The trees crumble beneath you, folding, bowing, a boundless sea of emerald surrendering to the sky¡¯s dominion. The wind shrieks in your ears, a herald of ruin, and I feel it¡ªyour body, coiling, bracing. For agony. For oblivion. For the end.


    But no.


    This is not fear that grips you.


    This is reverence.


    The world unfurls before you. Immense. Unclaimed. A promise too great for mortal hands¡ªtoo great for yours? No.


    And there, beyond the reach of the treetops, beyond the whispers of leaf and limb¡ª


    Something gleams.


    Not stone. Not sky. Not the bones of this earth, nor the breath of its heavens.


    A vessel of the void.


    Your heart lurches. The madness in your soul stirs anew. A starborne relic, here?


    A fragment of the boundless, a whisper of the infinite. You dream of the stars, do you not? Of tearing through the firmament, of seizing strength beyond mortal reckoning?


    But dreams are no wings.


    You fall.


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    Yet¡ªyou snare a vine. It wrenches you forward, whips you through the air, a lifeline spun from chance and instinct. The jungle, once your adversary, bends to your folly. You release. You soar. You strike the earth in a tangle of limbs, your body howling in protest.


    Pain.


    Pain like fire in the marrow, like steel through sinew.


    And yet¡ªyou grin.


    I despise you for it.


    I admire you for it.


    But the ship, the ship, the ship.


    You rise.


    You run.


    Faster. Faster. Through the snarl of green and shadow, drawn to the metal corpse resting in the embrace of time. Its crown entangled with trees, its belly devoured by the earth. A dream, long dead, left to rot beneath an indifferent sky.


    You step forward. Wonder gleams in your eyes. The world expands once more.


    Ah, boy. You tread where few dare, where even time has turned its gaze away. Your feet press against metal long forsaken¡ªamong relics of war, the husks of those who bled for their kin. Their echoes remain, etched into the bones of this vessel, carved into symbols beyond your grasp.


    But not beyond mine.


    Your gaze skims the inscriptions, lines upon lines of a language unknown to you. If your feeble mind could grasp their meaning, you would know what they whisper:


    Tales of warriors. Of those who carved their names into the abyss. Of those who crushed the weak beneath their might and bore the strong toward glory.


    But there is no time for remembrance. No time for the weight of blood and triumph.


    Not when the trees wail.


    Not when something stirs in the jungle, ripping through vine and ruin, driven by hunger and wrath.


    You see him. The spiked Navorian.


    His eyes seize you.


    You have thrown yourself at him once, a moth to a black sun, a fool to the jaws of something greater.


    Would you do it again?


    No.


    At last, you see.


    You cannot win.


    And then¡ªthe whisper.


    "Here."


    It slithers past the battle-drums in your chest, past the fire in your bones. It does not beckon. It does not plead. It simply is.


    You turn to the shadow that has watched you.


    There¡ªbeneath a rusted trapdoor. A figure. Eyes like ghost-light, grey-white, unlike any you have ever seen. A presence that does not belong, yet lingers as if the wreck itself has shaped it from forgotten shadows.


    You do not hesitate.


    The trapdoor wrenches open. You drop into the abyss beneath the ship. It slams shut behind you, sealing you in the cold, in the silence.


    And the dark swallows you whole.


    Then¡ªa flicker. A tremor in the bones of this place. The walls shudder, and the dark breathes. Lights, feeble ghosts of a forgotten age, sputter to life. And at last, you see.


    A hall. Vast. Hollow.


    This is no mere wreck. No simple husk of metal and wire, no grave for the nameless dead. It is more.


    You do not understand.


    You do not need to.


    Your feet move before thought can anchor you. Forward. Blindly. Foolishly.


    Then¡ªemptiness.


    The platform vanishes beneath you. Gravity seizes you like a predator long denied its feast. You plummet, limbs flailing, breath torn from your lungs. The world slams into you, pain surging through your body like a river of fire.


    But do you stop?


    Do you falter?


    No.


    Because there is more.


    More to see. More to take in.


    More legends.


    Not spoken. Not written. Carved.


    Your fingers graze the etchings upon the walls¡ªetched with a hand both reverent and ruthless. Two figures.


    One wields hammers, a titan among titans, his presence bending the world around him. The other, a warrior in gauntlets, a king without a crown, standing as if the stars themselves kneel before his might.


    They bow before a sun. Then, they rise, side by side¡ªmonstrous birds crashing beneath their fists, feathers and blood raining down.


    They are strength. They are power. They are unbreakable.


    But the chain that binds them?


    It shatters.


    They part.


    The hammer-bearer walks toward an unknown world, his path swallowed by the void. The gauntleted one remains, a king upon a throne that does not feel like home.


    A story. A legend. A wound upon the fabric of time.


    And yet¡ªall you see is how great they look.


    You smirk, sliding a hand across the steel¡ªwhen something else catches your eye.


    A mattress. A blanket. A life.


    And then¡ªthe boy.


    Small. White-haired. Frail, barely there. A thing that could shatter beneath a breath. You could crush him with a tap, break him with a glance.


    He shudders, curling in on himself like a wounded animal. Then, in a voice barely stronger than the whisper that led you here¡ª


    "Ail."


    His name.


    But look at you, boy. So bright, so unshaken, so unbroken. You grin¡ªall teeth and warmth¡ªand say:


    "I¡¯m Zett."


    And then¡ª


    "What are you doing here?"


    The boy stiffens. Turns away. Pulls into his dark corner, into his mattress, into his silence. His voice is nothing but air.


    "I¡¯d rather not say."


    You tilt your head. Unbothered. Unworried. You drop beside him, knees to your chest, a child at rest. You have no intention of leaving.


    "You can leave tomorrow," Ail mutters. "The Navorian will be gone by then."


    You glance at him. And then, you smile.


    A child¡¯s smile.


    "Say."


    "No."


    "Come on."


    "No."


    "Pleeease?"


    "NO!"


    Silence overtakes. The way you scratch your head, unbothered, unworried. The way your eyes¡ªthose crimson, fearless eyes¡ªfinally see.


    The scars.


    His arms. His neck. His face. A map of scars, carved into his skin.


    He has suffered.


    For how long? By whose hands? A mystery. A story left untold. But one thing is certain.


    Whoever did this¡ªwas cruel.


    And now, the boy¡ªthis small, fragile thing¡ªdrops his head.


    And you see them.


    The tears.


    Wimp.


    That is all I say.


    And his voice¡ªso small, so broken¡ªfinally speaks what his lips have hidden for so long.


    "I don¡¯t know who I am.


    I don¡¯t know anything.


    I just¡­ am.


    And no one likes me.


    Not since I was a child. Not now, probably. But I wouldn¡¯t know."


    Wouldn¡¯t know?


    "I¡¯ve been here for eight years."


    Eight.


    Eight years in this graveyard of metal and ghosts.


    Hiding.


    ¡°Because¡ª¡±


    He stops.


    Refuses to say more.


    "Stay away from me," he whispers. "And after you leave¡­ never come back."


    The boy doesn''t know you.


    For you are stubborn.


    You decide something in that moment.


    You will come back.


    You will drag him outside, kicking and screaming if you must. You will show him the world.


    But not tonight.


    No, tonight¡­


    You will play a game.


    Not for yourself.


    For him.


    So that, even for a moment¡ª


    Ail can smile.

 Chapter 37_Jrake

    First rule of engineering: If a problem persists, throw more money at it. If that doesn¡¯t work, pray to whatever deity you believe in because you¡¯re about to witness a catastrophe. Right now, Kernel¡¯s problem is the impending nuclear storms, and the money is being flung at domes like confetti at a wedding.


    I swipe through my View, scrolling past updates on the engineers laboring over the dome¡¯s infrastructure. We¡¯re close...


    The storms have been gaining intensity, and this dome is the only thing between Kernel and a very sudden desertification process. They say it should hold. I say they better be right because I enjoy living, even if it means stress-drinking coffee like it¡¯s the last thing keeping me alive.


    Speaking of things that keep me alive¡ª


    I flick my View away and glance at the Argov Armor I¡¯ve been fine-tuning for months. Next to me, General Stonewall¡ªprobably not his real name, but the man radiates enough discipline to make concrete nervous¡ªwatches the suit from behind the glass with his arms crossed. The thing is a beast. Chunky as hell, towering, every inch lined with Argov energy converters that could empower the wearer with kinetic, thermal, or even potential energy upon command. The goal? Make the soldier unstoppable. The issue? We¡¯re still figuring out how to stop them afterward.


    Enter Fred, our lucky test candidate. Poor guy¡¯s been promised a suit of his own if he passes the trials, which is funny because I haven¡¯t actually finished working out the kinks yet.


    He squares up to the test wall¡ªa solid block of reinforced brick. The AI in his suit, a soothing voice designed to counteract the sheer terror of piloting an untested death machine, instructs him.


    ¡°Engage kinetic redistribution. Charge time: three seconds.¡±


    Fred, in his infinite wisdom, charges for ten.


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    He throws the punch. The brick wall ceases to exist. Unfortunately, so does Fred¡¯s ability to remain grounded. He blasts backward, slamming through another wall and into what I can only describe as the worst place possible: the communal showers. There¡¯s a scream, a crash, and an unfortunate glimpse of things no one should see at work.


    General Stonewall turns his head slightly, eyes narrowing at me.


    I take a sip of my coffee, words bubbling out. ¡°It worked too well.¡±


    He grunts. I force a smile.


    I leave the testing chamber, trying to drown my existential dread in caffeine. The big day¡ªthe final test¡ªisn¡¯t for a while. But not as long as it should be. These suits are no joke.


    As I navigate the halls of the military HQ, I spot a woman with fiery orange hair¡ªJune. Hard to forget a face like that, even if I wanted to.


    She¡¯s deep in conversation with Klaus, our favorite terrifying drill instructor.


    ¡°You should lead the squad,¡± she insists.


    Klaus exhales through his nose like a damn war horse. ¡°Then don¡¯t regret my methods.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t.¡±


    She notices me, nods at Klaus, and starts walking my way. My brain promptly short-circuits. Keep it together, Jrake. She¡¯s just a person. An attractive, intimidating, possibly insane person, but a person nonetheless.


    She stops in front of me, confident, all smiles. ¡°I don¡¯t think we¡¯ve been introduced.¡±


    ¡°I, uh, already know you,¡± I say, then instantly regret how that sounds. ¡°I mean, not in a creepy way. Just in a totally normal, database-recorded, absolutely non-stalkerish way.¡±


    She raises an eyebrow, smirking. ¡°Good to know.¡±


    Great. I¡¯m smooth as a sandpaper handshake.


    ¡°Then you shouldn¡¯t be surprised I know you too.¡± She mutters, ¡°Jrake, the brilliant engineer from Mecanet. And, of course, Ortol¡¯s brother.¡±


    I freeze. No one remembers the engineer. I¡¯m just the guy who makes things work. But she does.


    There¡¯s a dramatic speech forming in my head about how, in the moments that matter, the most important people know your name. I say none of it. Just stare at her like a fish.


    She chuckles. ¡°Want to walk while we talk?¡±


    I nod, still malfunctioning.


    As we stroll, she suddenly asks, ¡°Have you ever tried so hard at something that, if it fails, you¡¯d probably just kill yourself?¡±


    I choke on my coffee. ¡°Uh. The suits. Definitely the suits.¡±


    She laughs. I actually made her laugh. This is a moment.


    ¡°What about you?¡± I ask, still coughing.


    ¡°I¡¯m gonna start training the snipers. They¡¯re done with most of the basic training now, so I need to make sure they¡¯re ready.¡±


    I pause. ¡°Wait. You¡¯re fighting?¡±


    She gives me a look, like I just asked if water is wet. ¡°Of course. What did you expect?¡±


    I expected to keep feeling okay about this war. Apparently, that¡¯s not happening.


    She glances at the time. ¡°We should talk again sometime. Maybe when we¡¯re both not drowning in work.¡±


    I nod. ¡°Yeah. That¡¯d be¡ªyeah.¡±


    She gives a sharp salute before turning and walking away. I watch her leave, then groan into my coffee.


    I should feel reassured. People like her¡ªthe strong ones, the ones who don¡¯t hesitate¡ªwin wars. But wars don¡¯t care who they take in the process.


    Or maybe I¡¯m just not thinking with my head. And I really hope that¡¯s not the case.

 Chapter 38_Rain

    The View projects everything I need to learn.


    Data streams, maps, records¡ªflooding my vision, their glow tracing my fingers as I pull apart the light, rearranging the pieces, making sense of the cosmos. Each thread of starlight bends and shifts, carving paths across Arcos.


    I whisper the name of the constellation.


    "Arcos."


    A second start for humanity, carved from the dark. A frontier built on the bones of the old world. And at its core, Mecanet¡ªa galaxy so far beyond my reach it may as well be myth.


    But I¡¯m getting there.


    The MECAT is one year away.


    I¡¯m learning. I¡¯m absorbing. I¡¯m moving so fast the AI embedded in my View tells me I¡¯ll be ready before the deadline.


    "Then what?" Illume mutters, his voice scraping against the inside of my skull. "Going to dig yourself a grave where dirt¡¯s priceless?"


    I stand. My hands curl, searching for something to hit. Nothing. The pressure coils in my chest, a crushing weight, and I launch myself at the door, slamming my fist against the metal.


    "No!" I roar. "I¡¯ll dig your grave and bury you there."


    Illume laughs¡ªsoft, slow, indulgent. Mocking my tantrum.


    My fists loosen. My body slides down the door as my knees buckle. Tears burn hot down my face.


    Maybe then, you¡¯ll finally get out of my head.


    "Eat it, Rain," Illume jeers. "I¡¯m coming with you to the grave."


    A noise.


    A creak beyond the door. A shift in the air. My breath locks in my throat.


    Bang.


    A fist smashes through the metal door, warping steel like it¡¯s paper. Fingers curl, reaching for my throat.


    I lurch backward, scrambling, heart hammering like a war drum.


    What? Who is that?


    The fingers, missing my neck, dig into the steel instead. Then pull.


    The door rips free.


    I freeze. My lungs seize.


    Something just tore through solid metal like it was tin foil.


    I claw to my feet, searching for anything¡ªanything to fight with.


    Nothing.


    I thought I was safe in Kernel. I thought this was where I¡¯d study. Where I¡¯d progress.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    The figure steps inside.


    Bald. Thick jaw. Arms of steel, lined with pulsing veins of blue energy. Legs like pillars, built to crush.


    His golden eyes scan me.


    I¡¯m dead. So dead.


    Why?


    Why me?


    First the Navorians. Now this¡ª


    "I told you," Illume whispers, a fog curling in my mind. "Take the easy way out."


    Everything stills.


    Is it true? Will trouble really follow me wherever I go?


    The man speaks. His voice is thick, grinding like rusted gears. "I hadta kill kittens strongah than ye." He steps forward, the ground groaning beneath his weight. "Ye really worth fifty thousand Meccets?"


    Fifty thousand?


    Who put a bounty on me?


    Illume? Would you?


    Silence...


    Now you choose to be quiet?


    No. If Illume wanted me dead, he¡¯d do it himself.


    This guy is after me because someone else¡ªsomeone powerful¡ªwants me gone.


    And I know exactly who.


    I remember the way I cut his hand. The way his face twisted with rage. The promise he made to kill me.


    Garnot Impulse. From a family so rich they own a planet.


    Fifty thousand? A charity fee.


    The bounty hunter steps closer. I press my back against the wall.


    He looms, smirks¡ªa silver tooth glinting under the dim light. A ring pierces through his nose.


    "Ouath to kill ya." He bends down, his head just beneath mine. His breath smells like burnt circuits. "Whatcha say about catch? I¡¯ll give ya a ten-second head start."


    He doesn¡¯t wait.


    "One."


    The word rumbles through my bones.


    My heart seizes.


    Move.


    My legs won¡¯t move.


    "Two."


    I explode toward the exit, looking right, then sprinting left. The elevator doors snap shut in front of me.


    "Three."


    I pivot to the stairwell and fly down the steps. My foot catches. I trip, crashing, rolling. My skull cracks against the wall.


    "Four."


    I daze. Something red streaks my vision. I push up.


    "Five."


    My hand slips on my blood¡ªtoo much of it. I make it down¡ªlobby spinning. I can¡¯t stop. I have to move.


    ¡°Six.¡±


    The receptionist is slumped in his chair, arms severed on the ground beside him. His legs, too. I still at the sight.


    "Seven."


    The exit. Close. Too far.


    I plant my foot, inhale¡ªexhale¡ªand run.


    "Eight."


    I burst outside into the night. The streets are empty. Left or right?


    "Nine."


    Left.


    I sprint, sweat stinging my eyes.


    I¡¯m going to make it. I have to make it.


    "Ten."


    The world shudders.


    BOOM.


    I stop. Look back.


    Dust spills from the apartment building, walls buckling under concussive force.


    Then¡ª


    Another explosion. A section of the second floor detonates outward.


    And he is midair, flipping.


    He lands. The ground cracks beneath his weight. His head tilts, scanning.


    Then his eyes lock onto me.


    I bolt.


    The world stretches, shakes¡ª


    He appears in front of me.


    Feet slam into the ground, killing his momentum.


    He lunges. Grabs my shirt.


    And we fly.


    Then impact¡ª


    My body shatters against concrete.


    Blood bursts from my mouth. My arms¡ªmy legs¡ªI can¡¯t feel them.


    But I feel everything.


    He looms over me, breath hot against my face.


    "So," Illume¡¯s voice licks against my ear. "Any last words?"


    I try to swallow air. It tastes like iron and dust. My limbs are ghosts, my vision pulses red. But I still have breath for one thing.


    I rasp, "Fuck you, Illume."


    The bounty hunter chuckles. "That ain¡¯t my name."


    I exhale, ragged. "Wasn¡¯t talking to you."


    Then¡ª


    A single gunshot.


    The man¡¯s skull snaps forth as a hole erupts through his forehead.


    His body slumps, heavy. A ruined mass of flesh and cybernetics.


    I don¡¯t fall. I am stuck. That or I can''t move.


    A figure steps into view.


    Dark curls pinned neatly under a wide-brimmed hat. A high-collared coat, pressed to perfection, gold embroidery gleaming against the midnight fabric. Gloved hands adjusting the pearl grip of a smoking pistol.


    She exhales, unimpressed. When she speaks, her accent is rich, poised¡ªan aristocrat who¡¯s never once doubted her place in the world.


    "Dead or alive?" she muses. Her gloved fingers brush dust from her coat. "Alive. I do so enjoy a challenge.¡±


    She tucks the pistol into a holster at her waist. Then her fist connects with my face.


    The streetlights flicker.


    Her shadow looms.


    I black out.

 Chapter 39_Cherry

    It¡¯s taken me days to put this together.


    Not just random bits of trivia or desperate arguments¡ªno, this is airtight. Bulletproof. If Vaurun walks away from this still thinking humans deserve to be wiped out, then maybe we really are doomed.


    I take a breath, steady myself. The orphanage is quiet, lights out. It has been just me and my View, hours spent discussing, debating, refining this explanation with its Ai. Every angle covered, every flaw smoothed over.


    And now, Vaurun sits before me, impossibly still, his dark, armored form looming in the dim light. He wears my spare view, waiting for me to begin.


    ¡°Alright,¡± I say, pulling up the first projection. A blue-and-green sphere appears in the air between us, rotating slowly.


    ¡°This was Earth. The birthplace of humanity.¡±


    Vaurun doesn¡¯t react. He will soon.


    I zoom in, the continents becoming clearer, cloud formations drifting across the surface.


    ¡°We weren¡¯t made. We weren¡¯t engineered. We evolved¡ªthrough pain, struggle, and survival, like any other creature. Our roots are deep, tangled with every species that ever walked or swam or flew. And for a time, we thrived.¡±


    I swipe. The image shifts. Earth¡¯s colors dull. The blue fades. The land cracks. A new picture: an Earth covered in choking smog, oceans dark with rot, storms raging across continents.


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    ¡°But then we destroyed our own home. Overpopulation, war, greed¡ªwe killed our cradle before we even left it. When the planet finally began to fail, we ran.¡±


    Another swipe. A cascade of images: spaceships breaking through the atmosphere, colonies forming on alien worlds, humans spreading like wildfire across the stars.


    ¡°We adapted. We learned to live in places we were never meant to. Our bodies changed¡ªsome genetically, some through cybernetics. We mixed with new environments, new challenges. And yeah, we fought. We conquered. But we also built, created, explored.¡±


    I pause, meeting his gaze. He hasn¡¯t looked away once.


    A good sign.


    I continue, shifting the projection to something else. Human anatomy. The biological quirks that make us different.


    ¡°Our bones are built for endurance, not brute strength. Our muscles may be weak compared to yours, but they last¡ªwe can outrun almost anything over time. Our brains? Pattern-seeking, problem-solving. We don¡¯t just survive. We adapt.¡±


    I tap the next slide. ¡°And emotions? We aren¡¯t just instinct. We feel. We love. We create music, art, stories. We¡ª¡±


    A sound.


    A groggy mumble.


    I freeze.


    Footsteps shuffle just outside my door. Then¡ª


    Zett stands in the doorway, covered in mud, hair tangled, blinking sluggishly like he just woke up from a coma.


    My breath catches. Three days. Three days he¡¯s been missing.


    "Zett¡ª?"


    He scratches his head, yawning. "Hungry."


    I almost pop my vein. "You¡ªwhere the hell have you been?"


    He blinks at me. Then his gaze shifts past me.


    To Vaurun.


    I see it happen¡ªthe moment his sleep-addled brain registers the seven-foot warlord sitting in my bedroom.


    His whole body locks up. Eyes wide.


    I don¡¯t breathe.


    And then¡ª


    Zett takes a slow, careful step back.


    My stomach drops.


    Vaurun turns his head toward Zett, slow, horrifying.


    Silence...


    I have about three seconds before everything spirals out of control.

 Chapter 40_Vaurun

    A human.


    Crimson-haired.


    My gaze flicks between the boy and Cherry. Are they of the same blood?


    He stares at me, muscles locked, uncertain. A creature caught in the tide, unsure whether to swim or surrender.


    I rise. My joints shift, armor plates settling into place. A slow movement as I stretch my appendages, the dark, scaled limbs unfolding, my claws curling into a semblance of a human hand.


    A greeting.


    "Vaurun."


    Cherry¡¯s breath catches. Her eyes widen as if she has glimpsed something impossible. As if she has seen the depths and realized the abyss can reach back.


    For a moment, silence...


    Then the boy smiles. Not out of arrogance. Not in mockery. In awe.


    Slowly, carefully, he reaches out and clasps my hand. His grip is weak, his skin soft. Fragile, like the delicate shells that scatter across the ocean floor¡ªeasily crushed, yet surviving despite the weight of the world above.


    ¡°I¡¯m Zett,¡± he says.


    I nod as humans would. Then release his hand and retreat, sinking back into my seat.


    ¡°Continue,¡± I say.


    Cherry hesitates. The boy¡ªZett¡ªsettles beside me, too close, his presence a ripple in my space. But I do not move him. He is like the younglings who followed behind war-swimmers in the currents, lingering where the waters were safe.


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    She exhales, composes herself, and resumes.


    She speaks of human endurance, of bodies shaped not for sheer power but for relentless survival. Of minds that do not simply obey instinct but twist, adapt, rebuild.


    I listen. I weigh her words.


    Is this so different from the Navorians?


    Once, we were creatures of the abyss. Born in the deepest trenches, armored against the crushing dark. But when the Hargals rose from their emerald sea, when the Avarasi sank their talons into the ocean¡¯s veins, we did not retreat.


    We changed.


    We carved war from flesh and scale. We wrenched ourselves from the sea, stepped onto land with gills that burned and limbs that trembled. We suffered so that the oceans would remain ours.


    Survival at any cost.


    And yet, for all their cleverness, humans did not protect their waters. They poisoned them. Abandoned them. And when their world crumbled, they fled.


    Like prey.


    Cherry nears the end. She pauses, expecting me to speak, to let her finish.


    But I do not wait.


    "Humans Build," I say. "They endure.¡±


    Cherry¡¯s shoulders ease. Perhaps she thinks she has succeeded.


    "But."


    She stiffens.


    "I am not convinced," I continue. "Why should I prefer your kind over my own?"


    Her lips part. I see the war in her mind, the thoughts colliding like opposing tides.


    Then, softly, she says:


    "You don¡¯t."


    No plea. No justification.


    A truth, as bare as stone beneath retreating waves.


    I turn my head.


    Zett has fallen asleep against me, breath steady, his form weightless compared to the armor I bear.


    Strange.


    I lift him, careful, as one might carry something delicate yet persistent¡ªlike coral clinging to a wreck. I place him on Cherry¡¯s bed. She watches me, not with fear, but with something from within.


    Worry.


    I stand before her.


    "I will leave," I tell her. "But you should too. Before this time next year."


    She does not speak. Does not argue.


    I step toward the door, bending to exit.


    But before I pass through, I glance back.


    Cherry is not looking at me. She is staring at the boy, concern woven into her features.


    My claws sink into the wooden frame, leaving deep grooves.


    But I do not look back again.


    I step out.


    And I return to the oceans, where I will wait.


    The currents will shift. The tides will rise.


    Until the Hammer awakens.

 Chapter 41_Revilsa

    They whisper it behind my back. Queenpin.


    The ball hits the wall with a dull thunk. Bounces back. I kick it again. Harder this time. Thunk. The rhythm is soothing. My own personal metronome against the world.


    Behind me, the school is abuzz with life¡ªstudents shuffling between classes, teachers droning on about things they barely care about. I should be in there. Should be learning. Should be pretending.


    But I don¡¯t do shoulds anymore.


    I tilt my head back, letting the cold air slide past my skin. The sky is a dull, washed-out blue. Boring.


    Another thunk.


    Then¡ªfootsteps.


    I don¡¯t turn, don¡¯t acknowledge them, even when they stop just behind me.


    ¡°Ahem.¡±


    Mont Bretia.


    I kick the ball again. This time, it rolls away.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been missing class,¡± she says, arms crossed, voice puffed up with authority she doesn¡¯t really have. "I don¡¯t tolerate rule-breakers."


    I finally turn. Her face is round, bloated, her cheeks sagging just enough to make her look permanently displeased. The new principal. She¡¯s trying to establish herself. Trying to act like she matters.


    I step past her. ¡°Then don¡¯t tolerate me.¡±


    She blocks my path, voice hardening. ¡°Revilsa, your parents will be contacted.¡±


    I raise an eyebrow. Take my time. Then, with several slow nods, I slowly walk past her¡ªstraight towards her office.


    Mont hesitates, then follows.


    We make it to the office. Stiff. Sterile. Like it hasn¡¯t been lived in long enough to collect dust.


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    I drop into the chair across from her desk, lean back, and prop my boots up. She stiffens. Opens her mouth to tell me off¡ª


    Before she can, I toss the packet onto her desk.


    It lands with a soft thud. White. Sealed.


    Mont stares. Doesn¡¯t move.


    Then, slowly, she picks it up. Turns it over. Her face drains of color.


    ¡°Cocaine?¡± I hum, tapping my fingers on the armrest. ¡°Even that is too low for a principal.¡±


    Her breath catches. ¡°I¡ªI don¡¯t know what you¡¯re¡ª¡±


    I tap my view. Send the proof directly to her screen. The transaction records. The messages. The receipts.


    Mont¡¯s pupils dilate as the evidence floods her retinas. Her cheeks quiver. "You¡ª"


    "¡ªshould¡¯ve stuck to blackmailing cafeteria staff," I finish, ¡°like your old school.¡±


    I push back my chair slowly and take a bunch of candy. Unwrap one, let the wrapper drift onto her desk like trash.


    ¡°Clean up,¡± I murmur, sucking the candy. ¡°Unless you¡¯d rather I clean you up first.¡±


    Then I walk out.


    Nessa is waiting for me.


    She¡¯s bigger than the other girls. Older than she should be for this grade. Once, she shoved me onto the ground. Once, she laughed when others did the same.


    Now? She follows me like my loyal dog. Happened after I leaked the video of her crying in the locker room. She tried to slap me. I broke two of her fingers. We had an understanding after that.


    "Mont¡¯s gonna try something," Nessa mutters, falling in step beside me.


    I shrug. She won¡¯t.


    Nessa watches as I sift through the candy, picking out the worthy colors. The rest? I scatter them in the wind.


    She picks up a discarded red candy, rolling it between her fingers. "You always throw away the best ones."


    I pause.


    "Shut up," I say, too fast.


    She scowls. "Someone¡¯s waiting for you in class."


    I sigh, stretching. "Great. My fan club grows."


    I make it to the classroom, air being damp enough to crush a planet. The teacher is sweating. She forces a smile when she sees me.


    "Revilsa, dear¡­" She fidgets, tugs at her collar. "I don¡¯t know why they¡¯re here."


    I follow her gaze.


    My desk isn¡¯t empty.


    Three high schoolers. Punks by the looks of it, from the underground.


    The leader¡ªblonde hair, an earring, dark shadows under his eyes¡ªleans back in my chair, watching me with lazy amusement. His boots are on my desk.


    He looks me up and down. Then he laughs.


    Looks at the teacher.


    "This one?"


    The teacher stammers, but I don¡¯t listen. I walk forward. Nessa stays by the door, arms crossed.


    The other two punks¡ªone wiry, one built like a brick¡ªwatch me.


    The leader taps my desk. ¡°Heard a lot about you, Revilsa.¡± He talks like he is the one in control. ¡°Didn¡¯t think you¡¯d be so¡­ small.¡±


    I smile. Not a nice one.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t think you¡¯d be so stupid.¡±


    His grin anchors. Then he swings his legs off the desk, standing up. Taller than me. He leans in, close enough that I can smell his breath.


    "You think you''re top dog here, huh?"


    The brick cracks his knuckles. The wiry one shifts, ready.


    I tilt my head, pretending to think. "No."


    Then I slam my knee into his ribs, hard enough to hear something pop. His breath explodes in a choked gasp. Then blinks, mouth opening like he¡¯s about to laugh.


    His legs buckle, dropping onto the ground, clutching his side, and the classroom goes dead silent except for his wheezing.


    The wiry one lunges. I sidestep, grab his wrist, and slam it down on the desk hard enough to make the teacher flinch.


    "Anyone else?"


    The brick runs out.


    That makes me laugh.


    It''s night and home smells like perfume and fresh toast. The lights are dim. My mother sits at the table, silent. My father reads the news through his view.


    ¡°Three high schoolers,¡± he says, flipping the page. ¡°Hospitalized. Apparently, they tried to take on a wrestler. That''s rough.¡±


    Good cover-up.


    He looks up, notices the split in my lip. His smile doesn¡¯t reach his eyes. "You never come home clean."


    I shrug. "You taught me that."


    A beat. The scar under his eye¡ªcourtesy of Mom¡¯s wine glass, two years back¡ªstretches pale. Then he chuckles, flipping the news feed again. "Fair."


    He coughs, changing topic, ¡°Your teacher quit today, Rev.¡±


    I chew slowly. The butter is too warm, greasy on my tongue.


    ¡°Hope you weren¡¯t too attached.¡±


    Attatched?


    I¡¯d warned her. Quit, or I¡¯d leak the footage of her and the ¡®afterclass sessions¡¯ she had in the car with her blonde waste of oxygen.


    Funny how fast she crumpled when I mentioned statutory laws. Not that I care about justice. But watching her beg for mercy? Pathetic. I¡¯d left her sobbing in the faculty bathroom.


    Now my toast sticks in my throat. I force it down.


    Weakness tastes burnt.

 Chapter 42_Vortex

    Morning hit different when you ain''t slept right. Suns still low, sky all misty, but we posted up like statues¡ªrow after row, still as death. Air stingy against my skin. My arms sore, my face thumping where yesterday¡¯s hits left they mark¡ªbruises dark like storm clouds. But I keep my stance tight.


    We stand in the Yard¡ªa patch of dirt between the barracks and the wire fence. Only thing taller than Klaus is the watchtower, its shadow cutting through the mist.


    He step up, boots crunchin¡¯ the dirt like he own the ground. He got that look, like a wolf sniffin¡¯ out weak prey. His eyes sweep over us, then stop dead on me.


    A low grunt rumble out his throat. "Show me your knuckles."


    I lift ¡®em. Clean. No bruises, no cuts. No proof I swung on nobody.


    Klaus pop the cigar out his mouth, drop it, crush it under his boot like it ain¡¯t worth nothin¡¯. He lift his chin. "All of you! Hands out!"


    Whole squad move, fists up. I keep mine down, but my gut coil up tight. I know what he doin¡¯. He lookin¡¯ for last night¡¯s fighters.


    Then he stop. Stare.


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    I follow his eyes. One of Korin¡¯s boys. Punk got shaky hands, knuckles all busted up. Sweat runnin¡¯ down his face like he already know what¡¯s comin¡¯.


    Klaus don¡¯t say nothin¡¯. Just flick his fingers at me. "Follow."


    I hesitate, then step out the line. He lead me to a wooden pole nearby. Reach down. Pick up a bat. Old, but thick. Heavy. He flip it once, feel the weight, then hand it over. I take it, confused.


    Then he turn back, lock eyes on the punk. His voice drop low. "The bat will break¡­ begin."


    Punk damn near choke. "I¡ªI didn''t do it." His voice weak. "I didn''t mean it¡ªplease, man, I¡¯m sorry."


    Tears now.


    I stare at him. The bat heavy in my grip. My heart slammin¡¯ in my chest.


    Hit him.


    That¡¯s what Klaus want. That¡¯s what soldiers do, right? That¡¯s how you prove you strong?


    ¡­Nah.


    I let the bat go. Last time I swung one, it was for Grandma Rose¡ªback when she needed firewood, not bodies. "I ain¡¯t doin¡¯ it." My voice solid. "I ain¡¯t hurtin¡¯ my own."


    No reponse.


    Then Klaus move.


    Fast.


    Before the punk can even flinch¡ªbefore I can breathe¡ªCRACK.


    Bat split his forehead. Blood spill down his face.


    Klaus don¡¯t stop. He swing again. Shoulder. Ribs. Back. The bat shatter against him, bustin¡¯ into splinters. Punk drop like dead weight, wheezin¡¯, blood soakin¡¯ the dirt.


    Klaus inhale slow through his nose. A beast. "The other one."


    Second punk bolt.


    That damn idiot.


    Pop.


    Gunshot split the air. The punk¡¯s scream came half a second later, like his body needed time to feel the pain. Blood pour from his leg. Same dirt where we did push-ups at dawn. Klaus always said this ground was cravin¡¯ somethin¡¯.


    He glance back at us. "Step up."


    Somebody do.


    Korin.


    He move smooth, calm. Eyes cold like river ice. When he nod, his throat work once, like he swallow a scream. "I did it."


    Klaus stare him down. Then grunt.


    He step away, come back.


    With another bat.


    Korin shift, real slight, just enough to look at me. Our eyes meet.


    Stomach twist.


    His knuckles ain¡¯t bruised.


    He ain¡¯t fight.


    But Klaus don¡¯t care.


    The bat swings.

 Chapter 43_Cherry

    I should be sleeping. Should be dreaming. But I¡¯m just lying here, staring at the wooden ceiling, arms stiff at my sides, thoughts rolling in my head.


    Vaurun told me to leave.


    Before this time next year.


    A warning. A death sentence wrapped up in a few translated words.


    I don¡¯t move. Zett isn¡¯t back yet. He¡¯s been gone too long. But I don¡¯t panic.


    I am used to it at this point.


    Still, it¡¯s hard to focus.


    It¡¯s harder to breathe.


    I peel myself off the bed and shuffle through the dim hall. The air is stale. The morning feels like it wants me suffocated.


    The kitchen is quiet when I get there. Oats again. I set it to cook. It¡¯s bubbling, thick and sluggish, rolling over itself in slow, muggy movements.


    The steam curls, rising. The tiny flecks of grain and husk break apart in the heat, their swollen bodies floating up and vanishing like they never existed. I stare at it. I keep staring.


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    It¡¯s just oats. It¡¯s just another morning. But my brain latches on to the details like they matter.


    Oats¡ªone of the first crops humans ever farmed. The grains break down, cell walls unraveling, starch thickening the water into something that fills the gut, keeps you moving.


    Humans eat it.


    Navorians don¡¯t.


    Why am I thinking about this?


    Why did I help a Navorian?


    They¡¯re not us. They don¡¯t live for anything but themselves. But I did it anyway, didn¡¯t I? I let one of them into our home. I let one of them see us. See Zett.


    And he warned me.


    Just me.


    Which means there¡¯s something coming. Something inevitable.


    If I were smarter, I¡¯d take the warning and go. But where? There is nowhere to go. No place to run. I have no family, no money, no backup plan. This orphanage is the only thing I¡¯ve ever known, and we are all going to be leaving it soon when storms start.


    And if Vaurun¡ªif the Navorians¡ªif they come here¡ª


    I grip the counter, staring so hard at the oat that my vision blurs.


    Klev¡¯s voice cuts through my thoughts. "Wow, Cherry, you actually woke up early? What, did the sun threaten you?"


    I don¡¯t react.


    Klev quiets. I think he notices. He always notices. His smirk falters for half a second. "Cherry?"


    But I don¡¯t let him finish.


    I turn and bolt.


    Out of the kitchen. Out of the orphanage, my shoulder clipping the doorway. Out into the cold morning, the air curling in my lungs, my feet hitting the dirt so hard it stings. The sky stretches above me, and I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m doing.


    But then I scream.


    "VAURUN!"


    It rips out of me, raw and ugly, louder than anything I¡¯ve ever let out before. It cuts through the morning, through the weight pressing on my chest, through the panic rising in my gut.


    I take a deep breath and continue.


    "IF YOU¡¯RE BRINGING YOUR ARMY HERE¡ª" my voice cracks, but I don¡¯t stop. "THEN YOU BETTER BE READY!"


    The wind carries the words away, but I don¡¯t care. I want him to hear it. I want the ocean to hear it.


    "BECAUSE THIS IS OUR WORLD!"


    I drop to my knees, gasping, shaking, gripping the dirt.


    That felt good.


    But what am I going to do?


    Guess I''ll have to hope Vortex wins this for me.


    Then suddenly, I realize something stupid.


    I¡¯m starving.


    And for some reason, I really, really, feel like eating fish.

 Chapter 44_Rain

    ¡°Wake up, Rain,¡± Illume whispers, like velvet over a razor blade. ¡°It¡¯s time to look at your new home.¡±


    I jolt awake.


    Darkness. A sterile chill clings to the air, and beneath me¡ªa mattress, thin, every shift sending out a low creak. I lift my arm¡ªa sharp tug halts me.


    Chains.


    I pull. The resistance is absolute.


    What the hell?


    My fingers run over my skin¡ªno searing pain, no broken bones. But my ribs twinge when I twist, and the ghost of a headache pulses behind my eyes.


    That night flashes¡ªme, smashed into concrete. Either I wasn¡¯t as badly injured as I thought, or someone took the time to patch me up. My hand moves instinctively to my ear.


    My View is gone.


    Damn it. Without it, I¡¯m blind in a city that eats the unprepared.


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    ¡°Took you long enough.¡±


    A voice drifts from the shadows. Smooth, unhurried.


    A flicker of flame. For a second, her face sharpens against the dark, showing her high cheekbones, a slash of dark lipstick, eyes like polished obsidian. She lights a cigar, taking a slow drag before exhaling, the smoke curling like lazy ghosts. The glow catches on a silver ring, coiled like a serpent around her finger.


    She steps forward. Heels click against the floor.


    I shift back, body tensing.


    She drops onto the bed beside me. The mattress dips, her weight pressing close. Tobacco and something faintly floral linger between us.


    She¡¯s unarmed. Relaxed.


    Easy to lunge, grab her throat, snap her neck if I have to¡ª


    ¡°Do it,¡± Illume purrs, his voice a blade between my ribs. Phantom fingers trail up my throat, cold as dead steel. "She¡¯s waiting for you to try. Isn¡¯t that fun?"


    I don¡¯t move.


    She knows. She¡¯s waiting.


    ¡°If,¡± she exhales, sending a perfect smoke ring into the air, ¡°you were listening to that voice in your head¡ª¡± she tilts her cigar, amber glow catching her smirk, ¡°I¡¯d have put this out in your eye.¡±


    The words cut through my hesitation. I swallow hard.


    ¡°What do you want from me?¡±


    She chuckles, flicking ash onto the floor.


    ¡°I assume you were unaware of the bounty on your head?¡±


    ¡°Fifty thousand Meccets.¡± Enough to buy a back-alley gene mod or a new identity in three systems.


    She nods, unimpressed. ¡°That¡¯s right. But it¡¯s not the number that interests me. It¡¯s the name behind it.¡±


    A slow drag. A moment of silence.


    Then she snuffs the cigar out with a deliberate twist of her heel.


    ¡°Garnot Impulse. A man whose wealth stretches further than most planets. What, pray tell, does he want with you?¡±


    So my hunch was right.


    She rises, turning for the door, but pauses at the threshold.


    ¡°Oh,¡± she muses, glancing back. ¡°And my name is Genevieve Eloise. Be a good boy, and I might consider returning your View.¡±


    The door inches shut.


    ¡°Wait,¡± I call.


    The gap lingers.


    ¡°Are you just going to hand me over to him?¡±


    Silence¡­


    Then a quiet hum of amusement.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    The door clicks shut. Her voice floats through from the other side, playful.


    ¡°Unless you prove more valuable than your bounty.¡± A pause. The door cracks open again, just enough to show her smirk. "Try not to disappoint."

 Chapter 45_Vortex

    Bunker quiet when I step in. Everybody posted up on they bunks¡ªsome sharpenin¡¯ knives, others playin¡¯ cards. The ones that saw what went down the other day¡ªthe ones that watched Korin get stomped out¡ªstare hard.


    They don¡¯t like me.


    Ain¡¯t even ¡®bout me losin¡¯. It¡¯s ¡®bout how Korin ain¡¯t complain when Ritcher laid him out after.


    They respect that.


    I ain¡¯t look at ¡®em. Ain¡¯t care neither.


    I got one person I¡¯m here for.


    I stop in front of Korin. Room get real still. He tilt his head a lil¡¯, waitin¡¯.


    ¡°Yes?¡± He smirk. ¡°This wasn¡¯t how you pictured it, huh?¡± He chuckle, shakin¡¯ his head.


    I click my tongue, here I was thinking about saying sorry.


    He notices that and the taps my arm, ¡°Appreciate you weren''t the one to do it, though.¡±


    My fists loosen.


    Then his eyes go cold. ¡°But honestly, you should¡¯ve, Vortex. Would¡¯ve hurt less.¡±


    Laughter pop off around me. Some dudes slap they knees. Others just smirk.


    I don¡¯t move.


    ¡°Just watch your back out there, Vortex,¡± he says.


    Somethin¡¯ inside me twist up.


    Lanny tap my hand, seein¡¯ my fists clenchin¡¯ again. ¡°Come on,¡± he mutter. ¡°We¡¯re leaving.¡±


    Leavin¡¯ don¡¯t change nothin¡¯.


    Ritcher made an example outta the ones that stepped in. Beat ¡®em senseless. Kicked ¡®em out.


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    Not Korin.


    ¡®Cause he just stood there and took it.


    And I know, deep down, that this whole thing foul from the jump. That Ritcher ain¡¯t never set this up to be fair.


    But that don¡¯t matter.


    I need somebody to blame.


    And Korin the only one here.


    When night come, I don¡¯t sleep.


    The others knocked out, but my eyes stay open, starin¡¯ at the ceiling.


    Ain¡¯t no point layin¡¯ here.


    I slide outta bed, step out the bunker, past the tents, the watchtowers, the dim blue lights glowin¡¯ overhead. Night air crisp as hell. My breath curl up in the cold.


    I keep walkin¡¯ ¡®til I reach it¡ª


    A ship. Blacked out, big as a beast, eatin¡¯ up the starlight.


    I step forward, drag my fingers along the hull. Cold metal bite back at me, sharp on my skin. And with it¡ª


    The past hit me.


    My father, laid out on the floor. Blood creepin¡¯ out from under him.


    My mother¡¯s screams.


    The feelin¡¯ of bein¡¯ ten years old, too weak to do nothin¡¯. Then gettin¡¯ thrown in a truck like property. Like I ain¡¯t even a person.


    But he ain''t let that be my end.


    A shadow in the dark. A crimson cloak, cuttin¡¯ through the night.


    Alzumo. The Red Nova.


    The man who saved me.


    The man I swore I¡¯d become.


    I saw him, movin¡¯ faster than my eyes could catch. Saw him rip through them like a storm.


    And when he looked at me after? He ain¡¯t need to say nothin¡¯.


    I got it.


    A real hero.


    I grip the ship, my breath steadin¡¯.


    I ain¡¯t stoppin¡¯.


    Not Korin.


    Not this military.


    Not nobody.


    A shift in the air.


    I feel it before I hear it.


    Somethin¡¯ comin¡¯ fast.


    I duck¡ª


    A bat swing past my head. A blur of movement.


    Some trainee standin¡¯ there, breathin¡¯ hard, eyes wild. Another one step up behind him. Tall, dark-skinned dude, voice deep as hell.


    ¡°Where to, little guy?¡±


    He shove me.


    I don¡¯t move.


    Not this time.


    I pivot¡ªslam my heel straight into his face. His head snap back. He hit the ground.


    The one with the bat recover, swingin¡¯ again.


    It connect. Smash into my back.


    Pain light me up.


    But I don¡¯t drop.


    I twist, dodge the next one, snatch the bat mid-air.


    Rip it out his grip. Chuck it to the side.


    His hand go straight to his belt.


    Knife.


    Blade flash¡ª


    I barely feel the sting when it slice my cheek.


    Then more of ¡®em step up. Three others.


    Circle me.


    One against four.


    I don¡¯t wait.


    I move.


    Duck. Twist. Counter.


    But it¡¯s too many.


    A kick slam into my ribs.


    I hit my knees.


    They grab me. Pin my arms.


    Knife press up against my throat.


    This guy comes forth from behind em¡¯.


    Korin.


    ¡°You think you are a soldier?¡± he mutters, chuckling as he bends on his knees to be at my level. ¡°You got good men kicked out for you. Because of you.¡±


    Blade press harder.


    Hell, didn''t expect him joining in on this shit.


    ¡°You don¡¯t belong here. And if we see you in the military tomorrow, you won¡¯t be breathing, you got that?¡±


    They shove me down. Turn to leave.


    Then they freeze.


    A shadow in the dark. Cigar smoke curlin¡¯ up in the cold air.


    Klaus Ritcher.


    Trainees stiffen.


    They know what time it is.


    Hands tighten. Knife grip harder.


    Then they charge him.


    I don¡¯t hesitate.


    I charge too.


    Ritcher move first.


    Boot obliterate the first dude. Drop him straight to the dirt.


    I grab one from behind, twist his arm¡ªslam him down.


    Ritcher knock the teeth outta another.


    I headbutt one. Spin. Drop-kick him straight to the ground.


    They lay there, groanin¡¯, curled up in the dirt.


    I breathe heavy.


    Ritcher exhale, flickin¡¯ ash from his cigar. ¡°Hmph.¡±


    He glance at me. At the blood on my face. At the bodies in the dirt.


    Then he step past ¡®em without another look.


    ¡°At least you are finally learning.¡±


    I wipe my cheek, stand tall.


    I made my choice.


    Ain¡¯t nothin¡¯ stoppin¡¯ me.

 Chapter 46_Revilsa

    Dad¡¯s workroom is boring. It smells like old coffee and sweat, like a man who thinks hard work is a personality trait. His storage unit sits there¡ªsmall, sleek, and locked tighter than a miser¡¯s safe. It requires Biometrics and his View to open. But I¡¯m not him, and I don¡¯t have to be.


    I slap the bypass chip against it. It sticks, hums, and starts working, little lights blinking like it¡¯s thinking real hard. Kernel''s head of security, and this is his security? Please.


    The vault clicks open. I crack my neck and peek inside. No gold. No diamonds. No credit chips. Just¡ªpaper? A thick sheet, old-school, untouched by the digital world. Weird. I pull it out, and my View snaps a picture before I even think about it.


    It¡¯s the infrastructure of the domes. Kernel¡¯s. The hell does my guy want with this?


    I smirk, shove it back in, shut the vault, and¡ªalmost forget the hacking device. That would¡¯ve been hilarious. A whole stealth mission ruined by my own dumbassery.


    Slipping out, I move quiet, but then¡ªoh, great. Her.


    Mom¡¯s gliding through the hallway like a ghost who forgot it¡¯s supposed to haunt people. Her gown drags, her shoulders stiff¡ªsame as always. She stops. ¡°Revilsa.¡± My name in her mouth sounds like a courtroom accusation. Like she¡¯s about to ask why I stole the silverware again.


    ¡°Why are you here?¡± she murmurs, eyes sharp. ¡°Why aren¡¯t you in bed?¡±


    I snort. ¡°Why do you care?¡± And walk off.


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    She doesn¡¯t let it go. Of course not. She slips into Dad¡¯s office. I don¡¯t stick around to see what she finds. That¡¯s a problem for future me.


    I walk straight to my room, shut the door, and grab my boots. And of course, grab a chocolate bar. I do not leave through the front door. That¡¯s for boring people. Boots on, window open, I jump. Land in the grass with a roll. Stretch. Crunch into chocolate. Life¡¯s good.


    School¡¯s mine, obviously. I learn when I want, ignore what I want, play soccer when I feel like it. The gym? My territory. The varsity team huffs outside like dogs locked out of the kitchen. Let them wait. Let them seethe. I eat up the attention and make them wait longer.


    By sunset, the halls are empty. I wait until the sky bleeds orange before I leave. Not towards home.


    I go down¡ªinto the city¡¯s underbelly.


    Through The Rot.


    The alley¡¯s dim, and my guy¡¯s already waiting. He is a head shorter than me, even though I am just 14, wrapped in a hood and a mask.


    We stare at each other.


    He says, ¡°You first.¡±


    I smirk. ¡°Or what? You gonna beat it outta me?¡±


    That makes him move. He hands over dirt on the new teachers. I like it. I like it a lot. I flick him his intel. He turns to leave, but I stop him.


    ¡°Why do you even want that dome infrastructure? You¡¯re always asking for weird crap. Figures. Limited-time merch. Now this?¡±


    He pauses. I tilt my head. ¡°What¡¯s under that mask, anyway?¡±


    He lifts it just enough for me to see.


    Hairy.


    I bark a laugh. ¡°Gross.¡±


    I flick the chip he gave me between my fingers. ¡°Nice tool. Where¡¯d you get it?¡±


    He shrugs. ¡°It¡¯s new. Keep it.¡±


    Then he¡¯s gone.


    Just like that.


    Sigh.


    Home is a race.


    I run. No way I¡¯m getting home before Dad.


    I hit the door, sprint up the stairs, boots still on. Mom yells something about it, but whatever.


    Then I see it.


    Dad¡¯s office door¡ªopen.


    He¡¯s crouched in front of his vault.


    He turns, smiling. ¡°How¡¯re you, dear?¡±


    I lean against the frame. ¡°What¡¯re you doing?¡±


    ¡°Updating security.¡± He taps the vault. ¡°There¡¯s some new malware going around.¡±


    My stomach drops. He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. ¡°And¡ªI swear I left this paper straight last time. It was a little off when I checked.¡±


    I blink. Swallow. ¡°Uh. The earthquake last night?¡±


    He ¡®huhs¡¯. Nods slowly. ¡°Thought the vault was supposed to keep everything in place¡­¡±


    I nod too. Casual. Totally normal. Definitely not full of sheer, pure, untamed panic.


    ¡°Guess not.¡±

 Chapter 47_Jrake

    You know it¡¯s bad when you start arguing with yourself¡ªand lose.


    I¡¯ve been in this lab for¡­ weeks? Months? Honestly, I measure time by the decaying state of my coffee cups. One more suspicious sip and I might unlock a new strain of plague.


    The Argov suits¡ªmy so-called masterpiece¡ªare finally done. Hand-crafted with the delicate touch of a sleep-deprived genius and the reckless ego of someone too stubborn to quit when the fumes kicked in.


    I spin lazily in my chair, watching the suits tucked neatly in their holding bays like obedient metal children. Perfect. Silent. Gleaming.


    Not that anyone¡¯s going to throw me a parade. The creation process involved cursing, questionable wiring, and Ortol¡¯s micromanagement.


    ¡°Oh, Jrake, fix the energy distribution already¡ª¡±


    ¡°Jrake, why is it on fire again?¡±


    ¡°Jrake, eat something or you¡¯ll die.¡±


    Yes, Ortol, I ate. Nourished myself on pure resentment.


    I push myself up from the chair and stretch, feeling something crack in my spine. Probably important¡­ whatever. I head out of the lab, stepping into the facility¡¯s main hall.


    The place is massive. A labyrinth of glass and steel, vibing with the dull glow of innovation and the faint, ever-present scent of ozone. Welcome to the Research and Environmental Stabilization Sector of Kernel¡ªour last, desperate attempt to stop the planet from drowning in its own misery.


    The current forecast? Oh, just global flooding, continent-swallowing storms, and the kind of weather that makes you wish you were born with gills. They say it¡¯ll rain around the whole planet soon. Three hundred days of unrelenting storms. A slow, suffocating apocalypse.


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    And in the middle of it all? Ortol. My dear step-brother. The so-called World Mayor of Alvecore, reigning supreme for the past six years. He built the greatest city¡ªKernel¡ªin less than one. A whole metropolis, raised like an empire overnight. The guy doesn¡¯t waste time proving he¡¯s something to behold.


    Me? I¡¯m just the poor bastard stuck making sure his soldiers don¡¯t die when they step outside.


    I find myself wandering into the communication room. It¡¯s about as lively as a funeral parlor, five people hunched over their desks, responding to calls with the enthusiasm of a dying goldfish. They work through their Views with direct neural links that let them transmit visuals and data hands-free.


    I sigh. ¡°You guys ever consider leaving this crap to the AI?¡±


    One of them, a guy who vaguely recognizes me (or maybe he just thinks he does), perks up. ¡°Oh, Jrake! Ortol said we could ask you for help when needed.¡±


    Of course, he did. I am, after all, Ortol¡¯s official dumping bag.


    The guy stands up, stretching. ¡°Gotta take a leak. Hold down the fort, will ya?¡± He pats me on the shoulder like we¡¯re old pals, then strolls off to the bathroom.


    I stare after him. Seriously? That¡¯s it? Just dumping your job on me and walking off?


    Whatever. Not like I have anything better to do.


    I lean against the desk, connecting my View to the system. Static hums in my ear.


    Silence¡­


    Nothing.


    I wait.


    For some reason, I hope this isn¡¯t for nothing.


    My fist tightens against the desk.


    And then¡ª


    A call.


    I answer immediately, never thinking I¡¯d be so freaking glad to respond to one.


    The voice glitches to life, and a woman¡¯s voice comes through, sharp and urgent. ¡°I need to report a Navorian appearance.¡±


    I let out a short, incredulous laugh. ¡°Oh, yeah? Was it like the one who captured me? Obsidian scales and stuff?¡±


    There¡¯s a pause. Then, she replies, ¡°Yeah.¡±


    My amusement fades for half a second. Impossible. How''d he get this far without Kernel''s defenses lighting up like a Christmas tree? Either this lady¡¯s got the worst eyesight on the planet, or she¡¯s screwing with me.


    I laugh harder. ¡°Sure, like that¡¯s true.¡±


    The guy from the bathroom returns, rubbing his hands together. I don¡¯t even hesitate¡ªI send the call over to him. ¡°Here, buddy. Listen to this report. Might actually make you leave this crap for an AI.¡±


    Then I walk out.


    Still unsatisfied.


    When did I end up in this pit?


    Making suits, building armor, churning out weapons like some glorified blacksmith¡ªthat was never what I envisioned for myself.


    And yet, here I am. The guy who builds the tools so other people can kill things better.


    I head back to my lab, the automated doors hissing open as I step inside. My gaze lands on a single projection in the corner, running endless streams of data.


    Not military research. Not weapons.


    Something else entirely.


    My real project.


    My real goal.


    Not armor. Not war.


    Something far more dangerous.


    An AI unlike any before.


    An artificial mind¡ªnot just programmed intelligence, but something that thinks, adapts, understands.


    Something like the Mind of Mecanet, the legendary system that governs a galaxy with beyond-human intuition.


    I already have a name for it.


    Smile.

 Chapter 48_Elthraa

    The storm has not ceased for days. The ocean hungers, rising ever higher, swallowing the land piece by piece, drinking the rivers, licking the roots of trees. The jungle drowns, yet you do not waver. You laugh as the winds howl. You grin as the lightning shatters the sky. It does not matter to you that the world is ending¡ªonly that there is more of it to explore.


    And so, you do.


    Every day, you descend into the ship, past the rusted trapdoor, past the darkened corridors, past the hum of dying machines, to the boy who hides within. The timid one. Ail.


    "Come," you say to him. "Let¡¯s go outside."


    And every day, he shakes his head.


    You try to pull him, but he is like a root clinging to stone. You do not understand fear, so you do not understand him. But you are patient. When your strength fails, you change your approach. You play.


    One day, it is a game of reflexes¡ªyou throw nuts at him, one after another, faster and faster, until he starts catching them without thinking.


    Another day, you tell him to close his eyes, to listen for your footsteps, to follow your voice through the echoing halls.


    The next, you chase him in circles, laughing as he stumbles and trips, until, at last, he smiles.


    Yes, that is your way. To break through fear with laughter. To wrestle despair until it surrenders to joy.


    And so, after months of your relentless visits, Ail finally steps outside.


    You drag him through the ship, through the drowned jungle, through the roaring wind and slanted rain. He grips your arm, shrinking at the storm, but he does not retreat.


    He says, "I¡¯ll come only when it¡¯s time to eat. That¡¯s it."


    You squint at him, then tilt your head up. The branches above sway wildly, rain cascading down their heavy leaves. But your gaze is not on the branches. It is on the fruit.


    "Do you want one?" you ask, nodding toward the largest hanging prize.


    Ail scratches his head, eyeing you warily. "How are you going to get it?"


    But you do not wait.


    You leap, gripping the trunk, scaling it with ease, the storm howling against your back. Up, up, up¡ªyou move like you were born for it. Rain slicks the bark, but your hands do not slip. When you reach the top, you find the fruit, larger than your grip, swollen with juice. You grin, yank it free, and call down:


    "Catch!"


    Ail looks up, startled. "Wait¡ª!"


    Too late. The fruit smashes into his forehead, exploding into a mess of pulp and juice. He stumbles, blinking, mouth open. You lean down, laughing.


    "You okay?"


    Ail touches his face. Sticky nectar drips down his cheek. And then¡ªhe laughs.


    Not a nervous chuckle, not a quiet snicker, but a real laugh. A sound like the sky breaking open. You grin wider.


    You grab another fruit. "Again!"


    This time, Ail raises his hands. "Come on¡ª!"


    You throw. He flinches, barely catching it against his chest. You laugh. He groans.


    And before either of you know it, the game begins.


    You vanish into the jungle, an ossuary of drowned beasts and shattered trees, their bones tangled in the roots of the earth. You duck beneath the thick trunk of a fallen tree. Small creatures scurry away as you squeeze in, their eyes wide with terror at the storm-child invading their shelter. You press against the damp wood, listening as the tempest exhales.


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    Ail¡¯s voice calls through the jungle. "I¡¯ll find you!"


    You stifle a chuckle. He is looking for you, searching for you. This is new. You have made him move.


    But then¡ª


    A scream.


    Your breath catches.


    The jungle falls silent except for the rain, hammering down in endless fury. You move without thought, throwing yourself out of your hiding place, sprinting through the drowning trees. You see him.


    Ail is running.


    And behind him, the hunter.


    A jaguar, its coat drenched, its muscles rippling beneath the storm¡¯s gloom, its eyes locked onto its prey.


    Your hands tighten into fists. You charge.


    But you are late.


    The beast leaps, landing upon Ail, claws sinking into his legs. Ail¡¯s scream is torn away by the wind.


    You strike.


    Your fist collides with the jaguar¡¯s ribs. It screeches, rearing back, eyes flashing toward you. The wind howls. You and the jaguar stand still, facing each other.


    It moves. Low. Slow. A predator¡¯s stance.


    And something in you¡ªsomething deep, something primal¡ªstirs.


    You lower yourself. Four limbs. Your fingers press into the wet earth. You move as it moves. You crawl as it crawls.


    Ail stammers, "W-What are you doing?"


    You do not answer. You leap.


    The jaguar lashes out, but so do you. Your hand meets its paw, knocking it aside. Your teeth find its flesh. You bite. Hard.


    The jaguar roars. Not in pain, but in recognition.


    You are not prey.


    You are something else.


    You circle the beast, lips peeling back in a crimson-stained crescent.


    The jaguar¡¯s ears twitch. It watches you with a tenebrous gloom. Weighs you. And then¡ªit backs away. Growling. Slipping into the storm.


    You throw back your head and laugh.


    Ail, lying on the ground, stares up at you, eyes wide. Then he smiles. "That was insane. You¡¯re crazy."


    You grin and kneel beside him. "You¡¯re hurt."


    He looks down at his legs. Blood soaks his pants. But there are no wounds.


    You frown. "I thought¡ª"


    "I heal fast," Ail says anxiously.


    You blink. Then shrug. "Me too."


    Ail smirks. "I don¡¯t doubt it.¡±


    The storm rages above, thunder cracking like the laughter of Zeus. You walk. He follows. The wind pulls at your clothes, the saltwater clings to your skin, but you do not care. You never care.


    ¡°I gotta go,¡± you say, stretching your arms behind your head. ¡°Cherry¡¯s gonna kill me.¡±


    Ail nods. Silent. His presence is like the shadow of something once broken.


    The two of you walk toward the shore, your footprints washed away before they can settle.


    "Watch out for the cat," you say, grinning.


    Ail, wary as a fawn before the hunt, rubs his head. "They don¡¯t attack the same prey twice."


    You grin, because that is something you understand. If you beat something once, it should know not to come back. It should know you are stronger.


    And then you leap into the ocean.


    The lightning fractures the sky, a vitreous web of light splitting the heavens apart for but a moment.


    The storm does not stop. It never stops.


    You swim with the recklessness of a beast unafraid of drowning.


    For when you did, you leapt again.


    Ail watches from the shore, as he always does.


    And I watch him from your eyes.


    Who is Ail?


    I have seen many creatures in my time, many souls flickering like dying embers. But this boy¡ªI see nothing in him. No fire. No force. No beast waiting to be unchained. If he is like you, why can I not see it?


    And then the ocean takes you.


    Violently.


    A force rips you downward, pulling you into the abyss. The water floods your lungs, your body twists in the blackness, and when you turn, it is there.


    A red-scaled Navorian. The spiked one.


    Its appendages curl around you, its claws gleam in the darkness. It does not need to speak. Its eyes tell you all you need to know.


    You are prey.


    You thrash. You kick. You are strong, but you are not fast enough. The Navorian spins you like a ragdoll, tossing you into the currents. You fly, thrown out of the ocean, gasping for air before gravity yanks you back.


    But it leaps too.


    Spiky¡¯s jaws open midair, ready to snap you in half.


    You twist. You move. You land back into the water. You swim for the island, but it is faster.


    The Navorian pulls you back.


    Water fills your lungs.


    Its claws sink into your arms, slow, deliberate. Pain. Real, searing pain. The storm rages, but you are too deep to hear it. You are alone.


    Until he comes.


    Ail.


    The coward. The wimp. The fragile thing that barely speaks above a whisper.


    He lands on Spiky¡¯s shoulder, pulling at its limbs.


    The Navorian does not care.


    Its appendage spears through Ail¡¯s chest.


    And I see you break.


    You stare, wide-eyed, as his blood stains the ocean red.


    This is not happening.


    This is not¡ª


    But the Navorian does not hesitate. It turns back to you. You are all it wants.


    No.


    The ocean shifts. The water darkens.


    Ail twitches.


    The fragile boy, the wimp, the shadow of a broken thing¡ªhe is not that now.


    His veins pulse black, his irises a burning vermillion, glowing like embers beneath the abyss. His skin steams in the water.


    He growls.


    The sound is deep. Inhuman.


    The Navorian¡¯s appendages loosen.


    And then¡ªAil moves.


    Fast.


    He bites into Spiky¡¯s limb. A clean tear. Flesh rips. Bone crunches. The Navorian screeches, but Ail does not stop.


    He devours.


    He claws.


    He is not a being. He is carnage.


    You, boy, have always fought with your fists. But what you see now is no fighter. No warrior. It is a demon.


    And you flee.


    You break for the surface, gasping, choking on salt and blood. When you turn back, the water is still. The Navorian floats, torn apart.


    Ail floats too.


    Black blood spills from his lips. His eyes are barely open.


    You do not hesitate.


    You swim to him. Drag him to the shore. Shake him, slap him, force him back to life.


    And he coughs.


    He looks at you, those terrible eyes fading back to white. And then¡ªhe cries.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry." He says. "I¡ªI never¡ª


    Words choke him.


    ¡°I never wanted this."


    You do not understand.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    And so he tells you.


    When he is injured¡ªfatally injured¡ªhe turns.


    He does not know what he is. Only that he kills.


    He killed his family.


    He killed those who helped him.


    He ran. Hid. Stayed alone, because if he was alone, no one would know him. No one would like him. No one would die because of him.


    And you, boy¡ªyou are silent.


    And I, Elthraa, who called him weak, who thought him lesser than you¡ªI see now that he is stronger than most.


    Not because he fights.


    But because he chooses not to.


    He chooses others'' lives over his own.


    He chooses to be hated. To be feared. To be alone.


    He looks at you, still crying, and says, "Leave."


    And this time, never come back.


    Because if you do¡ªhe may kill you.


    You, who has never known hesitation, who has never known fear¡ªtighten your fist.


    And you punch him.


    Hard.


    Ail staggers back, wide-eyed, spitting red into the sand. "Wha¡ªwhy¡ª?" He grips his face, voice breaking. "Why did you do that?!"


    "Because I¡¯m leaving," you say.


    And you smile.


    "Until tomorrow."


    Ail breaks.